The Sbi^ecTED Poems OF John VruART Buckie Archibald Stodart Walker. LIBRARY OF THE University of California. a r- Class ^ ^^ g ' Of THE UNIVERSITY Ca Of . The Selefted Poems OF John Stuart Black ie EDITED WITH AN APPRECIATION BY ARCHIBALD STODART WALKER WITH A PORTRAIT After the Painting by J. H. Larimer, A. U.S.A. 1 OF THE ' UNIVERSi LONDON JOHN MACQUEEN Hastings House, Norfolk Street, Strand 1896 [Ai/ Rights reserved.] GfWffl/lL So I will sing on — fast as fancies come Rudely — the verse being as the mood it paints. I am made up of an intensest life.' Robert Browning. Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis : Nee mea Lethaeis scripta dabuntur aquis. OviDius. BeMcateb WITH DEEP AFFECTION TO TWO GOOD WOMEN HIS WIFE — MY AUNT HIS SISTER— MY MOTHER 181542 INTRODUCTORY NOTE In compiling this volume of selections from the poems of John Stuart Blackie, I am but carrying out a wish which he expressed to me shortly be- fore he died. This holiday task I have taken as a work of love. My uncle never troubled himself as to the question of whether he was a major or minor poet, and in presenting this volume I prefer merely to announce it in the words of the sub-title of his ' Messis Vitae,' namely as ' Gleanings of Song from a Happy Life.' Many of the lays, lyrics and ballads included, are familiar to Scots through- out the world, and it is my hope that this selection will be as welcome to them as to a wider public not so familiar with these joyous effusions of a healthy soul. In placing the selections under various headings, my division has necessarily been more or less arbi- trary, and for a palpable reason I offer no apology for including certain lays, as, for instance, ' The Lay viii INTRODUCTORY NOTE of the Brave Cameron,' under the heading of ' Ballads.' With the exception of a few hitherto unpubHshed poems, the selection is made from ' The Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece,' ' Lyrical Poems,' ' Lays of the Highlands and Islands,' 'Musa Burschicosa,' * Messis Vitae,' 'Songs of ReHgion and Life,' 'The War Songs of the Germans,' and 'The Language and Literature of the Scottish Highlands,' to the publishers of which, Messrs William Blackwood &: Sons, Messrs Macmillan & Co., Mr David Douglas and Mr Walter Scott, I have to express my gratitude for their gracious consent to quote from works of which they hold the copyright, or part copyright. It is only necessary for me to add, that if any poem is omitted from the volume, which anyone, ac- quainted with the poems of my uncle, deems worthy of inclusion in such a selection, I can only plead the excuses for neglecting such an inclusion, of the limit of my space and the limit of my judgment. A. S. W. 30 Wai.kkr Street, Edini3UR(;h, March 1896. CONTENTS An Appreciation, I'AGE I LAYS AND LYRICS Beautiful World, .... . 43 The Song of the Highland River, . 45 The River : An Allegory of Life, . 51 Sput Dubh, 54 Wail of an Idol, .... 57 Song of Ben Cruachan, . . 62 The Old Man of Hoy, 64 A Song of Ben Ledi, 67 To the Divine Spirit, 69 Night, 72 A Sabbath Meditation, 73 The Sea, ..... 79 The Boulder, .... 81 My Scotch Lassie, .... 84 Students' May Song, . 87 Advice to a Favourite Student on leaving College, 91 Vacation Ode, ..... 94 A Song for the Road, and a Rule for the Life, 97 A Song of Summer, .... 99 Farewell to Summer, , lOI X CONTENTS PAGE A Song of the Country, ..... 104 The Musical Frogs, 106 The Song of Mrs Jenny Geddes, . 108 Moments, .... III Sabbath Hymn on the Mountains, "3 Laws of Nature, .... "5 Benedicite, .... 117 Creeds and Canaries, 118 Hymn, .... 120 A Song of Fatherland by a Traveller, 121 Hail, Land of My Fathers ! 123 Capped and Doctored and A', 124 A Song of Good Greeks, . 128 A Song of Geology, 133 Concerning I and Non-I, . . 138 Song of a Bachelor in Divinity, 140 Young Man, be Wise ! 143 My Loves, .... • 145 Bonnie Strathnaver, 146 Burra Fiord, 148 Away, Away Adown the Stream, . 151 The Wood Sorrel, . 153 May Song, .... 155 Love's Lullaby, . 156 Poor Crow, . 156 Song of the Winds, . 158 Sam'el Sumph, i6o A Psalm of Ben More, . 163 SONNETS Ben Muicduibhc, . Loch Rannoch Moor, 169 170 CONTENTS xi The Lord's Day in lona, .... PAGE 170 The Buchaill Etive, .... 171 Moonlight at King's House, • 171 Chinese Gordon, ..... . 172 Sydney Dobell, ..... • 173 BALLADS, LEGENDS AND NARRATIVE POEMS The Lay of the Brave Cam The Voyage of Columba, The Death of Columba, eron, . 174 . 176 185 Glencoe, Ancrum Moor, 192 200 Iphigenia, . Ariadne, 205 212 Marathon, . 218 Salamis, Polemo, Prometheus, The Naming of Athens, 224 233 236 238 John Frazer, The Two Meek Margarets, 244 247 Venus Anadyomene, The Old Soldier of the Gareloch 1 lead, 250 251 The Merry Ballad of Stock The Emigrant Lassie, Geill, 253 256 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC Mary Laghach, My Love She is Fairer, 259 262 XI 1 CONTENTS Mo Chailinn Dilis Donn, Ben Dorain, PAGE 264 266 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN Die Wacht am Rhein, ..... 290 Was Glanzt dort Vom Walde ? . . . .291 Was Blascn Die Trompeten, .... 293 Vater ich rufe dich, ..... 295 Du Schwerdt an Meiner Linken, .... 296 Addendum (List of Published Verse), . , 300 Selected Poems of John Stuart Blackie AN APPRECIATION ' If Love will serve, lo ! how I love my friend, If Reverence, lo ! how I reverence him. If Faith be asked in something beautiful, Lo ! what a splendour is my faith in him.' Robert Buchanan. It is not for me to attempt to sketch the hfe history of John Stuart Blackie. That has already been done in an intelligent and sympathetic way by Miss Anna Stoddart, and my readers will turn to her pages for most that is worthy of record and preservation in the story of his rich and active life. All I can hope to attempt is, to lay a small stone upon his cairn ; to give, in attempting to estimate the character of the man, a small tribute of esteem to one, whom from close personal intercourse I learned to love, and I hope, understand well. If, as I firmly believe, that man can estimate best who loves best, then I can offer no apology for my estimation. I do not presume a criticism, though that is much easier, as Vauvenarques says, than an estima- tion, and if what I write may savour more of a eulogy than an appreciation, I would only ask that my presentation be judged in the light of my intimate acquaintance and of my affection. I have many memories of him, some very real, very A 2 AN APPRECIATION living, some in a degree less so ; some more sacred are like spectres creeping up from the God's-acre of my heart. Of these memories some are 'roses blowing along the pathway I pursue'; in brooding over others, I seem to catch the echo of a martial note. I like to think of him (to use a dear friend's words) as ' The Happy Warrior ; ' but I think of him more, when gathered round the fire of an evening, we talked together, and he poured out to me words of wisdom, the outcome of a life of thought, action and moral triumph. Only those few who came near to his heart in this way, really had a full appreciation of the simple sweetness and saintly nobleness of his character. In such a way one received a better picture of the man than could be obtained from the apparently strange contradictions of his public appear- ances. The picture of his life, however well-drawn, will always have a certain want of perspective, for he was not a man easy to understand; outspoken on some subjects, he was extremely reticent on others, and it was difficult always to make a philosophical balance. It is this feeling that weighed with me when I read the many notices and biographies which appeared after his death, some even by near friends. There was, of course, always half the truth, and that, as my uncle used to say, is sometimes worse than a lie. There is one great exception, that is the work of Miss Anna Stoddart, to whom I must express my personal gratitude, for painting such a living picture of him whose departure has made my life more shadowy and my living less joyful. My memories of him are chiefly those connected AN APPRECIATION 3 with his home life in his latter years. Oh, that a Bos- well could have sat at the festal boards of Altna Craig, Hill Street, and Douglas Crescent, ' when we gathered and ate with much disputing hum,' and chronicled the flashes of wisdom and wit which poured incessantly from his lips, the ready servants of his brain and heart ! There was no pedantry to damp the soul there, no clogging formalism to block the living streams which flowed in those physically and morally healthy veins. A comparatively insignificant illusion here, a trivial remark there, was readily caught by those marvellous ears of his, and turned into the channels of wisdom, from which one returned morally and mentally stimulated. However boisterous the sally, however dramatic the action, it was merely the froth on a well of virile wisdom, deep insight, catholic comparison and lovable charity. It might be a playful dig at the ribs of an Oxford don, a hard knock on the head of a 'Radical infallible,' or it might be the instilling of the wisdom of Goethe, or the ' quit-you-Hke-men ' doctrine of St Paul, but all came from a heart that bore ill to no man, from one who 'found a kiss in every cross,' and couched in language that made the heart beat stronger at the time, and which left much that on meditation made the brain grow bigger. At other times I found him not the teacher, but the taught. Seeking in — I must grant — a terribly searching way, to find out what you knew, and apply- ing it to the general philosophy of life. When I recall him now, I always have in my memory the impression of a wise man. There was nothing 4 AN APPRECIATION ordinary about him, and the least ordinary was the unique richness and moral glow of his language. I speak of him, of course, as I knew him at home, and I do not stand as judge for the experiences of other men. He was of all things broadly human, and all the philosophy that really interested him, was the philosophy that came down to the very hearth, if I may so put it, of man. Life, and the practical pro- blems of life, were the ' trade-marks,' of all his teaching. He recognised the value of 'digging into the dead guts of things,' but he recognised the limits of such research and gave it its due place in the educational economy. Wisdom, not mere knowledge, love, reverence, moderation, were for him the cardinal virtues with which to reach to the highest of all attainable virtues, truth. Of other memories, I have that of the first letter he wrote to me, in which he said, — ' I know you will have the good sense not to be offended with the rough and unceremonious way in which I have some- times contradicted your propositions. Contradiction is useful for all, and those who cannot learn from contradiction will remain mere special pleaders for their own point of view all their lives, and never know what wisdom means. The grand thing is to start in life with a deep conviction of the vastness of the world and the smallness of man, and to fling out broad arms of loving appreciation and reverential regard to all the phases of the true, the good, and the beautiful, which make up this eternal divine miracle called the world, which is in very deed the living architecture, poetry, sculpture, painting. AN APPRECIATION ' 5 and music of the one self-existent, plastic, all- embracing logos of which the biggest man is only a small fraction. Above all things, avoid the tempta- tion of wishing to appear clever and smart ; cleverness is only valuable as an unconscious accompaniment of an honest reality, such as the bicker of a mountain tarn or the flashing of a trout in a stream. Read the Sermon on the Mount, or the twelfth of Romans, or I Cor. xiii., at least once a week, and act them out every day of the week and every hour of the day. Know above all things w^hat Goethe preaches as emphatically as St Paul, that love is the fulfillitig of the law ; it is the regular steam powder of the soul, or electricity — if you please — of the moral world, " knowledge puffeth up, but charity edifieth." There is no constructive, no shaping power, in mere know- ledge, it merely supplies materials for the motive power, and the regulative reason to use for the realisa- tion of a noble ideal divinely rooted in the nature of a noble soul.' Many years ago Thomas Carlyle wrote of John Stuart Blackie : ' A man of lively intellectual faculties, of ardent friendly character, and of wide speculation and acquirement, very fearless, very kindly, without ill-humour and without guile.' A very kindly estima- tion, coming as it does from the Sage of Chelsea, remembering how severe were many of the judgments he passed on those even with whom he was in the closest personal relationship ; a much more charitable estimation of the man than the previous one from the letter of Carlyle to Emerson, in which the ' notable monster,' looking only at the time upon Blackie's 6 AN APPRECIATION exuberant presentation, and not troubling to get down to the soul of the man, spoke of him as * a man of more sail than ballast.' John Stuart Blackie, indeed, had plenty of sail. His barque was always in good working order, to sail * away, away down the stream,' but at the same time it was always well-braced, and the hand that guided was never off the rudder. Too many candid critics, in their notices of his life, have failed in the want of mental perspective to grasp the fact, that Professor Blackie's many exuberant outbursts in public were simply the outcome of a vast amount of animal spirit, and a resultant of the fact, that with the exception of these public appearances, he had few other means of mental detraction. At home, accustomed to a hard and persistent intellectual life, serious, thoughtful, and ascetic, he sought in the catholic sphere of the popular platform a relief from ' sitting with moody pains and anxious peering looks, clogging the veins of laden brains with the dust of maundering books.' No longer tied down by philosophic consecutiveness and scientific accuracy, he found, in the less exacting, but more humanising atmosphere of the popular platform an outcome for Ills bright presentation of the beauties, physical and ethical, of this beautiful world. It is not true that these lectures were delivered off-hand without preparation. Down to the smallest action of life, that was not Blackie's method. However unimportant the occasion, however comparatively unimportant in the economy of things, the subject, yet it demanded, and received from him, the most earnest investigation AN APPRECIATION • 7 and meditation. The facts, and the matured consider- ation of the facts, were there, however much, in the joy and healthy exuberance of the moment, he omitted reference to his manuscript, left the more limited fields of the specific subject on hand, and wandered into the richer growths of Socrates, Goethe, Aristotle, and St Paul. And even when on occasion something more than usually extravagant was hurled at the heads of a sympathetic audience, on consideration of this, perhaps, humorous aphorism, it would lend one more and more to the belief in a popular dictum, that * there is generally more in Blackie's nonsense, than in most people's sense.' Unless this aspect of the question is carefully borne in mind, and an attempt at estimation be founded on the knowledge of how earnest, persistent and scientific a student he was, and how much im- portant work was evolved in his life-time, one will be apt to arrive at that false conclusion which some critics of the man have arrived at. I grant it was difficult to picture in the jovial, lively, often very eccentric, figure of the platform, the quiet, serious methodical man of the library, the eager and reverential searcher after truth. Dr Whyte's metaphor was a happy one when he said, * Like Socrates, he was not unlike those Athenian busts of Silenus, which had pipes and flutes in their mouths, but open them and there was the image of a God.' And in this connection I might tell my only Blackie ' story.' Not long ago he paid a visit to the sanctum of an Edinburgh publisher, and mentioned that he had lectured the previous night on Scottish 8 AN APPRECIATION Home Rule. The publisher said, ' I am astonished at your fondness for making an exhibition of your- self.' Professor Blackie, without another word, turned on his heel and went away, slamming the door. Presently he came back, opened the door, thrust in his head and said, ' Do you know that's just what my wife tells me ! ' Certain it is that the popularity and affection which he enjoyed in his native land as a professor, increased in volume and geographical extent when he became a public lecturer. And it was no mean gift which enabled the close student of philology and philosophy to so re-cook his academic dishes, as to satisfy the appetites of the extra-mural world. And that he succeeded in doing so is testified by all. His studies in German literature and philosophy gave him ample scope to lecture on the practical philosophy of Goethe, to preach to them of ' the three reverences,' and the practical and far-seeing maxium, 'that the world is governed by wisdom, by authority and by show ; ' his classical attainments and his intimate acquaintance with the wise men of Greece gave him the foundation for his popular re-dressing of the Socratic, Platonic and Aristotelean philosophies. Writing to Dr Walter Smith on the 9th of March last, a few days after the Scottish people had laid him with kingly honours in the Dean Cemetery, Sir Theodore Martin wrote of his old friend : * It was impossible not to love him — not only for his fiery energy and determination to work out for good what- ever power Ciod had given him, but for the truly original purity of his nature.' And this * determina- AN APPRECIATION 9 tion to work out for good whatever power God had given him,' was evinced in every step he took towards work. The knowledge of the most fruitful source for the ultilisation of his powers came slow at first. Trammelled by the limitations of his early northern environment, and ungifted in his youth with any par- ticular inspiration to recognise the superior merits of any particular profession, a brief sojourn, in the attempt to grapple with the lower branches of the law in Aberdeen, was soon dispelled by an accidental occurrence of a depressing kind, acting on a nature yet untrained to treat such fatalities philosophically. He became troubled about his ' inner life,' and we find him attempting to get some breath into the lungs of his moral nature by a nearly fatal course of morbid intro- spection. But there was a wise man of Aberdeen, called Forbes, and his timely remark that Blackie ' wanted his jacket widening,' had the desired result of dragging him from the narrowing influences of the theology of his own native Universities, and planting him among the philosophers of Germany and of Italy. All these influences, all these environments at Aberdeen, at Edinburgh, in Germany, in Italy, and afterwards in Greece, and again while studying for the Bar in Edinburgh, had important bearings upon his character, upon his moral and intellectual aspect. No doubt, from his early training, he received that tendency to see so much that was to be admired in the religious history and systems of his forefathers, and no doubt, too, in these early days the influence of a wise father first stimulated him with a love, to become a passion in its intensity, for the romantic lo AN APPRECIATION traditions and associations of his beloved Scot- land. To his German environment can be traced that influence which lead him to grasp with a firm hand, a philosophical interpretation of the history of the world, to obtain for the first time a clear conception of the philosophic attitude which should always be found in the academic teacher; and also to his (ierman influences can be traced most of those broad. Catholic tendencies which were to be found in after years in whatever he wrote or spoke on questions of a theological, moral and social nature. The general influence of his theological training in Aberdeen, Edinburgh and Germany, found expres- sion from time to time in his warm interest in the miCthods of different theological and ecclesiastical systems and in the interpretations of them, of the fundamental points of the foundations of Christian Church Government. From Italy, no doubt, came his interest in archi- tecture, art and archaeology, especially the latter ; in fact, it was by the merest chance that he escaped taking up the subject as the chief element in his life work. And of his Hellenistic environment it is only neces- sary to say, that it was the source of all his vigorous l)ursuit of the question treating of the philological connection between what are called ancient and modern Greek. To this must he added his training for the Bar, which, considered purely abstractly, must have had a considerable influence in adding an analytical as well AN APPRECIATION . 1 1 as a synthetical power to his estimation of all questions, and which certainly made of him a cautious and a systematic man in all the more practical con- cerns of life. Accordingly, in an analysis of his complex person- ality, we would have to trace the various sources of this and that characteristic and find out the remnants of Blackie the introspective student of theology, Blackie the German, Blackie the archaeologist, Blackie the lawyer, Blackie the Hellenist, and lastly, Blackie the philologist, all tending to the Blackie as we knew him — Blackie the philosopher and seer. But up to the time when we find him admitted a member of the Scottish Bar, we trace no definite evidence of that intense love for the beauties and the inspirations of Nature, which became so evident in his later years, and from which sprang most that was eloquent not only in his verse, but in all his inter- pretation of the meanings of God's creation. It was at the time when he first caught the glamour from the hills, ' his glorious Bens,' as he called them, that we find him pouring forth his best utterances in verse. The genesis of his poetry, the poetry of religion and life in their broadest meanings, dates from a time after the genesis of his broad Catholic philosophy in Germany, and when once the glory of the hills was upon him, the influence of this new light never left him. Hereafter he sought Nature as the fountain head of his philosophy ; hereafter Nature became the important word in his vocabulary. Nature in teaching — Nature in song — Nature in religion — and although in most of his poetical works ' the aesthetical,' as Miss 12 AN APPRECIATION Stoddart says, 'was subservient to the ethical,' yet much of his best work in this direction is to be found in those poems which speak of the beauties of Nature in its unpeopled nakedness. Nature, as representing the revelations of the brown heath and shaggy wood, the mountain and the flood. True, again, in all his pictures of the presentations and changes of Nature, he never caught the glamour and mystery of Nature itself, as for instance it was caught by Robert Buchanan in his ' Coruisken Sonnets.' Both Blackie and Buchanan came under the influence of similar spells in the Western Highlands, and it is curious to compare the mystic interpretations of Buchanan with the ethical interpretation of Blackie. It would be as impossible for me in the space I have at my disposal, as it would be idle at this early hour, to attempt to form a true estimate of Blackie's literary work. It is a long cry from the translation of ' Faust' in 1833 to his 'Christianity and The Ideal of Humanity' in 1893, and during those years some 40 volumes saw the light of day. Of this work it would be impossible to say that it all rises to an equal standard of comparative excellence, and to judge correctly of the value of his contribution to literature, one must not lose sight of the fact, that much of it was intended only to be of a comparatively ephemeral nature, rather to act as a stimulus at the moment, than to remain a permanent monument on the (juestion or questions concerned. Under this category must be placed several of his volumes of essays ; many of them full of sound sense, keen judgment and rare discrimination, and all written in that nervous, forcible AN APPRECIATION • 13 English so characteristic of the man. In fact, there are or were few of his contemporaries who pos- sessed in such a marked degree that power to rouse. It was the mightiest gift of Carlyle, in a less degree it is one of the powers of Ruskin, and, in John Stuart Blackie's case, it assured for him that great influence on a people which was evidenced over and over again, not the least remarkably, on March 2d last. Excluding, then, this work of a comparatively ephemeral nature, we are left with some very im- portant contributions, which critics of standing have accorded no mean place in the niche of literature. His translations of 'Homer,' '^^schylus,' 'Faust,' have called forth the praise of those entitled to judge, and if his ' Homer ' never received that recognition in the classical world which its ' pro- found scholarship and research, clear insight, healthy feeling and great literary power' (to quote a con- temporary criticism) deserved, the secret might be found in the fact that it emanated from a Scottish University. In connection with this translation, a learned German remarks, that ' it was a happy thought of Blackie's to render the great "Volks Epos" (people's poem) of Greece into the metre familiar to his countrymen in their own folk songs.' In conclud- ing an exhaustive criticism of the work at the time, a leading critic said, ' the work is a proof of the vitality and high aims of Scottish scholarship, and reflects the greatest honour on the university and country in which it has been produced.' The following two passages of a somewhat different 14 AN APPRECIATION nature will give some idea of the metre and spirit of the translation : — • Thus he ; and stretched his arm to clasp his infant son so dear, But on the breast of his well-ezoned nurse the babe shrunk back with fear, Scared at the gleam of the barnished brass which cased that warrior dread, And screamed to see the horse-hair crest high nodding o'er his head. The father laughed, the mother smiled ; then Hector brave unbound The helmet from his head, and laid it glittering on the ground, And kissed his son, and dandled him aloft with fondest joy ; Then to greet Jove and all the gods, thus prayed to bless the boy; Jove, and ye mighty gods, grant this my son, one day, may be As I am now to Trojan men — the bulwark of the free ; Ruling o'er Troy by valorous might ; then from the hostile fray Shall some one see him home return, and thus shall proudly say : — From a good sire a better son hath rescued Troy to-day ! And when he bears proud trophies through the sounding streets of Troy, His mother shall behold her son, and her heart shall leap for joy ! He spake : and to his dear wife's hands he gave the lovely child ; She took him to her balmy breast, and, through her weeping, smiled.' * But now the hosts together rushed, and each did each assail, And buckler upon buckler rang, and hurtled mail on mail. And might of man did might oppose, flashed spear to spear and rang The war-cry loud and shrill, and shield met shield with brassy clang ; And many a shout and many a yell to heaven commingled goeth From men who struck and men who fell ; the field with crimson flowclh. As when fierce wintry torrents down some grey hill's deep- scarred side Pour to the glen the headlong force of their foamy-hissing tide AN APPRECIATION " 15 Sheer through the black ravine, with fountains ever fresh suppHed ; While perched on some high crag the swain hears the shrill tempest's rattle ; So swelled from host to host the din, and rang the yell of battle.' And from a host of congratulatory letters from scholars and others, I offer no apology for quoting these words of a poet. Writing on 7th November 1866, Robert Buchanan said, 'My learning goes far enough to allow me to apply the poetic test to your work. So far as I have read, no Homer has so delighted me since Chapman, but Chapman was quite guiltless of the fine Ionian flavour which you give so admirably.' But more important, perhaps, than the mere trans- lation itself are the Dissertations and Notes prefixed, and much as I personally feel as to the import- ance of these, I prefer again to quote my critic. * They form an essential part of the purpose of the whole work — the presentation of the real Homer to modern readers. So completely has Professor Blackie had his eye fixed on this his main object, that he has omitted to discuss the authorship of the Odyssey^ and the vexed questions connected with it. This is the one serious omission in the Dissertations. With this one exception, they form by far the best and ablest exposition of Homeric questions in English. As we have said already, English scholars have shamefully neglected this part of philology. The only important works on the subject are the works of men who are not professionally scholars — Gladstone, Grote, and Mure. Gladstone's is the work of a great intellect, 1 6 AN APPRECIATION but it is written under very heavy disadvantages. He was unacquainted with almost the entire history of Homeric discussions on the Continent within the last fifty years, and with the books published during that period on the subject. In fact, he seems to have prejudged the whole matter, and therefore kept his eyes shut. Grote was well acquainted with the recent discussions, but it did not fall within his province to take up many of the Homeric questions. Mure, on the other hand, had both full knowledge of the htera- ture and ought to have handled all the questions ; and in many respects his discussion is of great value. But he took up an entirely false position : he criticised Homer very much from the point of view of the last century. He regarded Homer evidently as a man of profound reflection ; he treats him as if he were a cultivated and widely-read poetic artist — in fact, he deals with him very much as he might deal with Milton ; and, therefore, he saw no necessity for dis- cussing some of the most important Homeric questions. Professor Blackie has thus had a comparatively un- occupied field ; and he certainly has done his work admirably. Every page teems with learning; but this learning is thoroughly under control. He shows a complete acquaintance with all the important w^orks on Homer. He has gone in every case to the sources ; and he has discussed some of the questions — such as that on the amount of truth contained in tradition — with originality and insight. He has also compressed the results of his research into comparatively small compass. Some of the chapters — such as those on the state of the text and the labours of Zenodotus AN APPRECIATION . 17 and Aristarchus and the Alexandrian critics generally — contain information that can be got nowhere else, except in monographs by German scholars, and now partially in Hayman. And these Dissertations have the merit of being very readable. Professor Blackie has managed to throw life and interest about many a dry point. Throughout all his discussions. Professor Blackie is conservative. He believes strongly in the unity of the Iliad, in a real Homer, in a real Trojan war, in a real Achilles and Agamemnon. He has contrived most skilfully to deepen this impression of reality as he goes on ; and somehow one gets to think that he knows more of Homer and the Trojan war from Professor Blackie's book than from any other author's whatever.' ' The mythological notes are in some respects the most important in the volume. The scientific treat- ment of mythology, as exhibited in the writings of Otfried Miiller, Gerhard, Preller, Welcker, Schwartz, and others, is not represented by a single book in English ; and the student will find the results of these, so far as they pertain to Homer, stated for the first time in these notes. Professor Blackie deserves more than the credit of stating results. He has not merely exhibited the thoughts of others, but he has given the results of his own much-matured thought and original investigation.' ' The archaeological notes are very curious. They show, perhaps more than anything else, the thorough- ness with which Professor Blackie has mastered his subject. He has got hold of all the out-of-the-way discussions on Homeric zoology, botany, metallurgy, B 1 8 AN APPRECIATION archery, armour, and other such matters ; and the reader will find information in these notes on the history of the arts and sciences at once interesting and rare.' In danger of losing the perspective of my apprecia- tion, I have allowed myself to dwell further on this work than may seem advisable, but I am convinced that insufficient justice has been done by the reading world to these Dissertations and Notes, and I am also convinced that a separate re-publication of this part of the work would be acceptable to many scholars interested in these vexed questions. Of his translation of 'Faust,' I can add nothing to the high praise accorded by such men as Thomas Carlyle and George Henry Lewes, and for his masterly translation of ^schylus, in which work Professor Blackie was seen at his best as a translator, it is sufficient to say that it eventually procured for him the Greek Chair in the University of Edinburgh. But, in my humble opinion, my uncle's best work is not to be found either in his ' Homer ' or his '^schylus' or in his 'Faust,' but firstly, in his con- tributions to Blackwood and Tait and the Foreig?j Quarterly on German history and literature, and secondly, in his volume entitled 'The Wise Men of Greece.' It is impossible to speak too highly of the intimate knowledge of the German language, literature and spirit whicli enabled him to contribute so much that was important to our knowledge of that impor- tant sphere of the world's history and literature, and the highest tribute there could be paid him, — tribute higher than even the praise of Carlyle, — was the AN APPRECIATION 19 praise and gratitude of many of the German c/itics. Writing shortly after his death, a contemporary said, ' Dr Kirchner writes for the Illustrirte Zeitung a notice of his career, full of appreciative criticism of his work, and of the sympathy with those who are mourning his loss. Written by a foreigner, the sketch is of special interest, as affording striking proof of the wide influence which, by his writings, Blackie acquired outside his own country, and also because it lays stress on a phase of his literary activity which we in Scotland have per- haps hardly realised at its true value. " We in Germany," says Dr Kirchner, "owe grateful recogni- tion to those who, by study and translation of our litera- ture, use their best endeavours to win for it the apprecia- tion of their countrymen. Among these John Stuart Blackie has a foremost place. Blackie has, in fact, done more than most men, as much as any one man except Thomas Carlyle, to bridge over the gap which unquestionably exists between the English and German mind, to clear away the thick atmosphere of miscon- ception and prejudice which even Englishmen of wide culture find it difficult to ignore." ' The contributions to German literature and history include not only his * Faust,' and the articles above mentioned, but also his ' Wisdom of Goethe,' a volume of precious gems translated from the works of the greatest of German poets. ' Having in my personal experience,' he says, ' had reason to thank God that at an early period of my life I became acquainted with the writings of this great man, it occurred to me that I could not do better service to the intelligent youth of this generation, for whom it has been my duty and 20 AN APPRECIATION pleasure to work through a long life, than to lay before them in a systematic form the most significant dicta on the important problems of sound thinking and noble living. As Dr Kirchner says, " In these reflec- tions, maxims and verses, it is not difficult to trace the master-mind that inspired Blackie's 'Self-Culture.'"' Important also are Professor Blackie's numerous translations of the Studentenlieder, Volkslieder and War-songs of the Fatherland. Particularly the latter, all of them full of the true martial ring, the force and fire of the old Border ballads, including the transla- tion of the ' Battle Prayer ' of Korner ' Vater ich rufe dich ' — the most beautiful of soldiers' prayers in the world's literature, * Clouds from the thunder- voiced cannon envail me, Lightnings are flashing, death's thick darts assail me ; Ruler of battles, I call on thee. Father, O lead me ! ' Of 'The Wise Men of Greece,' I need only say that Professor Blackie considered this to be his most important contribution to literature. And when we come to examine the volume, we see in what a masterly and scholarly fashion he has portrayed ' the philosophical significance, the intellectual dignity and moral power,' of such men as Socrates, Pythagoras, Xenophanes and Empedocles. To quote his own words to Tom Taylor, * I can only tell you that scholars and thinkers will get here no mere soap- bubbles lightly blown for a summer's recreation, but the produce of hard work and years of study. I had no ambition, even if I had had the ability, to make a Pythagoras or an Empedocles, a mere mouthpiece AN APPRECIATION 2r to spout my sentiments. I strove everywhere to give a true picture of what was actually thought and said by these old worthies, or at least of what lay in their most distinctive maxims by plain implication ; and if the lines of the portraiture shall seem to agree in a very striking way, sometimes, with certain recent phases of modern thought, or the obvious opposite of these phases, this is not that I have interpolated any- thing which, to the best of my judgment, did not lie in the original, but because the fundamental principles of all wisdom have always been present in the spiritual world wherever human beings in a normal state of culture have lived and thought. Reason is the light of the soul ; and though, like the sun in the heavens, it may be largely overclouded, and shine only by glimpses for a space, yet it is always there ; and the glimpse, whenever it appears, is a sure prophecy of the full radiance, which under favourable circum- stances will surely be revealed.' The whole is comprised in a series of ten dramatic dialogues, which are as rich in language as they are in wisdom. Of his prose works, besides those I have mentioned, three stand out, — ' The Four Phases of Morals,' the essay ' On Beauty,' and ' Self-Culture.' In the first, to use the words of the present Professor of Moral Philo- sophy in the University of Edinburgh, ' Professor Blackie has given us a valuable addition to ethical literature full of important exposition and criticism ; ' of the second ' On Beauty ; ' Dr John Brown had written, ' If I am mistaken not, there is more in the honest instincts, the broad sympathies, the genuine philosophy 2 2 AN APPRECIATION and cordial love of all that is lovable, as expressed in these discourses, to take and to hold, and to impress the great mass of thinking men and women, than in all else that our century has yet seen, not excepting my own great Ruskin.' Of * Self-Culture ' I need not speak at length. It has been far and away the most widely circulated of all John Stuart Blackie's works, went through eleven editions in eight years, is now in its twenty-fifth, and has been translated into eleven different languages. As far north as the land of the Finns, south in the sunny lands of Italy and Spain, east of Suez amongst the many-tongued people of the Indian empire, this book has been read and re-iead. Its simple, robust, straightforward common sense, has made it a power of its kind, and a power for good, difficult to estimate. * It is many years ago since I read his " Self-Culture," wrote Professor Seth ; * but it seemed to me then to be a masterpiece of its kind, full of the wisdom of life, ripe and true.' The germ of ' Self-Culture ' is in these words quoted in ' The Wisdom of Goethe ' — * Every man must think for himself, and he will always find upon his path some truth or, at least, a kind of truth, that will keep him through life. Yet he dare not allow himself to drift. He must be self-controlled. Mere naked instinct does not become a man.' * How can a man learn to know himself? ' asks Goethe, * By reflection never, only by action. In the measure in which thou seekest to do thy duty shalt thou know what is in thee. But what is thy duty ? The demand of the hour.' In the region of poetry, from which I have selected for this volume many of the gems, besides his trans- AN APPRECIATION 23 lations from the German, the Greek and the Latin, we must not omit reference to his translations from the Gaelic. These are in most cases extremely faithful, and convey the spirit of the original in a remark- able way. As an example, let me recommend the translation of Duncan Ban's ' Ben Dorain,' which will be found in this volume. As in an intro- duction I have spoken of his chief contributions to verse in other directions, it is not necessary for me to dwell further upon the subject. It is not for me in this place to dwell on the many important affairs of a practical nature which engaged John Stuart Blackie throughout his life. These are all told in detail in Miss Stoddart's pages, and my reader will turn there for the history of the movement for university reform, the history of the foundation of the Celtic Chair, his endeavours in the question of reform in matters pertaining to education, his institu- tion of travelling Greek fellowships, his work in the Greek and Latin classes, and last, but not least, the record of his persistent preaching in and out of season on the subject of the philological continuance of the Greek language and of the pronunciation of such. On this subject let me quote from a letter of M. Gennadius, ex-Envoy from the King of Greece. * Greek newspapers received from Athens and other parts of Greece, contain obituary notices of the late Professor Blackie, all couched in terms of fond attach- ment and affectionate respect for the memory of one who was considered as much Greek in heart and mind as those in the Levant who now mourn his loss. He had made himself more known among the Greek- 24 AN APPRECIATION speaking populations in the East, and he had entered more thoroughly into their habits of thought and modes of speech than many scholars who visited Greece more often, or sojourned longer there than he had done. It may even be said that he was more full of a vivid conception of the language and life of ancient and modern Greece than they. To what was this attributable? He learned, considered and taught Greek as a living, not as a dead language. He did not confine its ranges within the narrow and artificial limits of Atticism, or even of Classicism ; but recognised that Greek, as a tongue actually in use, has an unbroken record of 3000 years ; that contemporary Greek presents one of the most interest- ing and most remarkable periods of an existence ever changing because ever alive. Finally, to quote from one of his letters to the Times, ' He did not perpetrate the English absurdity of pronouncing the language of Pericles and Plato with the vocalism of John Bull, and the accentuation of Old Cato, the Censor.' And before he died it was one of his greatest joys to learn that the seed he had sown was bearing fruit, and letters from M. Drakoules and others from Oxford and elsewhere, cheered him with the news that emancipation had begun. However many may differ as to the comparative merits and demerits of John Stuart Blackie's literary, academic and public works, no two opinions can be held with regard to the absolute sincerity and unassail- able honesty of the man. Never have I met or heard of a man who was so absolutely truthful — truthful in word, truthful in deed — never did I know one who so AN APPRECIATION 25 absolutely refused to sacrifice one iota that a lie might be uttered or perpetuated. ' No dread of censure, and no lack of praise, Turned thee to right or left.' If at times he seemed unreasonable in his persistency, it was because he was thoroughly convinced of the rectitude of his action. And this absolute honesty he carried into all his work. Here there was no trimming, no manufacture of facts to suit theories, his methods were absolutely scientific ; many may have disputed his opinions, none ever disputed his facts. He tells us, as Mr Morley says of Goethe, ' the whole truth.' Over and over again have I seen him spend what appeared a superfluous amount of time, to find out the accuracy of a statement or fact, and so careful was he to keep in control the know- ledge which he possessed, so careful so as to have it stored away in his brain that it might be reproduced with accuracy, that he often used to say to me, — * Don't tell me what you think, tell me what you know ! ' A good deal has been said with regard to Professor Blackie's supposed vanity. To me, who knew him in many phases of his mental and moral attitude, this charge of vanity is simply inexplicable. I never knew anybody so humble, so reverential, so careless of opinion. No vain man is humble, no vain man is truly reverential, every vain man is sensitive to a degree to opinion. Of course, he had tinges occasionally of what he called * Oldie * (Old Adam), but so strong was his power of inhibition that these were quickly 26 AN APPRECIATION trodden down. A vain man is never charitable to those who attack him — Professor Blackie never spoke a harsh word against any man in his life. Some have even mentioned his dress as an evidence of his vanity, but would it be news for the public to learn that he never knew when he had adorned himself with new clothes. At night-time the old clothes were removed and new ones were substituted, and he lived in ignorance of the fact. He was so much above the consideration of his sartorial environment, that had it not been for the kindly and studied care of his devoted wife, we are afraid he would have cut a very sorry figure indeed. That he was one of the most picturesque figures of the day was hardly his fault, and only arose from the fact that Mrs Blackie thought it no crime to dress a naturally handsome and pictur- esque man in a picturesque manner. Of his charity, I cannot speak too highly. To an opponent he behaved in a manner that was often quixotic. He never judged harshly ; he never attri- buted motives. When spiteful, sometimes cruel letters came to him, and we around his fireside gave vent to our honest indignation, in that sweet, fascinating way of his, he would bid us be charitable and would in many ways try to find a justification for the offender. Not that this ever detracted from his stern sense of duty which sometimes made him give vent to the expression, — * Bad boys should be thrashed.' As for what he gave away to the poor, only a very few knew his great, unostentatious liberality. This was one of the most beautiful traits of his character, and if he erred at all, it was that AN APPRECIATION ^7 sometimes an unworthy person gained by the large- ness of his heart. Many a poor, struggling literary man ; many a poor, weak, broken-down schoolmaster, or impoverished student has had cause to thank God that John Stuart Blackie was alive. ' Many a poor man and woman will miss the half-crown and the jest — that made the pocket a little heavier, and the heart a little lighter.' Of other marked characteristics may be mentioned his reverence and his patriotism. His reverence I have hinted at, and this virtue weighed so much with him, that it may with safety be said that it way the genesis of all his aspect to the Creator, and to the moral systems of the world. ' Think upon your knees,' was his metaphorical way of picturing the attitude of reverence which he deemed right in our intellectual life, and it was in this attitude that he himself went through life. Reverence for, not fear of, the great all-ruling ' logos ' of the Universe, the 'all-father,' the dispenser and reasoning ruler of all the wonders of nature. * Write them Jove, Buddha, Allah, Elohim, Apollo, Krishna, Vishna, Great All-father Or great All-mother, if it please you rather, They are but names that sound one self-same theme, Soul of all souls, and of all causes cause.' And this reverence for the fatherhood was carried into the practical affairs of his life. It tempered his judgment, it made richer his charity, it broadened his conception of the variety of life. ' Keep yourself,' he wrote, 'always in an attitude of reverential depend- ence on the supreme source of all good. It is the 28 AN APPRECIATION most natural and speediest and surest antidote against that spirit of shallow self-confidence and brisk impertinence so apt to spring up with the knowledge without charity, which puffeth up and edifieth not.' One of his favourite, perhaps the favourite, of his illustrations bearing on this aspect of reverence was taken from Goethe, and may be quoted in his own translation of Goethe's words. * There is one thing by means of which every man that is born into the world becomes truly manly. This thing is reverence, of which there are three kinds, or, if you will, three stages. These we endeavour to 'implant in the minds of our pupils with the symbolical accompaniment of three attitudes or postures. The first kind is reverence for that which is above us, and the attitude connected with this is that in which, with the arms crossed over the breast, our pupils are taught to look joyfully towards the heavens. By this we ask from them an ac- knowledgment that there is a God on high, who reflects and reveals Himself in the person of parents, teachers and superiors. The second type is reverence for that which is beneath us. The hands clasped as though bound behind the back, the downward, smil- ing look, in the attitude belonging to the type indicate that we should look upon the earth graciously and cheerfully, for it is the earth that affords us means of subsistence and the source of innumerable joys. But from this attitude we set our pupil free as soon as possible, the moment we are assured the lesson it is intended to convey has had its proper efi'ect, then we call on him to brace himself like a man, and turning to his comrades to pit himself against them. Now he AN APPRECIATION 29 stands firm and bold, but not selfishly isolated. Only in conflict with his fellows can the young man learn to face the world. Our third attitude indicates this ; standing upright and with forward look, they take their stations no longer singly, but linked together in a row.' Then again. ' The religion which is founded on re- verence for what is above us we call ethnic^ or as it is in vulgar English, heathen. It is the religion of the nations, and the first happy deliverance from abject fear. To this class belong all pagan religions, whatever names they may bear. The second type of religion founded upon the reverence we cherish for what is on a par with ourselves, we call philosophical ; for the philosopher, who takes a central position, must draw down to his level what is above, while he seeks to elevate what is below ; and only when in this middle state does he deserve the name of a sage. The third type is that founded on reverence for what is beneath us — this is Christanity, for in it chiefly is this senti- ment dormant. It is the highest step in the ladder of reverence to which humanity can obtain. . . . From these three embodied types spring the con- summation of all reverences, the reverence for our self, out of which the other three again develop themselves.' And it is as well to note that he did not confuse the reverence for those great physical, intellectual, social and moral factors which in the ages have held the balance level for humanity, with that blind respect and worship of things born in prejudice, bred in ignorance, and perpetuated in mysticism. He was 30 AN APPRECIATION always of the north and western world, though in- fluenced by the wisdom which came from the east and south, and he had no respect for what would clog the higher developments of his human brothers. When we come to analyse the Professor's religious belief, we find, as I have said, this reverence at the root of it all, and in the aspect of worship we find how wide, almost pantheistic, was his conception of the worship of the Creator. It was really, when we look at it, the first verse of the 19th psalm, and no choir, no chorus of human voices in any temple made by hands was half as expressive to him as the choir, whose units were the rippling brook, the roaring cataract, the heaven- pointing hills, and the changing clouds. ' Go not where sculptured tower or pictured dome Invites the reeking city's jaded throngs, Some hoar old shrine of Rhine-land or of Rome Where the dim aisle the languid hymn prolongs, Here rather follow me and take thy stand By the grey cairn that crowns the lone Dunee, And let thy breezy worship be the grand Old Bens, and the old grey knolls that compass thee ; The sky-blue waters and the snow white sand, And the quaint isles far sown upon the sea.' And again, at Ardlui, — ' In sooth a goodly temple, walled behind "With crag precipitous of granite grey, And by green birches corniced, which the wind Sowed o'er the rim in random rich display, And for a roof the azure-curtained hall, Light-floating cloud and broad benignant ray. And organed by the hum of waterfall And plash of bright waves in the gleaming bay. And here's the pulpit, the huge granite mass Erect, frost-sundered from the mossy crown AN APPRECIATION 31 And there the people sit on turfy grass, And here the fervid preacher thunders down ; Go kneel beneath Saint Paul's proud dome and say, If God be nearer there, or here to-day.' And again, in Arran, in that most eloquent pantheistic poem, ' A Sabbath Meditation ' — ' In the high-domed fane, Glorious with all the legendary pomp Of pictured saints, where skilful singers swell The curious chant, or on the lonely hill Where, on grey cliff and purple heather shines The shadowless sun at noon. Thou hears't alike. Vainly the narrow wit of narrow men Within the walls which priestly lips have blest, In the fixed phases of a formal creed Would crib Thy presence ; Thou art more than all The shrines that hold Thee ; and our wisest creeds Are but the lispings of a forward child ' To spell the Infinite.' And finally, in his eloquent apology for the poor Hindoos in his ' Trimurti.' ' Farewell ! your creed may nevermore be mine, I hold one God, but many forms Divine ; Your's best — so be it I but I may not bind My heart to worship only in one kind ; Nor where flowers prink the mead with diverse hue Let one bright bloom usurp my wondering view ; And they are wise who love with like regard Both rose and lily, where to choose is hard. Leave me, my friend, the luxury of my error, To think that creeds are but a broken mirror With thousand suns for one that lights the skies, And one truth imaged in a thousand lies ! ' God, to him, was soul of all soul and substance of all creeds, and his interpretation of the meaning of the Trinity, was Thought, Word and Deed. Thought, the Father, Deed, the Son, and Word the Holy Spirit. His religion ' was one glowing furnace hot 32 AN APPRECIATION with moral emotion rather than the outcome of a theo- logy bristling with stereotyped dogma and scholastic formulas.' It was a religion of action, of morals, of personal inhibition. In a sonnet to Mr Findlay of Aberlour, a wise and good landlord, he said : — ' Not all who catch the breeze can guide the ship, Not all who mount the car can rein the steed, Not all can quaff good wine with sober lip, Some make their lives a slander on their creed.' His ship was ever off the rock, not always riding smoothly, for — ' Far better to be tempest driven Than rot upon the harbour mud,' but never stranded. With a steady hand he reined the steed, and his temperate, guileless and noble life was a better demonstration of his religious belief than all the creeds his lips could utter. It was the love of the natural in religion that made him such an admirer of the aesthetic in places of worship which, indeed, inspired him in a sonnet to his old friend Dr M'Gregor of St Cuthbert's to write : — * Thou are wise to feel The pulse of the time and from high mitred station Bring chant and hymn with soul compelling power To fling a grace in worship's praiseful hour O'er the grave-visaged Presbyterian nation.' No doubt, much of the reverence in his nature helped to keep alive that intense passion for Father- land which coloured most of his utterances on educa- tional and social questions. Reverence for those who AN APPRECIATION 33 had secured for Scotland their civil Hberty at Bannock- burn and their religious liberty at Drumclog. To use the words of his friend, 'the wise young laird of Dalmeny,' as he was fond of calling Lord Rosebery, 'When we forget our individual national life as Scotsmen, you may be sure the history of Scotland has come to an end. The principle of nationality, I take to be this, that we should cling to everything essential to us as a historical nation, and because we are a historical nation we should remember with all the more pride that we are one of many nations that go to make up the greatest empire the world has ever seen.' Patriotism in the abstract to him was one of the greatest virtues of citizenship, and it hurt his right feelings of pride for the great historical traditions of his country, to see his countrymen forgetting that these traditions ever existed, that we never had a distinct national character, that we never inherited a distinc- tive type of manhood from the past, forgetting that Scotland was something more than a northern pro- vince of England. He himself rejoiced every day in the traditions and heritages of his beloved country — the traditions of civil and religious strifes and conquest, the heritages of poetry and of song. As I have said, patriotism in the abstract he counted among the higher virtues, and it is with this view that we hear him speak in such high terms of the three greatest national demonstrations he had witnessed — the first, when the German troops entered Berlin after the Franco-German war ; the second, the Jubilee pro- cession in London in 1887 ; and the third, when he himself at Bannockburn, in the presence of thousands c 34 AN APPRECIATION of the Scottish people, unfurled the banner on the Borestone. This was not the only occasion on which he took the principal part in a demonstration markedly Scottish in character. Some years ago he inaugurated a monu- ment to Peden at Cumnock, in the presence of four thousand people; and in 1864, he made one of his most eloquent public appearances, when at Sanquhar he was present at the inauguration of an obeHsk at the market cross, the place where Richard Cameron and his compatriots published their famous ' Declaration,' and which, eight years after, shook the Stuarts from the throne. ' There, then and afterwards,' in the words of Mr Tod, ' at the Old Castle, Blackie delivered great and glowing speeches ; and in reference to the per- secuted Covenanters, thundered out the lines carved upon the tall column : — * If you would know the nature of their crime, Then read the story of that killing time.' He loved to the end his 'ain Doric,' the sibilants of his * ain braid Scots,' that language which Ruskin, in a letter to me, spoke of as 'the sweetest, subtlest, richest, most musical of all the living dialects of Europe,' he loved his Scottish songs, he loved the Scottish people, he loved his Scottish land. * I've fed my eyes by land and sea, With sights of grandeur streaming o'er me, But still my heart remains with thee, Dear Scottish land, that stoutly bore me. O, for the land that bore me ! O, for the stout old land ! With mighty ben, and winding glen, Stout Scottish land — my own, dear land. ' AN APPRECIATION 35 In conclusion, perhaps it is not necessary for me to state that John Stuart Blackie was essentially, in all the elements that made up his personality, a man of affirmation, a man of action. The mere apostle of negation, the mere cynic, the mere looker-on, the mocker, may interest or startle for the moment, only to perish like a flash of lightning. Blackie often startled, but the intellectual or moral agitation aroused in his hearers or readers rose not from the dreary still-birth of negations, or the dead bones of pessimistic diatribes, but rather from a too glowing assertion, per- haps, of some living potent maxim or problem touch- ing something that had a hving bearing on human hopes and human aspirations. Many of us may have been annoyed at his persistency, but he believed with Herbert Spencer, that ' only by varied iteration can alien conceptions be forced on reluctant minds.' Whether the high priests of the higher criticism, the door-keeper of the dovecots of the purists in style, will admit him into their sanctum is a different ques- tion. Like a very opposite man, Voltaire, he rated literature much lower than truth and action. He never was a mere literary man, he had too strong a personality for that, and in all he wrote that person- ality was not lost sight of. It is not a matter, then, for much surprise that this Happy Warrior, fighting to the end with his sword in hand for what he thought to be right, absolutely sincere, generous-hearted, 'a man without guile,' patriotic, reverential, should become beloved at home, revered abroad. Loved by his peers, loved by the high, loved by the low; — his bright, rich. 36 AN APPRECIATION overflowing presentation, a lovable sight surely for gods and men. We will forgive him slapping the episcopal knee of Thirlwall, and for shaking Carlyle when he would not let his wife speak, because we knew how much of it was the result of his abnormal physical and mental vigour. No one could come near him without being im- pressed with the greatness of his personality ; and no young man certainly could fail to be impressed with the spirit of a joy in all things of good report, could not avoid being impressed by him by his creed, that ' this is a world of stern realities.' All his in- fluence was for good, ' in an age of pessimism he held high the banner of human hope and human aims.' ' Speaking the truth in love,' and ' All noble things are difficult,' were his favourite mottoes ; mottoes which helped him over many a hard stile in this, as he called it, ' pleasant pilgrimage.' He went through life working and singing. ' If you wish to be happy in this world, there are only three things that can secure you of your aim — the love of God, the love of truth, and the love of your fellowmen ; and of this divine triad, the best and most natural exponent in my estimate is, neither a sermon, nor a lecture, nor even a grand article in a quarterly review, but just simply a good song.' ' Rocking on a lazy billow With roaming eyes, Cushioned on a dreamy pillow Thou art not wise. Wake the power within thee sleeping, Trim the plots that's in thy keeping, Thou wilt bless the task when reaping Sweet labour's prize. x\N APPRECIATION " 37 Work and wait, a sturdy liver (Life fleetly flies), Work and pray, and sing, and ever Lift hopeful eyes. Let no flaring folly din thee, Wisdom when her charm may win thee, Flows a well of life within thee, Young man, be wise.' Born on 25th July 1809, John Stuart Blackie passed on the 2nd of March 1895 i^^o the valley of the dark shadow, within the ' door which, opening, letting in, lets out no more,' and was buried with all the honours which a city and nation could command, on March 6th. As Mr George Stronach says, ' everybody he loved, but not a tithe of those who loved him, was there to pay him a last homage ; Edinburgh, particularly the High Street, presenting a spectacle which has never been seen since the execution of Montrose, and will never again be seen in our days. ' I have seen,' he says, ' many impressive sights in historic St Giles' Cathedral, but nothing to equal the awful solemnity and the last honour paid to the great Scotsman, of whom we were all so justly proud. Rich and poor, high and low, the learned and the unlearned were gathered outside or inside the famous old shrine, and there were few dry eyes in the great crowd when the funeral car slowly made its way to the church.' But, as Professor Geddes puts it, ' the broad Cathedral was but the sounding chancel, the square and street, the silent transept and nave. Psalm and prayer, chorus and organ rolled their deepest, yet the service hnd a climax beyond the hallelujah, the pipes, as they led the procession slowly out, giving the " Land of the 38 AN APPRECIATION Leal " a new pathos, and stirring the multitude with a penetrating and vibrating intensity, which is surely in no other music. The big man beside me broke down and sobbed like a child ; the lump comes back to one's own throat, the eyes dim again as one re- members it. It was a new and strange instrument ; strangest perhaps to those who knew well its musical call to dance, its demoniac scream and thrill of war. . . . In front went a long procession of societies headed by kilt and plaid ; behind came the mourning kinsmen, with the advocates, the Senate, the students and the Town Council in their varied robes; then the in- terminable carriages of personal friends. But better than all these, the town itself was out ; the working people in their thousands and tens of thousands lined the way from St Giles' to the Dean ; the very windows and balconies were white with faces. Coming down the Mound, in full amphitheatre of Edinburgh, filled as perhaps never before, with hushed assemblage of city and nation, the pipers suddenly changed their song. . . . For those who were not there, the scene is well nigh as easy to picture as us to recall ; the wavy lane, close-walled with drawn and deepened faces, the long black procession marching slow, sprinkled with plaid and plume, crowded with college cap and gown, with civic scarlet and ermine, marshalled by black draped maces. In the midst the Black Watch pipers, march- ing their slowest and stateliest — then the four tall black- maned horses — the open bier, with plain, unpolished oaken coffin high upon a myriad of flowers, a mound of tossing lilies, with Henry Irving's lyre of violets, " To the beloved Professor," its silence fragrant at its AN APPRECIATION 39 foot. Upon the coffin lay the Skye women's plaid, above his brow the Prime Minister's wreath, but on his breast a little mound of heather, opening into bloom.* When on that spring morning the Scottish people had laid him to rest in the Dean Cemetery, he went as one of the last of those who had stood together in the days when his arm was strongest. Baron Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, * the friends of his youth, and the directors of his early studies,' had long departed. Leigh Hunt and Thomas Carlyle, attached friends and early stimulators, had long closed their records. Moncreiff, a friend of the 'Spec' days, Brewster, Lord Brougham, John Carlyle, Lord Cockburn, Froude, Kelland, Lushington, Dean Stanley, Tyndall Huxley and Manning, had all paid their last debts to nature. ' Rab,' the beloved Physician ; Norman M'Leod, his soul bubbling over with human love and joy ; Alexander Smith, with his life's tragedy unwritten ; the sunny-souled Dean Ramsay, that metaphysical giant Sir William Hamilton, Sydney Dobell * my chaste- souled Sydney,' Schliemann, Samuel Brown, Hunter of Craigcrook, D. O. Hill, Guthrie, 'the generous evangelist,' Robertson Smith, Alexander Nicholson, ' the Shirra,' Sir George Harvey and Robert Home, friends indeed, Lord Neaves, Aytoun, Robert Wyld, the Duke of Sutherland, had all been laid to rest, most of them 'in good Scots clods.' Browning having written that ' he counted life just a stuff to try the soul's strength on,' had found his soul strong, and had gone unto the poet spirits that he loved of English race ; and Tennyson had a few years before 40 AN APPRECIATION 'put out to sea.' Left to mourn their old comrade are Sir Theodore Martin, whom he loved well ; Gladstone, the lord of destinies, who in a letter to Mr Kennedy had written that he 'looks back with interest, respect, and warm regard upon his life and acts ; so genuine, so simple, so susceptible of a pure enthusiasm, so detached from self, so attached to things kindly, pure, and noble ; ' David Masson, ulti- mus Scotorum indeed, who said of his old friend as of Chaucer's knight, — * He never yet no vileyne ne said In all his life unto no maner wight.' Walter Smith, his soul still unlifted on the wings of song, Campbell Fraser, Sir Douglas Maclagan, James M'Gregor, full of the fire of human sympathy ; General Forlong, James Donaldson, Sir W. Geddes, John Forbes White, and others less known to the world, but none the less beloved, while she, the faithful and loving companion of fifty-three years, in her heart said with Tennyson — * And doubtless unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit, In such great offices as suit The full-grown energies of Heaven.' believing with Keats, that ' There is budding morrow in midnight.' ARCHIBALD STODART WALKER. POEMS LAYS AND LYRICS BEAUTIFUL WORLD Beautiful world ! Though bigots condemn thee, My tongue finds no words For the graces that gem thee ! Beaming with sunny Ught, Bountiful ever, Streaming with gay delight. Full as a river ! Bright world ! brave world ! Let cavillers blame thee ! I bless thee, and bend To the God who did frame thee ! Beautiful world ! Bursting around me, Manifold, million-hued Wonders confound me ! From earth, sea, and starry sky, Meadow and mountain, Eagerly gushes Life's magical fountain. 43 44 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Bright world ! brave world ! Though witlings may blame thee, Wonderful excellence Only could frame thee ! The bird in the greenwood His sweet hymn is troUing, The fish in blue ocean Is spouting and rolling ! Light things on airy wing Wild dances weaving, Clods with new life in spring Swelling and heaving ! Thou quick-teeming world, Though scoffers may blame thee, I wonder, and worship The God who could frame thee ! Beautiful world ! What poesy measures Thy strong-flooding passions, Thy light-trooping pleasures ? Mustering, marshalling, Striving and straining. Conquering, triumphing, Ruling and reigning ! Thou bright-armied world ! So strong, who can tame thee ? Wonderful power of Cod Only could frame thee ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 45 Beautiful world ! While godlike I deem thee, No cold wit shall move me With bile to blaspheme thee ! I have lived in thy light, And, when Fate ends my story, May I leave on death's cloud The bright trail of life's glory ! Wondrous old world ! No ages shall shame thee ! Ever bright with new light From the God who did frame thee ! THE SONG OF THE HIGHLAND RIVER Dew-fed am I With drops from the sky, Where the white cloud rests on the old grey hill ; Slowly I creep Down the precipice steep, Where the snow through the summer lies freezingly still ; Where the wreck of the storm Lies shattered enorm, I steal 'neath the stone with a tremulous rill ; My low-trickling flow You may hear, as I go Down the sharp-furrowed brow of the old grey hill, Or drink from my well. Grass-grown where I dwell, The clear granite cell of the old grey hill. 46 THE SELECTED POEMS OF In the hollow of the hill With my waters I fill The little black tarn where the thin mist floats ; The deep old moss Slow-oozing I cross, When the lapwing cries with its long shrill notes ; Then fiercely I rush to the sharp granite edge, And leap with a bound o'er the old grey ledge ; Like snow in the gale, I drive down the vale. Lashing the rock with my foamy flail ; Where the black crags frown, I pour sheer down. Into the caldron boiling and brown ; Whirling and eddying there I lie, Where the old hawk wheels, and the blast howls by. From the treeless brae All green and grey. To the wooded ravine I wind my way, Dashing, and foaming, and leaping with glee. The child of the mountain wild and free. Under the crag where the stone-crop grows, Fringing with gold my shelvy bed, Where over my head Its fruitage of red, The rock-rooted rowan tree blushfully shows, I wind, till I find A way to my mind. While hazel, and oak, and the light ash tree, Weav^ a green awning of leafage for me. JOHN STUART BLACKIE ' 47 Fitfully, fitfully, on I go, Leaping, or running, or winding slow. Till I come to the linn where my waters rush, Eagerly down with a broad-face gush, Foamingly, foamingly, white as the snow, On to the soft green turf below ; Where I sleep with the lake as it sleeps in the glen, Neath the far-stretching base of the high-peaked Ben. Slowly and smoothly my winding I make, Round the dark-wooded islets that stud the clear lake; The green hills sleep With their beauty in me, Their shadows the light clouds Fling as they flee. While in my pure waters pictured I glass The light-plumed birches that nod as I pass. Slowly and silently on I wend. With many a bay and many a bend. Luminous seen like a silvery line. Shimmering bright in the fair sunshine, Till I come to the pass, where the steep red scaur Gleams like a watch-fire seen from afar. Then out I ride. With a full-rolling pride. While my floods like the amber shine ; Where the salmon rejoice To hear my voice. And the angler trims his line. 48 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Gentlier now, with a kindly slope, The green hills lie to the bright blue cope, And wider the patches of green are spread, Which Time hath won from my shifting bed. And many a broad and sunny spot, Where my waters wend, With a larger bend, Shows the white-fronted brown-thatched cot. Where the labouring man with sweatful care. Hath trimmed him a garden green and fair. From the wreck of the granite bare. And many a hamlet, peopled well With hard-faced workmen, smokes from the dell ; Cunning to work with axe and hammer. Cunning to sheer the fleecy flock, Cunning, with blast and nitrous clamour, To split the useful rock. And many a rural church far-seen , Stands on the knolls of grassy green, Where my swirling current flows ; And, with its spire high-pointed, shows How man, that treads the earthly sod. Claims fatherhood from God. Now broader and broader my rich bed grows. And deeper and deeper my full tide flows ; And, while onward I sail, ^^ Like a ship to the gale, With my big flood rolling amain, The glen spreads out to a leafy vale. And the vale spreads out to a plain. JOHN STUART BLACKIE .49 And many a princely mansion good Looks from the old thick-tufted wood, On my clear far-winding line. And many a farm, with acres spread, Slopes gently to my fattening bed, The farm, whose broad and portly lord Loads with rich fare the liberal board, And quaffs the ruby wine. And richly, richly, round and round. With green and golden pride, the ground Swells undulant, gardened o'er and o'er With beauty's bloom, and plenty's store ; And many a sheaf of yellow corn. The farmer's healthful gain. Up my soft-shaded banks is borne. On the huge slow-labouring wain. And many a yard well stacked with hay, And many a dairy's trim array. And many a high-piled barn I see. And many a dance of rustic glee. Where sweats the jocund swain. And many a town thick-sown with steeples. With various wealth my border peoples, And studs my sweeping line ; While frequent the bridge of well-hewn stone. Arch after arch, is proudly thrown. My busy banks to join ; Thus through the plain I wend my fruitful way, To meet the sounding sea, and swell the briny bay. The briny bay ! how fair it lies Beneath the azure skies ! D 50 THE SELECTED POEMS OF With its wide sweep of pebbly shore, And the low far-murmuring roar Of wave and wavelet sparkling bright With a thousand points in the dancing light. There round the promontory's base, Bluff bulwark of the bay, Free ranging with a lordly grace, I wind my surging way, To mingle with the main. Where wide This way and that my turbid tide Is spread, behold in pennoned pride Strong Neptune's white-winged couriers ride ! From east to west, Upon my breast. Rich bales they bear, to swell the stores Of merchant kings, who on my shores Pile their proud palaces. Busily plying, And with fleet wings in fleetness vying, The fire-fed steam-consuming boat Casts from its high-reared iron throat. The many-volumed smoke, while heaves Beneath the boiling track it leaves My furrowed flood. Line upon line. The ships that crossed the fretful brine, Far-stretching o'er my spacious strand, A myriad-masted army stand ; While many a pier, and many a mole, Breaks my strong current as I roll ; And block and bolt, and bar and chain, With giant-gates my flood detain, To serve the seaman's need. Around, Thick as a forest, from the ground. JOHN STUART BLACKIE -51 Street upon street, the city rears Its pride, in strangely-clambering tiers Of various-fashioned stone, while domes, And spires, and pinnacles, and towers, And wealthy tradesmen's terraced bowers Nod o'er my troubled bed. And Labour's many-chambered homes, In straggling vastness, spread There smoking lines. Thus, where I flow. The stream of being, growing as I grow, Floods to a tumult, and much-labouring man, Who, with my small beginnings, small began, Ends where I end, and crowns his swelling plan. THE RIVER: AN ALLEGORY OF LIFE Son of the mountain am I, Born 'twixt the Earth and the Sky, Where kindly cherished I lay In my cradle of soft mossy green. Looking with clear bright eye On the clouds that curtained the day, Floating in freakish display With cerulean glimpses between. Son of the mountain am I, Born 'twixt the Earth and the Sky, 52 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Where the old grey rocks stand out 'Mid the tempest's revel and rout, Snorting with jagged old snout At the keen winds whistling by ; Where the eagle spreads his van, And the white-winged ptarmigan — Fed by rich dews from the sky There an infant of might I did lie. II Young was I, and lusty-hearted, When first from the mountain I started, Down from the Ben's grey shoulders Over the old granite boulders. Scornful of rest and of ease, Eagerly running and leaping, Scooping the rocks with my sweeping. Tearing the roots of the trees ; Swelling with torrent big-breasted. Dashing with stream foamy-crested Mighty and masterful then : Heaving and hurling, Whirling and swirling O'er the harsh roots of the Ben ; < Foaming and bubbling. Winding and doubling Through the long stretch of the glen, So lusty was I, Son of Earth and of Sky, So proud of my potency then ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE ' 53 III Now I am grown to a River, With measured and equable strain Rolling my waters, and never To toss and to tumble again ; I am grown to a smooth-flooded River, The mighty and merciful Giver Of wealth to the sons of the plain. Through meadows and terraces pleasant In triumph of culture I ride, With the home of the peer and the peasant To bless the rich roll of my tide ; The firm-poised bridge I flow under, The fair-builded city I know, And spires, domes, and turrets, a wonder, Nod their pride in my glass as I go ; And high-tunnelled vessels are steaming And churning the foam of my tide. And trafficking thousands are streaming With quick-eyed despatch at my side. And millions are praising the River As he regally rolls to the main, The mighty and merciful Giver Of wealth to the sons of the plain. 54 THE SELECTED POEMS OF SPUT DUBH (A Cascade near Pitlochrie.) Son of the mountain, Beautiful and strong, Roaring and pouring And sweeping along ; Mighty art thou, As I see thee now Flinging the gathered floods of the Ben Into the leafy shade of the glen ; Like to a steed, With galloping speed, Tossing his mane, And whisking his tail, Art thou, when the pride Of thy foaming tide Leaps to the vale, Son of the mountain ! Most like a god, Of things that I know, On the earth below. Art thou, in the pride ^^ Of thy foaming tide. Son of the mountain ! Summers and winters, Inconstant ever, Roll their changes Over thy head ; Rocks tumble down From the mountain's crown, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 55 And stout old trees, Root-wrenched by the breeze, Fall with a crash Into the dash Of thy billowy bed ; But thou dost abide Unchanged in the swell Of thy sky-fed well, Most like in thy pride To a deathless god, Son of the mountain ! Wise was the old Greek man who sang, ' Water is best.' As from the breast Of mighty Cybele, Nurturing mother, To every form Of the breathing nation, From eagle on wing To creeping worm, And man, the king Of the vasty creation, Flowed the redundant, Life-sustaining, Milky fountain ; So, when thou pourest Richly thy waters, Budding and blowing Follows thy flowing ; Earth's sons and daughters Rejoice in thy going. Corn fields are waving 56 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Near to thy laving, Gardens are growing With flower and with tree, And proud cities rise With towers to the skies. Watered by thee, Son of the mountain ! Son of the mountain. Lovely art thou, Where thou leapest as now. Silvery bright, From the mountain's brow. With the unspotted breadth of the blue above thee. And the circling grace of the trees that love thee. Spiring larch, and the tresses fine Of waving birch. And the red boled strength of the dark green pine, Rejoicing with thee in the fair sunshine. Son of the mountain. No fools were they w^^Vorshipped thee So fair and bright, and wild and free. So beautiful, so strong. They sought a god that they could see, River god or nymph of fountain. And poured their untaught litany Responsive to thy bickering glee. Son of the mountain ! Son of the mountain. Most like to a god JOHN STUART BLACKIE 57 Art thou in the freedom and force of thy flow ; A God must be in thee, or near thee, I know ; And Him I adore In this shrine of the glen. Mid the rush and the roar Where thy bright floods leap With silvery sweep, Down from the crown of the old granite Ben, Strong son of the mountain ! WAIL OF AN IDOL Mt; 5t7 ixoi. doLvarbv ye irapauSa, (paidifi' 'OSucrcreO* BovXoifMTjv k' iirdpovpos 4(jJV drjTev^/xev dXXy, 'Avdpl trap' dKXrjpcj, oT /xr) ^ioros 7ra\i)s etrj, 'H Trdcnu veKvea-ai KaTa(pdLiJ.€voiaiv dudaaeiv. — HOMER. O Dreary, dreary shades ! O sad and sunless glades ! O yellow, yellow meads Of asphodel ! Where the dream-like idol strays, On lone and lifeless ways. Through Hades' weary maze, And sings his own sad knell. O sullen, solemn, silent clime ! O lazy pace of noiseless time ! O where is the blythe and gamesome change Of the many-nurturing earth ? The dance of joy, the flush of mirth. Life's vast and varied range ? 58 THE SELECTED POEMS OF O dreary, dreary vales ! O heavy, heavy gales ! Fraught with the dreamy dew of sleep, Over the joyless fields ye sweep ; O sullen, sullen, streaky sky. Where the changeless moon, with a leaden eye. Aloft hangs languidly. And yellow vapours mount up high. And flickering lights in a wild dance fly. Like the last fleet flash when the strangled die, Shooting across the darkling eye. O sullen, sullen sky ! Where the brown bat wings. And the lone bird sings A chant like the chant of death ; While sad souls wake The stagnant lake With a sobbing, struggling breath. O sad, O sad is the wail of the stream, Mingling its sighs with the dead man's dream ; Winding, winding nine times round, Weary, wandering, 'scapeless bound ! And the black, black kine, In lazy ranks. Are cropping the sickly herb From the reedy Stygian banks ; And hissing things. With poisoned blood, Are crawling through the bubbling mud. O sad, O sad is the endless row JOHN STUART BLACKIE 59 Of poplars black ; oh, sad and slow Is the long-drawn train of the sons of woe, The silent-marching ghosts ! h And they share no more in the feast of glee, f And the dance, and the song, and the wine-cup free ; Where the bard divine, with mellow lays. Is singing the gods' and the heroes' praise ; W And they share no more Loud laughter's roar, The silent-marching ghosts ! I hear their cry. As they flit swift by On noiseless wing. Hurrying through the wide outspread Gates that gape for the countless dead : I hear the cry Of the wailing ghosts ; Their voices small, Like a drowning thing. Drawn echoless along the long dim hall ; And some are whirled, In the mighty void, Like a leaf in the gurgling tide And some are hurled. With a gusty fit. Into the deep Tartarean pit ; And some do sway, Like a blind thing stray, To and fro in the pathless air ; And some, whom chance less stormy rules, Sit sipping the blood from crimson pools. 6o THE SELECTED POEMS OF O sad is the throne, Dark, drear, alone. Of the stern, relentless pair ! With gloom enveiled, In judgment mailed, A joyless sway they bear. No circling years, No sounding spheres, No hopes and fears, Are there ; They sit on the throne. Dark, drear, alone, A stern relentless pair. And beside them sits A monster dire. Watching the darkness with eyes of fire, The dog of the triform head ; And his harsh bark splits, Like thunder fits. The realm of the silent dead. Oh, sad is the throne, Dark, drear, alone. Of the stern, relentless pair ! O dreary, dreary shades ! O sad and sunless glades ! O yellow, yellow meads Of asphodel ! O loveless, joyless homes ! O weary, starless domes ! Where the wind-swept idol roams, And sighs his own sad knell. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 6i O sullen, solemn, silent clime ! O lazy pace of noiseless time ! O where are the many-coloured joys of earth ? O where is the loud strong voice of mirth ? The jubilant shout, Of the light-heeled rout. Where the dance is whirling about and about ; The roving joy Of the bright-faced boy, When he plays with life as he plays with a toy. O where is the change Of joy and woe? The love of friend, The hate of foe ? O where is the bustle of many-winged life. And of man with man the many-mingling strife ? Where to live was to fight. And to fight was delight, Where the fair face smiled on the strong-armed knight. O Hermes ! leader of the dead, Thou winged god Of the golden rod, O lead me, lead me further still ! Lead me to Lethe's silent stream, That I may drink, deep drink my fill. And wash from my soul this long life-dream ! O lead me, lead me to Lethe's shore. Where Memory lives no more ! 62 THE SELECTED POEMS OF SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN (Argyleshire) Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains, That gird in the lovely Loch Awe, Loch Etive is fed from his fountains, By the stream of the dark-rushing Awe. With his peak so high, He cleaves the sky, That smiles on his old grey crown. While the mantle green. On his shoulders seen. In many a fold flows down. He looks to the North, and he renders A greeting to Nevis Ben, And Nevis, in white snowy splendours. Gives Cruachan greeting again. O'er dread Glencoe The greeting doth go. And where Etive winds fair in the glen ; And he hears the call. In his steep North wall, ' God bless thee, old Cruachan Bt.i I ' When the North winds their forces muster. And Ruin rides high on the storm. All calm, in the midst of their bluster. He stands, with his forehead enorm. When block on block. With thundering shock. Comes hurtled confusedly down, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 63 No whit recks he, But laughs to shake free The dust, from his old grey crown. And while torrents on torrents are pouring In a tempest of truculent glee, When louder the loud Awe is roaring, And the soft lake rides like a sea ; He smiles through the storm. And his heart grows warm. As he thinks how his streams feed the plains ; And the brave old Ben Grows young again, And swells with enforced veins. For Cruachan is king of the mountains, That gird in the lovely Loch Awe, Loch Etive is fed from his fountains. By the stream of the dark-rushing Awe. Ere Adam was made, He reared his head Sublime o'er the green-winding glen ; And, when flame wraps the sphere, O'er Earth's ashes shall peer The peak of the old Granite Ben ! 64 THE SELECTED POEMS OF THE OLD MAN OF HOY (Orkney) The old man of Hoy Looks out on the sea, Where the tide runs strong, and the wave rides free : He looks on the broad Atlantic sea, And the old man of Hoy Hath this great joy. To hear the deep roar of the wide blue ocean. And to stand unmoved 'mid the sleepless motion, And to feel o'er his head The white foam spread From the wild wave proudly swelling, And to care no whit For the storm's rude fit Where he stands on his old rock-dwelling. This rare old man of Hoy. The old man of Hoy Looks out on the sea. Where the tide runs strong and the wave rides free : He looks on the broad Atlantic sea, And the old man of Hoy Hath this great joy. To look on the flight of the wild sea-mew, With their hoar nests hung o'er the waters blue ; To see them swing On plunging wing, And to hear their shrill notes swelling. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 65 And with them to reply To the storm's war cry, As he stands on his old rock-dwelling ; This rare old man of Hoy. The old man of Hoy Looks out on the sea, Where the tide runs strong, and the wave rides free : He looks on the broad Atlantic sea, And the old man of Hoy Hath this great joy. When the sea is white and the sky is black. And the helmless ship drives on like wrack, To see it dash At his feet with a crash. And the sailors' death-note knelling. And to hear their shrieks With pitiless cheeks. This stern old man of Hoy. The old man of Hoy Looks out on the sea, Where the tide runs strong, and the wave rides free : He looks on the broad Atlantic sea, And the old man of Hoy Hath this great joy, To think on the pride of the sea-kings old, Harolds, and Ronalds, and Sigurds bold, Whose might was felt, By the cowering Celt, When he heard their war-cry yelling ; £ 66 THE SELECTED POEMS OF But the sea-kings are gone, And he stands alone, Firm on his old rock-dwelling, This stout old man of Hoy. I The old man of Hoy Looks out on the sea. Where the tide runs strong, and the wave rides free : He looks on the broad Atlantic sea, And the old man of Hoy Hath this great joy, To think on the gods that were mighty of yore, Braga, and Baldur, and Odin, and Thor, And giants of power In fateful hour, 'Gainst the great gods rebelling : But the gods are all dead, And he rears his head Alone from his old rock-dwelling, This stiff old man of Hoy. But listen to me. Old man of the sea. List to the Skulda that speaketh by me ; The Nornies are weaving a web for thee, Thou old man of Hoy, To ruin thy joy. And to make thee shrink from the lash of the ocean, And teach thee to quake with a strange commotion, When over thy head And under thy bed The rampant wave is swelling, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 67 And thou shalt die 'Neath a pitiless sky, And reel from thine old rock-dwelling, Thou stout old man of Hoy ! A SONG OF BEN LEDI (Perthshire) Come, sit on Ledi's old grey peak, And sing a song with me. Where the wild bird whirrs o'er the mosses bleak. And the wild wind whistles free ! 'Tis sweet to lie on the tufted down, Low, low in the gowany glen ; But proud is the foot that stands on the crown Of the glorious Ledi Ben. Come hither, ye towsmen, soot-besoiled. Who cower in dingy nooks. On whom no ray of the sun hath smiled. To shame your sombre looks. Come, closely mewed in steaming lanes, Whom musty chambers pen, And look abroad on the world of God From the top of this glorious Ben ! Come ye who sit with moody pains. And curious-peering looks. Clogging the veins of your laden brains With the dust of your maundering books. 68 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Not in your own dim groping souls, Nor in words of babbling men, But here His wonders God unrolls — On the peak of the Ledi Ben. Look forth on these far-stretching rows Of huge-ridged mountains high ; There God His living Epos shows Of powers that never die. Far north, far west, each glowing crest Thy sateless view may ken. Where proudly they stand to rampart the land, With this glorious Ledi Ben. And lo ! where eastward, far beneath, The broad and leafy plain Spreads on the banks of silvery Teith Stout labour's fair domain ; The smoke from the long white-glancing town, The loch that gleams in the glen. All rush to thine eye when castled high On this glorious Ledi Ben. Come, sit with me, ye sons of the free, Join hearty hand to hand. And claim your part in the iron heart Of the Grampian-girded land ; Soft lands of the South on rosy beds May cradle smoother men. But the Northern knows his strength when he treads The heath of the old grey Ben. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 69 Come, sit with me and praise with glee, On the peak of this granite Ben. The brave old land, where the stream leaps free Down the rifts of the sounding glen. Land of strong hands and glowing hearts, And mother of stalwart men. Who nurse free thoughts where the wild breeze floats On the peak of the Ledi Ben. TO THE DIVINE SPIRIT Spirit that shaped the formless chaos. Breath that stirred the sluggish deep, When the primal crude creation Started from its dateless sleep ; Spirit that heaved the granite mountains From the central fiery wells. Breath that drew the rolling rivers From the welkin's dewy cells. Spirit of motion. Earth and ocean Moulding into various life, Within, without us. And round about us Weaving all in friendly strife : Come, O come, thou heavenly guest, Shape a new world within my breast ! Spirit that taught the holy fathers Wandering through the desert drear. To know and feel, through myriad marchings. One eternal presence near. 70 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Breath that touched the Hebrew prophets' Lips with words of wingbd fire, Through the dubious gloom of ages, KindHng hope and high desire ; Spirit reveahng To pure feehng, In the inward parts of man. Fitful-shining Dim-divining Vast foreshadowings of Thy plan ; Come, O come, thou prophet guest. Watch and wait within my breast ! Spirit, that o'er Thine own Messiah Hovered Hke a brooding dove, When Earth's haughty lords he conquered, By the peaceful march of love. Breath that hushed loud-vaunting Csesars, And in triumph yoked to Thee Iron Rome, and savage Scythia, Bonded brethren and the free. Spirit of union. And communion Of devoted heart with heart. Pure and holy, Sure and slowly Working out thy boastless part : Come, thou calmly-conquering guest. Rule and reign within my breast ! Spirit that, when free-thoughted Europe With the triple-crowned despot strove. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 71 In the gusty Saxon's spirit Thy soul-stirring music wove ; Then when pride's piled architecture At a poor monk's truthful word Crashing fell, and thrones were shaken At the whisper of the Lord. Spirit deep-lurking, Secret-working Weaver of strange circumstance, All whose doing Is rise or ruin Named by shallow mortals chance ; Come, let fruitful deeds attest Thy plastic virtue, in my breast ! Spirit, that sway'st the will of mortals, Every wish, and every hope, Shaping to Thy forethought purpose All their striving, all their scope. Central tide that heavest onward Wave and wavelet, surge and spray. Making wrath of man to praise Thee, And his pride to pave Thy way : Spirit that workest, Where thou lurkest. Death from life, and day from night, Peace from warring, And from jarring. Songs of triumph and delight ; Come, O come. Thou heavenly guest, Work all Thy will within my breast ! 72 THE SELECTED POEMS OF NIGHT 'lepA Xi5f. — Homer Holy Night ! in silence From thy starry throne Swaying, thee I worship, Silent and alone. Holy Night ! how calmly Sails the mellow moon Through the deep blue welkin. Fairer than the noon. Mellow Moon ! how gently Through the voiceless night, O'er the sleeping waters. Streams thy silver light. Holy Night ! how lovely Shoot, with sudden birth, Hosts of shimmering arrows From the lambent north. Holy Night ! thou reignest Solemn, still, serene ; Hushed the tribes of mortals Bow before their queen. Now the battling voices Of the babbling throng Cease ; and thou may'st listen, As it treads along, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 73 To the steps of Godhead Beating march of Time, Slowly, surely, wisely. Beautiful, sublime; Beating thought and feeling, Beating vital power In renewed creation's Pulse, from hour to hour. Holy Night ! devoutly While I worship thee. Babbling Folly's echo Dies away from me. A SABBATH MEDITATION The Sabbath bells are travelling o'er the hill ; The gentle breeze across the fresh-reaped fields Blows fitful ; scarcely, on the broad smooth bay, With full white-gleaming sail, the slow ship moves ; Thin float the clouds ; serene the mountain stands ; And all the plain in hallowed beauty lies. God of the Sabbath, on Thy holy day 'Tis meet to praise Thee ! In the high-domed fane, Glorious with all the legendary pomp Of pictured saints, where skilful singers swell The curious chant, or on the lonely hill. Where, on great cliff and purple heather, shines The shadowless sun at noon, Thou hear'st alike. Vainly the narrow wit of narrow men OF T ,^ 74 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Within the walls which priestly lips have blest, In the fixed phrases of a formal creed, Would crib thy presence ; Thou art more than all The shrines that hold Thee ; and our wisest creeds Are but the lispings of a prattling child, To spell the Infinite. Kings have drawn the sword, Lawyers have wrangled, to declare Thy being ; And convocations of high-mitred men The foaming vials of sacerdotal wrath Outpoured, and, with tempestuous proud conceit. Shook the vast world about a phrase to name Thee, In vain. Thou, like the thin impassive air. Dost cheat the grasp of subtlest-thoughted sage ; And half our high theology is but The shadow, which man's poor and clouded ken Hath cast across Thy brightness. I would sing Thy praise with humble heart, and, like the lyre Wind-swept, the comings of thy breath would wait. To wake my rapture. Lift up your heads, ye hills. And nod His praise, ye sharp far-stretching lines Of crags storm-shattered, and ye jagged peaks Sky-cleaving ! you His mighty power upshot From the red ocean of His nethermost fire. In primal ages : there inform ye lay, In seething lakes, your molten masses huge. In turbid waves, with inorganic roll. Far-heaving through the dark abysmal space Chaotic ; thence His word creative hove Your marshalled ridges ; rank on rank ye rose, Granite and gneiss, and every ordered kind That careful science counts ; the giant frame Of this fair world, of peace-enfolden vales JOHN STUART BLACKIE 75 Storm-fronting fence, and bulwark ever sure. Ye mountain torrents, with far-sweeping foam. Ye leaping cataracts, and deep-swirling pools, Ye streams with the full-gathered grandeur rolling Of countless rills, from huge far-sundered Alps, Ye waters, with your thousand voices, praise The mighty Lord ! He of your sleepless floods Is the unsleeping soul. All motion comes From Him. Thou Ocean, with thy living belt Girdling the Earth, whether serene, as now. Thou liest, licking with an innocent ripple The feet o' the green-throned isles, or, like a spurred And furious charger, wild from coast to coast Drivest far-sounding — thou, in all thy changes. Art full of God ; yea, all thy works, O Lord, Are full of Thee ! and who is dull to these Shall from the teaching of the schools come back With beggarly blindness. He shall mount in vain His telescope, to spy Thee in the clouds, Who in green herb and starry flower, beneath His vagrant foot, hath failed to see and love • Thy manifest beauty. O make clear my sense, Thou great Revealer, to the grand array Of open mysteries that encompass round Our daily walk with Godhead, that no vain And wordy fool may cheat my facile ear With echoed volleys of man's crude conceit. Misnamed God's thunder ! From Thyself direct Thy secret comes to all, whom Thou shalt deem Worthy to find it. Councils, doctors, priests, Are but the signs that point us to the spring Whence flow thy living waters ; and, alas ! 76 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Too oft with wavering, or with cowardly hand Back-turned, they point. Teach Thou my 'stablished soul To seek Thy teaching, Lord, and trust in Thee. The generations of uncounted men Have hymned Thy praises. Lord. Their stammering tongues With strange crude doctrine magnify the power Of Him, whose vastness they were fain to grasp, But could not. Even the folly of the fool Shall praise Thee, Lord. Thou hast a place for all. The wicked and the weak are but the steps. Whereon the wise shall mount, to see Thy face ; And mighty churches, and high-vaunted faiths. Are but the schools, wherein Thy centuries train The infant peoples to the manly reach Of pure devotion ; and most wise are they. Who hear one hymn of varied truth through all The harmonious discord of strange witnesses, Prophets and martyrs, priests, and meek-eyed saints, And rapt diviners, with imperfect tongue, Babbling Thy praises. Egypt's brutish gods. Dog-faced, hawk-headed, crocodile, and cat, Snake-eating ibis, and the spotted bull, Not without apt significance did type Thy severed functions to a sense-bound race. In sea and sky, green tree, and flowing stream. In flying bird, and creeping beast, they found Pictorial speech, and speaking signs of what They crudely guessed of Thee. To clearer Greeks Stout Briareus, celestial Titans strong. f JOHN STUART BLACKIE 77 And supreme Jove, with weight of thunderous locks, Throned Hke a king, and sceptre in his hand, And ministrant eagle, spake Thy mighty power With awful grace. Each seized a part of Thee, And, with a fond assurance, deemed to hold Thy whole infinity in earthly bonds For human needs. Nor less the Christian priest Portentous erred, when with rash hand he clutched The awful Triune symbol, and defined The immeasurable Majesty Supreme With curious phrase and scientific rule, And with the thorns of wiry logic fenced Thy bristling name, from touch of thought profane ; Then, from a throne high-seated, and girt round With triple-tiered presumption, grasped Thy bolt. Sported Thy thunder, and with Thy best friends Filled a far-dreaded Hell, that he might seem A god on earth, whom awe-struck, grovelling men Might see, and feel, and handle. The pale monk, Wasting his flesh within a cold damp cell, And straining his dull vision, till he saw God's features, in the dim putrescent light Of his own sick imaginings — this man caught A glimpse of Thee, and, with such fiery haste Did hold Thee, and with prostrate worship hug. That nevermore his head he dared to lift Erect, and with proud-sweeping glance survey The riches of Thy wide luxuriant world, Man's privilege. On so nice a pivot turns True wisdom ; here an inch, or there, we swerve From the just balance ; by too much we sin, And half our errors are but truths unpruned. 78 THE SELECTED POEMS OF The errors of Thy creatures praise Thee, Lord. Not they who err are damned; but who, being wrong, In obdurate persistency to err ' Refuse all bettering. Hope for such is none. Hope lives for all, who flounder boldly on Through quaggy bogs, till firmer footing found Gives glorious prospect. One Deceiver haunts The hearts of faithless men ; his name is Fear. O Thou, who ridest glorious through the skies, In thunder or in sunshine strong the same. The Almighty builder of this fair machine. Whose beauty blinds star-eyed philosophy, Whose vastness makes our staggered thinking pant For utterance vainly — Father of all Power, Eternal Fount of liberty and life. Free, measureless, unspent — if e'er my voice Rose to Thy throne, in reverent truthful prayer. Slay me this demon, yellow Fear, that maims The arm of enterprise, nips the bud of hope. And freezes the great ocean of our life, That should run riot in the praise of Thee, With wave on wave of proud high-venturing deeds. O may this Sabbath, with its gentle dews Shed by Thy Spirit on my chastened soul. Restore my blighted bud of thought, and lift This low-crushed life into a mighty tree, Branchy, and blooming with fair summer fruits Exuberant-clustered ! — May all Sabbaths be A ripe and mellow season to my heart. Lovely as golden autumn's purple eve. Genial as sleep, whence the tired limb refreshed JOHN STUART BLACKIE . 79 Leaps to new action, and appointed toil, With steady hope, sure faith, and sober joy. THE SEA What dost thou say, Thou old grey sea, Thou broad briny water To me ? With thy ripple and thy plash, And thy waves as they lash The old grey rocks on the shore ? With thy tempests as they roar. And thy crested billows hoar. And thy tide evermore, Fresh and free ; With thy floods as they come, And thy voice never dumb. What thought art thou speaking to me ? What thing should I say On this bright summer day, Thou strange human dreamer, to thee ? One wonder the same All things do proclaim In the sky, and the land, and the sea ; 'Tis the unsleeping force Of a God in his course, Whose life is the law of the whole, As he breathes out his power In the pulse of the hour, And the march of the years as they roll ; 8o THE SELECTED POEMS OF You may measure his ways In the weeks and the days, And the stars as they wheel round the pole, But no finger is thine To touch the divine All-plastic, all-permeant soul, As it shapes and it moulds, And its virtue unfolds, In the garden of things as they grow. And flings forth the tide Of its strength far and wide, In wonders above and below. Thou huge-heaving sea That art speaking to me Of the power and the pride of a God, I would travel like thee With force fresh and free Through the breadth of my human abode, Never languid and low. But with bountiful flow. Of thoughts that are kindred to God ; Ever surging and streaming. Ever beaming and gleaming, Like the lights as they shift on thy glass, Ever swelling and heaving. And largely receiving The beauty of things as they pass. Thou broad-billowed sea Never sundered from thee May I wander the welkin below ; JOHN STUART BLACKIE Br May the plash and the roar Of thy waves on the shore Beat the march to my feet as they go ; Ever strong, ever free, When the breath of the sea Like the fan of an angel I know ; Ever rising with power. To the call of the hour. Like the swell of thy tides as they flow. THE BOULDER Thou huge grey stone upon the heath, With lichens crusted well, I marvel much, if thou found breath, What story thou would'st tell. Oft wandering o'er the birch-grown hill, To hear the wild winds moan, I wonder still what chance or skill Hath pitched thee here alone. Where wert thou when Sire Adam first Drew his mischanceful breath, And in the bowers of bliss was cursed With everlasting death, Then when the damned fiend, who loves The mask of snake and toad, Crept into Paradisian groves, And stole Eve's heart from God ? 82 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Thee in some seaward glen, I ween, On sharp Loffodin's shore. In frozen folds of gleaming green The giant glacier bore. Then down the steep it harshly slid, Till, loosen'd from the high land, With wrench enorm its compact form Was launch'd, a floating island. Into the Artie deep. And thou, In its stark bosom buried. Through seas which huge Leviathians plough. To this South strand wert hurried. Then, from its cold close gripe unbound By summer's permeant breath. Thy wandering bulk a station found On this wide sandy heath. And here thy watch hath been, God knows How long, and what a strange Masque of Time's motley-shifting shows Hath known thee without change. Seas thou hast seen to dry land turned. And dry land turned to seas. And fiery cones that wildly burned, Where flocks now feed at ease. By thee the huge-limbed breathing things, Crude Earth's portentous race, Passed, and long lizard-shapes with wings Swept o'er thy weathered face. JOHN STUART BLACKIE • 83 To thee first came man's jaded limb From Eastern Babel far ; Around thee rose the Druid's hymn, And the cry of Celtic war. By thee the Roman soldier made The mountain-cleaving road, The Saxon boor beside thee strayed, The lordly Norman strode. The Papal monk thy measure took ; The proud priest triple-crowned Mumbled a blessing from his book, And claimed the holy ground. By thee the insolent Edward passed. When mad with eager greed, A bridge of law-spun lies he cast Across the Scottish Tweed. And thou that vengeful day didst know, When strong with righteous scorn Young Freedom rose, and smote the foe, At glorious Bannockburn. Thou saw'st when 'neath thy hoary shade Upon the old brown sod The plaided preacher sate, and made His fervent prayer to God, What time men tried by courtly art To trim, and craft of kings. The faith that soars from a people's heart And flaps untutored wings. 84 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Thou saw'st, from out old unkempt bowers, Huge peopled cities rise, / And merchant kings with stately towers Invade the troubled skies. Tliick rose the giant vents, that mar Heaven's lustrous blue domain, And whirling wheel and hissing car Disturb thy silent reign. And thou — but what thou yet may'st see The pious Muse witholds ; The curious art be far from me, To unroll Time's fateful folds. When Earth, that wheels on viewless wing, Is twenty centuries older, Some bard, where Scotland was, shall sing The story of the Boulder. MY SCOTCH LASSIE If I had the brush of angel, Dipt in colours rich and rare, I would paint with choicest limning My Scotch lassie fresh and fair. Fresh is she as dewy morning. Fair as blossom on the spray, Fragrant as the birch tree waving In the fresh breeze of the May. JOHN STUART BLACKIE ' 85 O my bright and blooming lassie ! Maids more stately well may be ; But no stateliest maiden ever Breathed a smile so sweet as she. O my bonnie blithe-faced lassie, Mild as bloom on hawthorn tree, Rich as June, and ripe as Autumn, Flower and fruit in one is she. Saw you ever cowslip warmer When the zephyrs came to woo ? Saw you bright-eyed speedwell peeping 'Neath the hedge with purer blue ? Warmer than her keen pulse keeping Time to all things true and good. Bluer than her blue eye swelling In young love's divinest mood ? Softer floats no plumy sea-gull Than her bosom's heaving charms, Swan on lake not whiter swimmeth Than the whiteness of her arms. If I had the brush of angel. Dipt in colours rich and rare — No ! no trick of brush or pigment Ever limned a form so fair. Let them limn who live in dreamland. Where the brain-born phantoms sway ; 86 THE SELECTED POEMS OF I have feasted on the substance, And the shadow pales away. I will not make dainty mockery With a painted thin display Of a life that breathes and burgeons With the fulness of the May. I will see my dear Scotch lassie In the ray that sweeps the hills, In the bright far-shimmering ocean, In the silver-flashing rills. I will see her where the wandering Bee sucks honey from the brae. Where the mavis to the mavis Pours his rich full-throated lay. I will feed upon the sweetness Of her presence near to me, And her wealth of grace that hangeth Like a peach upon a tree. I will live on the dear memory Of that hour of burning bliss, When she lent her lips and thrilled me With the rapture of her kiss ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 87 STUDENTS' MAY-SONG Blithe birds are singing now, Light clouds are winging now, Easter bells ringing now Anthems of glee ! Come from your dusty nooks, Fling away musty books. Hear how the lusty rooks Caw merrily ! List to the happy note. Trolled from the mavis' throat. Where breezy zephyrs float. Cradling the trees ! Broad seas are glancing, Bright waves are dancing. Light skiffs advancing With undulant ease ! All things are buoyant and bright with the May, All things rejoice in the fresh-streaming ray ; Come away ! Come away ! Come away ! Wilt thou be lagging now. Fretting and fagging now. Moping and groping. With down-drooping head ? Over the yellow leaf. Wasting thy summers brief. Building and gilding The bones of the dead ! 88 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Digging from mouldy graves, Old Greek and Roman knaves, Scratching and patching Their mummies to life ; Muddily diving, Thornily striving. Idly reviving Some foolish old strife. Deaf to the charm of the lusty-voiced May, Deaf to the call of sweet birds from the spray ; Come away ! Come away ! Come away ! Wilt thou be dreaming still. Restlessly teeming still With bubbles and troubles That rise from the brain ? Guessing and gaping. Theories shaping. Wondering, blundering. Ever in vain ? With thoughts never steady. With words ever ready. Spouting and routing, And troubling the pool ; Rushing in boldly, Cutting up coldly, Weighing, surveying. All things by a rule ! Burrowing blindly far from the day. Deaf to the sweet birds that call from the spray ; Come away ! Come away ! Come away ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 89 Come where the mountain high Cleaveth the mottled sky, Where white clouds lightly fly Dappling the noon ! Where the lone mountain tarn, Fringed by the plumy fern, Shimmers and glimmers Beneath the pale moon ; Where the green birchen spray "Weaves o'er the cliffy way, Fragrantly, vagrantly. Skirting the Ben ; And the flood roaring free. Bubbling with foamy glee, Gushes and rushes And leaps to the glen ! Where winter's cold cerements are bursting away. And Zephyrs are piping the birth hymn of INlay, Come away ! Come away ! Come away ! Where the wide leafy bower, Sprouting with snowy flower. Richly with drooping power. Nods o'er the lea ; And the brook slowly wandering, Broadly meandering, Lispingly, crispingly. Creeps to the sea ! Where crown, bell, and starlet. White, purple, and scarlet, Loosely, profusely, Spread over the mead ; 90 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Where the white lambs are playing And reeling and swaying, I'he bee goes a-Maying With light buzzing speed ; Where Nature is vested in light from the May, And all things with vegetive splendour are gay, Come away ! Come away ! Come away ! Come where broad seas of light. Flooding with noiseless might, Sweep with new glory bright O'er earth and sky ! Wilt thou be lurking then, Owlishly far from men, Dark in this musty den, Blinding thine eye ? Not from dry learning's mine, Not from dead printed line. Gushes the lore divine Living to thee ; Shake rusty bonds away, Leap into open day. Wander in face of May, Bravely with me ; Things that were dead shall be quickened to-day, Touched with new transport of life from the May, Come away ! Come away ! Come away ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 91 ADVICE TO A FAVOURITE STUDENT ON LEAVING COLLEGE Dear youth, grey books no blossoms bear ; Thou hast enough of learning ; For life's green fields thy march prepare, And take my friendly warning. I would not have thee longer stay, To read of other's striving ; Wield thine own arm ! — the only way To know life is by living. The brain's a small part of a man ; Though thought has wide dominions, Thou canst not lift the smallest stone By Speculation's pinions. Who learns an art by lifeless rule. Through mists will still be blinking ; The subtlest thinker is a fool. Who spins mere webs of thinking. The times are feverish ; mark me well ! Have faith and patience by thee ; Unless thou curl into thy shell, Thou'lt find enough to try thee. But that's a weak device. I know Thou'lt face it free and fearless ; But O ! beware the greater foe, A spirit proud and prayerless ! 92 THE SELECTED POEMS OF I love a bold and venturous boy, Who, full of fresh emotion, Launches with large and liberal joy On life's wide-rolling ocean. But there are rocks ; and blind to steer Were thoughtless folly's merit : Curb thou thy force with holy fear. And keep a watchful spirit. Where eager crowds contend for pelf, The seller and the buyer, Each one free range seeks for himself, And cares for nothing higher. Make honey in an ordered hive, Nor join the lawless scramble Of men, with whom in life to thrive Is with good luck to gamble. We live in days when all would climb With hot, high-strung employment ; Some rage in prose, some writhe in rhyme, All hate a calm enjoyment. Freedom's the watchword of the hour ; But O ! tis melancholy When every bubbling brain has power To drown calm thought with folly ! The age is full of talkers. Thou Be silent for a season, Till slowly-ripening facts shall grow Into a stable reason. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 93 Pert witlings fling crude fancies round, As wanton whim conceits them, Pleased when from fools the echoed sound Of their own folly greets them. Nurse thou, where eager babble spreads, A quiet brooding nature, Nor strive, by lopping taller heads, To raise thy lesser stature. Eschew the cavilling critic's art, The lust of loud reproving ; The brain by knowledge grows, the heart Is larger made by loving. All things we cannot know. At sea As when a good ship saileth, Our steps within the planks are free, Beyond all cunning faileth. So man as by a living bond Of circling powers is bounded ; Within the line is ours, beyond The sharpest wit's confounded. What thing thou knowest, nicely know With curious fine dissection ; The smallest mite can something show That chains thy rapt inspection. AUwhere with holy caution move. In God thy life is moving ; All things with reverent patience prove, 'Tis God's will thou art proving. 94 THE SELECTED POEMS OF What thing thou doest, bravely do ; When Heaven's clear call hath found thee, Follow ! — with fervid wheels pursue, Though thousands bray around thee ! Yet keep thy zeal in rein ; depise No gentle preparation ; Flash not God's truth on blinking eyes, With reckless inspiration ! Farewell, my brave, my bright-eyed boy ! And from the halls of learning, Thy face, my long familiar joy, Take, with this friendly warning. And when with weighty truth thou'rt fraught From life, the earnest preacher, Think sometimes with a kindly thought On me, thy faithful teacher. VACATION ODE (Read at the end of the Winter Session of the Greek Classes, Edinburgh.) Ye sons of learned toil. Who with hard purpose moil O'er grammar's thorny ways, and heaps of dusty tomes. Your posts are run. Be free, And with unchartered glee Sport where the springy foot o'er lush green meadow roams ^ JOHN STUART BLACKIE . 95 Not from the gaunt array Of mouldy parchments grey, Drops the fine dew that slakes the knowledge-thirst- ing soul ! But where from blade and spray Glances the fresh green May, And rose-tipt flowerets blow, and lucid waters roll. Rise, and no more be vext From harsh disjointed text, With learned strain to wrench the dubious-worded lore ! Up ! and redeem your sight With Heaven's broad-streaming light, And pictured skies, and plains with beauty dappled o'er ! And let the genial note That through green woods doth float From viewless cuckoo, win your rapt ear's wise regard, More than the cunning chime Of curious-builded rhyme From craft of smooth-lipped Greek, or deep-mouthed Roman bard. Let roar of foaming floods. And breath of growing woods, Wave round you with more joy than flags of conquer- ing kings ! Nor let your dull thought go With painful pace and slow. When every bursting grove with twittering gladness rings ! 96 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Not wise who stern refuse With gracious hand to use The chance-sown sport, stray whim, and random- started joy ; In many a shifting mood, With gamesome lustihood, Quaint Nature respite finds from life's severe employ. You to familiar halls A father's voice recalls. And tells your virtues' roll with broad benignant pride ; While eager at the gate A mother's love doth wait To gain her laurelled boy back to her careful side. And troops of sisters fair. Whose smiles make blithe the air. And rings of lusty boys, with merry sun-brown faces, These wait your skill to guide Their steps by mountain side, To lone green glens remote, and strange old castled places ! Now home ! You need no goad From me on such a road ; Your native steam will urge this taskless travel duly ; And may God love you so. Your strength through weal and woe, As I did love you well, and strove to serve you truly ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE " 97 A SONG FOR THE ROAD, AND A RULE FOR THE LIFE A SONG for the road, and a rule for the life, Receive from a lusty old man, Tom ; Fear God, and march on, and make war to the knife, When the enemy crosses your plan, Tom. For Life's a campaign ; then foot it apace. There are dangers enough in your track, Tom ; Still keep a sharp out-look, and show a bold face. Or the foe will be soon on your back, Tom ! For this is true wisdom, I wish you to know, Sail close to the wind when you tack, Tom ! We live, while we live, by the pluck that we show, And if we don't stand, we must flee from the foe And fall with a stab in the back, Tom ! You see yon huge Ben that runs up to the sky. So ruggedly grand and sublime, Tom ; A staircase so steep, you think, would defy The cat o' the mountain to climb, Tom ! But, 'tis all a delusion — just wisely survey With your eye, and then take it aslant, Tom, And you'll find what they say, that you can't find a way. Is a tissue of cowardly cant, Tom. For this, etc. The worst of all words in the language is — But, For whatever you purpose or plan, Tom, This weak monosyllable comes in to cut The sinews that make you a man, Tom. G 98 THE SELECTED POEMS OF 'Tis noble to dare, but not pleasant at all A lion to meet, where you fare, Tom ; It may suit you to ride, but a. rider may fall. So you sit and you rot in your chair, Tom For this, etc. Some people's devotion delights in this notion Of heaven, that when we get there, Tom, We'll have nothing to do but to float in the blue. And pipe a psalm tune in the air, Tom ! If 'tis so in the sky, we shall know by-and-by. But on earth 'tis much otherwise now, Tom, Where the battle we fight brings a keener delight Than the laurels we wear on the brow, Tom. For this, etc. The end of all living is simply to live, Is what Aristotle would say, Tom ; And form to the formless by labour to give Is to live the most excellent way, Tom ! A moth in the sunbeam may flutter an hour. To flutter is all that it can, Tom ; But to fashion great thoughts into deeds is the dower God gave to high-reasoning man, Tom ! For this, etc. If you shrink from no danger where valour avails. There's nothing can stand in your way, Tom ; You may start, like stout Lincoln, a splitter of rails, And be king of the people some day, Tom. The Romans were lords of the sea and the land, And what was the reason of that, Tom ? JOHN STUART BLACKIE ' 99 At the word of command, they marched on sword in hand, And they laid all their enemies flat, Tom. For this, etc. My sermon is done — still rejoice in the toils That the travel of life may attend, Tom. Put foot after foot ; never number the miles ; You will know when you come to the end, Tom ! Fear God ; every atom takes rank at His call ; For the world is no rope of sand, Tom ; Link hangs upon link ; and 'tis profit to all That each march at the word of command, Tom. For this is true wisdom, I wish you to know, Sail close to the wind when you tack, Tom ! We live, while we live, by the pluck that we show, And if we don't stand, we must flee from the foe, And fall with a stab in the back, Tom ! A SONG OF SUMMER * Always in your darkest hours strive to remember your brightest.' J. P. RiCHTER Sing me a song of Summer, For my heart is wintry sad. That glorious bright new-comer. Who makes all Nature glad ! Sing me a song of Summer, That the dark from the bright may borrow, And the part in the radiant whole of things May drown its little sorrow ! loo THE SELECTED POEMS OF Sing me a song of Summer, When God walks forth in light, And spreads his glowing mantle O'er the blank and the grey of the night ; And where he comes, his quickening touch Revives the insensate dead, And the numbed and frozen pulse of things Beats music to his tread. Sing me a song of Summer, With his banners of golden bloom. That glorious bright new-comer, Who bears bleak winter's doom, With banners of gold and of silver, And wings of rosy display, And verdurous power in his path. When he comes in the pride of the May ; When he comes with his genial sweep O'er the barren and bare of the scene, And makes the stiff earth to wave With an ocean of undulant green ; With flourish of leafy expansion, And boast of luxuriant bloom. And the revel of life as it triumphs O'er the dust and decay of the tomb Sing me a song of Summer ; O God ! what a glorious thing Is the march of this mighty new-comer With splenpour of Ufe on his wing ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE loi When he quickens the pulse of creation, And maketh all feebleness strong, Till it spreads into blossoms of beauty, And burst into paeans of song ! Sing me a song of Summer ! Though my heart be wintry and sad, The thought of this blessed new-comer Shall foster the germ of the glad. 'Neath the veil of my grief let me cherish The joy that shall rush into day, When the bane of the winter shall perish In the pride and the power of the May. FAREWELL TO SUMMER (Written at Oban) I HEARD the whistling North wind say When it came down with power, Athwart the russet ferny brae. And by the old grey tower : I heard the whistling North wind say. Bright Summer suns no more Shall shine on Oban's dimpled bay, And green Dunolly's shore. I saw a fox- glove in the dell Beneath the crag so grey, One lonely, lean, belated bell, And thus it seemed to say : 102 THE SELECTED POEMS OF The glory of the June is past, My purple kin are gone, And I am left a poor outcast To die in the cold alone ! I saw the long black ragged cloud O'ercap the frowning Bens, And trails of thick blue mist enshroud The green far-gleaming glens ; And thus the black cloud seemed to say. Now Summer suns are dim. The stout old Winter holds his sway. And I will reign with him. And is it so ? — brightest of things, God's beauty-vested Summer, Shall it depart on hasty wings That was so late a comer, And I who lived with fragrant breeze, Blue skies, and purple braes. On hueless flowers and leafless trees Must feed my widowed gaze ? It may not be : up ! let us go ! I will not stay and look Where gorgeous Nature's pictured show Is now a blotted book. Let Nature die ! She'll live again When six dull months expire ; Meanwhile against both wind and rain Heap we the blazing fire, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 103 Snug in the chambered town ! and call My troup of friends together, And for six months let no word fall Of Nature, wind, or weather ; And ply the work of thought or art That helps both self and neighbour, And sing with glad and guileless heart The song that seasons labour. And bring the grey tomes from the shelves And learn strong will from Cato. And take high value of ourselves From lofty-thoughted Plato : And, while with friendly cheer we pass The rare, rich-blooded bottle. Give learned flavour to the glass By saws from Aristotle ! And then we'll talk of Church and State, And wish the hangman's rope To wed their necks to righteous Fate Who love the Roman Pope ! And blame the loons who gave the sway To the mere polled majority, With clamorous yells to overbray The voice of grave authority. And then, — why then, we'll go to bed, And wake, above all sorrow Of factious brawls to lift our head. By faithful work to-morrow, — I04 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Work through long weeks of blustering storm. And winter's gloomy reign, Till the great pulse of things grow warm, And Nature lives again. And suns shall shine, and birds shall sing, And odorous breezes blow. And ferns uncurl their folded wing Where star-eyed flowerets grow ; And surly blasts shall cease to bray. And stormy seas to roar On Oban's warm sun-fronting bay, And green Dunolly's shore. A SONG OF THE COUNTRY (Written near Witley, in Surrey) Away from the roar and the rattle. The dust and the din of the town. Where to live is to brawl and to battle, Till the strong treads the weak man down Away to the bonnie green hills Where the sunshine sleeps on the brae. And the heart of the greenwood thrills To the hymn of the bird on the spray. Away from the smoke and the smother, The veil of the dun and the brown, The push and the plash and the pother. The wear and the waste of the town ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 105 Away where the sky shines clear, And the hght breeze wanders at will, And the dark pine-wood nods near To the light-plumed birch on the hill. Away from the whirling and wheeling, And steaming above and below, Where the heart has no leisure for feeling, And the thought has no quiet to grow. Away where the clear brook purls, And the hyacinth droops in the shade, . And the wing of the fern uncoils Its grace in the depth of the glade. Away to the cottage so sweetly Embowered 'neath the fringe of the wood, Where the wife of my bosom shall meet me With thoughts ever kindly and good. More dear than the wealth of the world. Fond mother with bairnies three. And the plump-armed babe that has curled Its lips sweetly pouting for me. Then away from the war and the rattle The dust and the din of the town, Where to live is to brawl and to battle Till the strong treads the weak man down. Away where the green twigs nod In the fragrant breath of the May, And the sweet growth spreads on the sod, And the blithe birds sing on the spray. io6 THE SELECTED POEMS OF THE MUSICAL FROGS * Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! O happy happy frogs ! How sweet ye sing ! Would God that I Upon the bubbhng pool might lie, And sun myself to-day With you ! No curtained bride, I ween, Nor pillowed babe, nor cushioned queen, Nor tiny fay on emerald green. Nor silken lady gay, Lies on a softer couch. O Heaven ! How many a lofty mortal, riven By keen-fanged inflammation. Might change his lot with yours, to float On sunny pond with bright green coat, And sing with gently throbbing throat Amid the croaking nation, Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! O happy happy frogs ! Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! O happy happy frogs ! Happy the bard who weaves his rhyme Recumbent on the purple thyme. In the fragrant month of June ; * Some dozen or more years ago, while living at Liebenstein, a German hydropathic establishment in Sachse-Meiningen, I took a stroll across the country on a hot summer's day ; when coming near some low marshy ground I became aware of a concert of soft musical notes, floating up gently from the pools of water among the reeds. Never having heard anything of the kind before, I went close up to the brink of the water, and soon found that this most sweet discourse came from a colony of green frogs. Their music made such an impression on me, that on the way back to my water-quarters I wrote some lines as a memor- andum of the event, and as a sample of the philosophy of enjoy- ment, in which frogs belike are sometimes wiser than men. — ^J.S.B. I JOHN STUART BLACKIE 107 Happy the sage, whose lofty mood Doth with far-searching ken intrude Into the vast infinitude Of things beyond the moon ; But happier not the wisest man Whose daring thought leads on the van Of star-eyed speculation, Than thou, quick-legged, light-bellied thing, Within the green pond's reedy ring, That with a murmurous joy dost sing Among the croaking nation, Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! O happy happy frogs ! Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! O happy happy frogs ! Great Jove with dark clouds sweeps the sky. Where thunders roll and lightnings fly. And gusty winds are roaring ; Fierce Mars his stormy steed bestrides, And, lashing wild its bleeding sides. O'er dead and dying madly rides, Where the iron hail is pouring. 'Tis well ; such crash of mighty Powers Must be : the spell may not be ours To tame the hot creation. But little frogs with paddling foot Can sing when gods and kings dispute. And little bards can strum the lute Amid the croaking nation. With Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! O happy happy frogs ! .o8 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! O happy happy frogs ! Farewell ! not always I may sing Around the green pond's reedy ring With you, ye boggy Muses ! But I must go and do stern battle With herds of stiff-necked human cattle, Whose eager lust of windy prattle The gentle rein refuses. O if! — but all such ifs are vain ; I'll go and blow my trump again, With brazen iteration : And when, by Logic's iron rule, I've quashed each briskly babbling fool, I'll seek again your gentle school, And hum beside the tuneful pool Amid the croaking nation, Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! O happy happy frogs ! THE SONG OF MRS JENNY GEDDES Air — ' British Grenadiers ' Some praise the fair Queen Mary, and some the good Queen Bess, And some the wise Aspasia, beloved by Pericles ; But o'er all the world's brave women there's one that bears the rule. The valiant Jenny Geddes, that flung the four-legged stool. With a row-dinv — at them now !— Jenny fling the stool I JOHN STUART BLACKIE 109 *Twas the twenty-third of July, in the sixteen thirty- seven, On Sabbath morn from high St Giles', the solemn peal was given : King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed rule ; He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool. With a roiv-doiv — yes^ I trow ! — there's danger in a stool ! The Council and the Judges, with ermined pomp elate, The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state. Fair silken-vested ladies, grave Doctors of the school, Were there to please the King, and learn the virtue of a stool. With a row-dow — yes^ I trow ! — the?'e^s virtue i7i a stool ! The Bishop and the Dean came wi' mickle gravity. Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e'e ; Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny pool ; They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a stool. With a row-dow — yes^ I trow ! — theyUlfeel a four-legged stool I The Dean he to the altar went, and, wi' a solemn look. He cast his eyes to heaven, then read the curious- printed book ; no THE SELECTED POEMS OF In Jenny's heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full; Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool ! With a row-dow — at them now ! — -firmly grasp the stool ! As when a mountain cat springs upon a rabbit small. So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall ; Wilt thou say the mass at my lug, thou Popish-pulifig fool? No ! no ! she said, and at his head she flung the four- legged stool. With a row-dow — at them now I — -Jenny fling the stool I A bump, a thump ! a smash, a crash ! now gentle folks beware ! Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the air. With, Well done, Jenny ! bravo, Jenny ! that's the proper tool ! When the Deil will out, and shows his snout, just meet him with a stool. With a roiv-dow — at them now ! — there's nothing like a stool I The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear, The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear. The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool, And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool ! With a row-dow — at them noiv ! — Jen7iy show the stool I ^ JOHN STUART BLACKIE iii And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny's valiant hand, Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land; King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a pedant-fool, But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool ! IVt'f/i a row-dow — yes^ I trow I — she conquered by the stool ! MOMENTS In the beauty of life's budding, When young pulses beat with hope, And a purple light is flooding Round thought's blossoms as they ope ; When the poet's song is dearest. And, where sacred anthems swell, Every word of power thou hearest Holds thy spirit like a spell ; O these are moments, fateful moments, Big with issue — use them well ! When a sudden gust hath tumbled Hope's bright architecture down ; When some prouder fair hath humbled Thy proud passion with a frown ; When thy dearest friends deceive thee, And cold looks thy love repel, 112 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And the bitter humours grieve thee, That make God's fair earth a hell ; O these are moments, trying moments. Meant to try thee — use them well ! When a flash of truth hath found thee, Where thy foot in darkness trod. When thick clouds dispart around thee. And thou standest nigh to God. When a noble soul comes near thee. In whom kindred virtues dwell. That from faithless doubts can clear thee, And with strengthening love compel ; O these are moments, rare fair moments ; Sing and shout, and use them well ! When a haughty threat hath cowed thee. And with weak, unmanly shame. Ignoble thou hast bowed thee To the terror of a name ; And then God holds the mirror Where thy better self doth dwell, And thou dost start with terror, And thy tears gush like a well ; O these are moments, blessed moments ; Weep and pray, and use them well ! In the pride of thy succeeding. When, beneath thy high command. Every soul must own the leading Of thy strong controlling hand ; When wide ch^.ers of acclamation Round thy march of triumph swell, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 113 And the plaudits of a nation Every thought of fear expel ; O these are moments, slippery moments ; Watch and pray, and use them well ! When the term of life hath found thee, And thou smilest upon Fate, And the golden sheaves around thee For the angels' sickle wait ; When the pure love thou achievest Doth the mortal pang expel, And a shining track thou leavest To dear friends that love thee well ; O these are moments, happy moments ; Bless God, with whom all issues dwell ! SABBATH HYMN ON THE MOUNTAINS Praise ye the Lord ! Not in the temple of shapeliest mould, Polished with marble and gleaming with gold, Piled upon pillars of slenderest grace, But here in the blue sky's luminous face Praise ye the Lord ! Praise ye the Lord ! Not where the organ's melodious wave Dies 'neath the rafters that narrow the nave. But here with the free wind's wandering sweep, Here with the billow that booms from the deep. Praise ye the Lord ! H 114 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Praise ye the Lord ! Not where the pale-faced multitudes meet In the sweltering lane and the dun-visaged street, But here where bright ocean, thick sown with green isles. Feeds the glad eye with a harvest of smiles, Praise ye the Lord ! Praise ye the Lord ! Here where the strength of the old granite Ben Towers o'er the greens warded grace of the glen. Where the birch flings its fragrance abroad on the hill. And the bee o'er the heather-bloom wanders at will, Praise ye the Lord ! Praise ye the Lord ! Here where the loch, the dark mountain's fair daughter, Down the red scaur flings the white-streaming water. Leaping and tossing and swirling for ever Down to the bed of the smooth-rolling river. Praise ye the Lord ! Praise ye the Lord ! Not where the voice of a preacher instructs you, Not where the hand of a mortal conducts you, But where the bright welkin in scripture of glory Blazons Creation's miraculous story, Praise ye the Lord ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 115 Praise ye the Lord ! The wind and the welkin, the sun and the river, Weaving a tissue of wonders for ever ; The mead and the mountain, the flower and the tree, What is their pomp but a vision of Thee, Wonderful Lord ? Praise ye the Lord ! Not in the square-hewn, many-tiered pile, Not in the long-drawn, dim-shadowed aisle. But where the vast world, with age never hoary. Flashes His brightness and thunders His glory, Praise ye the Lord ! LAWS OF NATURE The fool hath in his heart declared, — by laws Since time began. Blind and without intelligential cause, Or reasoned plan. All things are ruled. I from this lore dissent. With sorrowful shame That reasoning men such witless wit should vent In reason's name. O Thou that o'er this lovely world hast spread Thy jocund light. Weaving with flowers beneath, and stars o'erhead This tissue bright ii6 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Of living powers, clear Thou my sense, that I May ever find In all the marshalled pomp of earth and sky The marshalling mind ! Laws are not powers ; nor can the well-timed courses Of earths and moons Ring to the stroke of blind unthinking forces Their jarless tunes. Wiser were they who in the flaming vault The circling sun Beheld, and in his ray, with splendid fault, Worshipped the one Eye of the universe that seeth all, And shapeth sight In man and moth through curious visual ball With fine delight. A blessed beam, on whose refreshful might, Profusely shed Eight times ten years, with ever young delight Mine eye hath fed, Still let me love thee, and with wonder new. By flood and field. Worship the fair, and consecrate the true By thee revealed ! And loving thee, beyond thee love that first Father of Lights From whom the ray vivific marvellous burst, Might of all mights, Whose thought is order, and whose will is law. That man is wise Who worships God wide-eyed, with cheerful awe And chaste surprise. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 117 BENEDICITE Angels holy, High and lowly, Sing the praises of the Lord ! Earth and sky, all living nature, Man, the stamp of thy Creator, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord I Sun and moon bright. Night and noonlight. Starry temples azure-floored, Cloud and rain, and wild winds' madness, Breeze that floats with genial gladness. Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord ! Ocean hoary. Tell His glory, Cliff's, where tumbling seas have roared ! Pulse of waters blithely beating, Wave advancing, wave retreating, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord ! Rock and high land. Wood and island, Crag where eagle's pride hath soared, Mighty mountains purple-breasted, Peaks cloud-heaving, snowy-crested, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord ! ii8 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Rolling river, Praise Him ever, From the mountain's deep-vein poured ; Silver fountain clearly gushing, Troubled torrent madly rushing, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord ! Bond and free man. Land and sea man, Earth with peoples widely stored. Wanderer lone o'er prairies ample, Full-voiced choir in costly temple, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord ! Praise Him ever, Bounteous Giver ! Praise Him, Father, Friend, and Lord ! Each glad soul its free course winging, Each blithe voice its free song singing, Praise the great and mighty Lord ! * CREEDS AND CANARIES I HAD a sweet canary bird. Whose little wing was never stirred Beyond the wires around it ; I looked upon my dainty bird. And, while I looked, my heart was stirred To think that pretty prisoned thing May never flap its native wing Beyond the bars that bound it ! * (Set to the air Alles Schweige, also set to music by Mr W. H. Jude and by A. S. W.). JOHN STUART BLACKIE . 119 I went and ope'd the little door, And looked ; but, sooth, I wondered sore To see my small canary : With jerking head and pecking bill, Within the wires it tarried still, And had no lust abroad to spring, And flit about with ransomed wing In ample range and airy ! Well, well ! quoth I, 'tis plain to see You have no notion to be free, So stay within your cage now ! And yet, methinks you are no fool, And, safely bound by customed rule, You wisely shun a larger home, Where cats and deathful dogs may roam, If you should leave your cage now ! If birds are wise, men are not fools, For they too have their customed rules And pretty gilded cages ; And, should you wish to make them free, Just ope the door, and you will see No folded wing they 'gin to stir, But much the prudent ease prefer Of their own gilded cages. The lawyer and the grave D.D., Who find strong bond of unity In old time-hallowed pages, 120 THE SELECTED POEMS OF With sanctioned text and hoary creed And fond tradition serve their need, And live as safe and shielded well As lobsters in close mailed shell, Or birds in gilded cages. And, though you make a dusty din, They wrap them closer in their skin. And con their ancient lessons ; And they are wise ; for who can tell What risks may lurk and dangers fell To helmless souls all tossed about In seas of drivel and of doubt. Unmoored from old Confessions ? HYMN Air—' Belmont ' FOR a heart from self set free. And doubt and fret, and care, 1 jght as a bird, instinct with glee, That fans the breezy air ! O for a mind whose virtue moulds All sensuous fair display. And, like a strong commander, holds A world of thoughts in sway ! O for an eye that's clear to see, A hand that waits on Fate, To pluck the ripe fruit from the tree, And never comes too late ! V JOHN STUART BLACKIE 121 O for a life with firm-set root, And breadth of leafy green, And flush of blooming wealth, and fruit That glows with mellow sheen ! O for a death from sharp alarms And bitter memories free : A gentle death in God's own arms, Whose dear Son died for me ! A SONG OF FATHERLAND BY A TRAVELLER Air — ' Ho ! are ye sleeping, Maggie ? ' I've wandered east, I've wandered west, In gipsy-wise a random roamer ; Of men and minds I've known the best. Like that far-travelled king in Homer. But O ! for the land that bore me, O ! for the stout old land, Of breezy Ben and winding glen. And roaring flood and sounding strand ! I've seen the domes of Moscow far. In green and golden glory gleaming ; And stood where sleeps the mighty Czar, By Neva's flood so grandly streaming. But O ! etc. 122 THE SELECTED POEMS OF I've stood on many a storied spot, Where blood of heroes flowed Uke rivers, Where Deutschland rose at Gravelotte, And dashed the strength of Gaul to shivers. But O ! etc. I've stood where stands in pillared pride, The shrine of Jove's spear-shaking daughter, And humbled Persia stained the tide Of free Greek seas with heaps of slaughter. But O ! etc. I've stood upon the rocky crest, Where Jove's proud eagle spreads his pinion, Where looked the God far east, far west, And all he saw was Rome's dominion. But O ! etc. I've fed my eyes by land and sea. With sights of grandeur streaming o'er me. But still my heart remains with thee. Dear Scottish land, that stoutly bore me. O ! for the land that bore me, O ! for the stout old land. With mighty Ben, and winding glen, Stout Scottish land, my own dear land ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 123 HAIL, LAND OF MY FATHERS ! Hail, land of my fathers ! I stand on thy shore, 'Neath the broad-fronted bluffs of thy granite once more; Old Scotland, my mother, the rugged, the bare, That reared me with breath of the strong mountain air. No more shall I roam where soft indolence lies 'Neath the cloudless repose of the featureless skies. But where the white mist sweeps the red-furrowed scaur, I will fight with the storm and grow strong by the war ! What boots all the blaze of the sky and the billow, Where manhood must rot on inglorious pillow ? Tis the blossom that blooms from the taint of the grave, 'Tis the glitter that gildeth the bonds of the slave. But, Scotland, stern mother, for struggle and toil Thou trainest thy children on hard, rocky soil ; And thy stiff-purposed heroes go conquering forth, With the strength that is bred by the blasts of the north. Hail, Scotland, my mother ! and welcome the day When again I shall brush the bright dew from the brae. And, light as a bird, give my foot to the heather. My hand to my staff, and my face to the weather ; 124 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Then climb to the peak where the ptarmigan flies, Or stand by the linn where the salmon will rise, And vow never more with blind venture to roam From the strong land that bore me — my own Scottish home. CAPPED AND DOCTORED AND A' A SONG OF DEGREES FOR THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH Air — ' Woo'd and Married and a' ' I YiNCE was a light-headed laddie, A dreaming and daundering loon. Just escaped from the rod o' my daddie, And the skirts o' my mither's broun goun. But now I cut loftier capers, And the beer that I drink is nae sma'. When I see my ane name in the papers, Capped and Doctored and a'. Capped and Doctored and a', Doctored and Capped and a' ! Right sure 'tis a beautiful thing To be Capped and Doctored and a' ! My parish I wadna besmutch Wi' words that look heartless and hard ; But I knew there of life just as much, As a hen in the farmer's kail yard. I got a good tailor to suit me, My feet were richt decently shod ; JOHN STUART BLACKIE 125 But the smell o' the peat was about me, And my manners were awkward and odd ! Capped and Doctored and a', Doctored and Capped and a', I'm as proud as a Pope or a King, To be Capped and Doctored and a' ! Frae the school I came up to the College, As a calf comes up to a cow ; Wi' a wonderful thirst for all knowledge, And scraps of learning a few ! Through Virgil I stoutly could hammer, A book, or it may be twa ; And Greek, just a taste o' the grammar. To look better than naething ava ! Capped and Doctored and a'. Doctored and Capped and a' ! I'm as proud as a Pope or a King, To be Capped and Doctored and a' ! A wonderful place is the College ; I felt like a worm getting wings, When I heard the great mill-wheel of knowledge Turn round with all possible things ! A marvellous place is the College ; Professor's a marvellous man. To find for such mountains of knowledge Such room in a single brain-pan ! Capped and Doctored and a', Doctored and Capped and a' ! I feel like a bird on the wing. When I'm Capped and Doctored and a' ! 126 THE SELECTED POEMS OF All races and peoples and nations Were lodged in that wonderful brain ; Proud systems and big speculations, All possible things to explain. All creatures at various stages, From mollusc and monkey to man. Through millions of billions of ages. That make up life's wonderful plan ! Capped and Doctored and a', Doctored and Capped and a' ! It gives one a wonderful swing To be Capped and Doctored and a' ! I confess I was glamoured at first — Looked round wi' a stupid surprise ; But from session to session their burst New light on my widening eyes : I could talk of attraction and force. Of motion and mind and matter ; And thought it a thing quite of course. When phosphorus burnt in the water. Capped and Doctored and a', Doctored and Capped and a' ! The lad has the genuine ring Who is Capped and Doctored and a'. My logic is lithe as an eel. My philosophy deep as a well ; My rhetoric spins like a wheel, My Greek for a Scot pretty well. Of my Bible I know quite enough. Not, like Chalmers, to preach and to pray, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 127 But to give a glib fool a rebuff, And to keep the black devil at bay ! Capped and Doctored and a', Doctored and Capped and a' ! I leap and I dance and I sing, Now Capped and Doctored and a' ! You may ca' me a lean, lanky student, A chicken new out o' the shell ; But with time, if I'm patient and prudent, I may be Professor mysel'. My head with citations well stocket, I may sit in the chair at my ease, With a thousand a year in my pocket. And six months to do what I please. I'll know how to find my own place In the world, with great and with sma' ; And I'll no be the last in the race. Being Capped and Doctored and a' ! Then fill your glasses, my boys, Let mirth and jollity sway ! 'Tis fit with my friends to rejoice, When I'm Capped and Doctored to-day ! This night may not stupidly pass With beer, or coffee, or tea ; But of champagne a bright sparkling glass Shall foam to my noble degree ! Brim your glasses, my boys ! In the Church, or it may be the law, Tom Tidy will yet make a noise. Being Capped and Doctored an a' I 128 THE SELECTED POEMS OF A SONG OF GOOD GREEKS Air — ' Seit Vater Noah in Becher goss ' Since Martin Luther the ink-horn threw, Which worked the Devil much woe, The power of Greek in Europe grew, And groweth and ever shall grow ; For never was language at all, So magical-swelling. So spirit-compelling, As Homer rolled, In billows of gold, And Plato, and Peter, and Paul. Etruscan, Hebrew, and Sanscrit are dead. And Latin will die with the Pope, But Greek still blooms like a thymy bed. On brown Hymettus' slope ; For never was language at all. That billowed so grandly. And flowed out so blandly, And never will die Till men deny The faith both of Plato and Paul. Who'll buy my wares, my old Greek wares ? Here's Homer, who sang of old Troy, A sunny sprite all robed in light. And crowned with beauty and joy ; JOHN STUART BLACKIE 129 For surely no minstrel at all E'er poured such a river, Of verses that never Will cease to flow, While men shall know The Gospel of Peter and Paul. Who'll buy my wares, my old Greek wares ? Here's Pindar, the eagle sublime. Who soars where Jove's red lightning flares, And his awful thunders chime ; For never was poet at all. In boxing and racing, And pedigree-tracing. So learned as he. And worthy to be Canonised both with Peter and Paul. Who'll buy my wares ? here's Socrates, Who first by logical spell From Olympus' crown brought wisdom down. With mortal men to dwell ; And sure never sage was at all, Who mingled sound reason With such pleasant season Of mirth and fun. And died like one Well gospelled by Peter and Paul. Who'll buy my wares, my old Greek wares ? Here's Plato will pass for a god, I 130 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Who for new worlds new men prepares, On a plan both pleasant and odd ; For sure never sage was at all So loftily soaring, So lavishly pouring Of nectar fine, The draught divine, Only second to Peter and Paul. Who'll buy my wares, my old Greek wares ? Here's Aristotle, the wise, Who sniffs about with learned snout, And scans with critical eyes ; And sure never sage was at all So crammed with all knowledge, A walking college. Who many things knew, I tell you true, Unknown both to Peter and Paul ! Who'll buy my wares, my old Greek wares ? Here's mighty Demosthenes, who. When traitors sold fair Greece for gold. Alone stood faithful and true ; For sure never man was at all Who flung his oration With such fulmination Of scorching power 'Gainst the sins of the hour. Like epistles of Peter and Paul. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 131 Who'll buy my wares, my old Greek wares ? Here's Zeno, Cleanthes, and all, Who set their face, with a manly grace, To follow where duty might call ; For sure never men were at all So steeled in all virtue That flesh may be heir to, And ready to die, With never a sigh, For the truth, just like Peter and Paul. Who'll buy my wares, my old Greek wares ? Here's Proclus, Plotinus, and all, Who clomb on Plato's golden stairs To the super-celestial hall ; And sure never men were at all Who lived so devoutly. And grappled so stoutly With flesh and blood, And tramped in the mud The Devil, like Peter and Paul. Come, buy my wares, each learned elf. Who culls Parnassian herbs, And swears by Liddell and Scott, and Jelf, And Veitch's irregular verbs ! For this I declare to you all, Greek gives you a station Sublime with the nation Of gods above. All hand and glove With Plato, and Peter, and Paul. 132 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Of all the thoughtful sons of Time, The Greeks were wisest, that's clear ; The Germans preach a lore sublime, But it smells of tobacco and beer ; And this I declare to you all, Though Kant, and such fellows Know something, they tell us, They never will do To tie the shoe To Plato, or Peter, or Paul. Some think that man from a monkey grew By steps of long generation, When, after many blunders, a few Good hits were made in creation ; But I can't comprehend this at all ; Of blind-groping forces Though Darwin discourses, I rather incline To believe in design. With Plato, and Peter, and Paul. There's one Thomas Buckle, a London youth, Who taught that the world was blind Till he was born to proclaim the truth, That matter is moulder of mind ; But I really can't fancy at all How wheat, rice, and barley, Made Dick, Tom, and Charlie So tidy and trim. Without help from Him Who was preached both by Plato and Paul. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 133 There's one John Bright, a Manchester man, Who taught the Tories to rule By setting their stamp on his patent plan For renewing the youth of John Bull ; But I say that it won't do at all. To seek for salvation By mere numeration Of polls would surprise. If they were to rise, Not a little both Plato and Paul. Then praise with me the old Greek times, When men were lusty and strong, And gods laughed merry in sunny climes. And wisdom was wedded to song ; For this I declare to you all, Bright may tickle your palate With suffrage and ballot, But you'll die a fool If you don't go to school , With Plato, and Peter, and Paul. A SONG OF GEOLOGY I'll sing you a ditty that needs no apology — Attend, and keep watch in the gates of your ears ! — Of the famous new science which men call Geology, And gods call the story of millions of years. 134 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Millions, millions — did I say millions ? Billions and trillions are more like the fact ! Millions, billions, trillions, quadrillions, Make the long sum of creation exact ! Confusion and Chaos, with wavering pinion. First swayed o'er the weltering ferment of things, When all over all held alternate dominion, And the slaves of to-day were to-morrow the kings. Chaos, Chaos, infinite wonder ! Wheeling and reeling on wavering wings ; Whence issued the world, which some think a blunder, A rumble and tumble and jumble of things ! The minim of being, the dot of creation, The germ of Sire Adam, of you and of me, In the folds of the gneiss in Laurentian station, Far west from the roots of Cape Wrath you may see. Minims of being, budding and bursting, All on the floor of the measureless sea ! Small, but for mighty development thirsting, With throbs of the future, like you. Sir, and me ! The waters, now big with a novel sensation, Brought corals and buckles and bivalves to view, Who dwell in shell houses, a soft-bodied nation ; But fishes with fins were yet none in the blue. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 135 Buckles and bivalves, a numberless nation ! Buckles, and bivalves, and trilobltes too ! These you will find in Silurian station, When Ramsay and Murchison sharpen your view. Then fins were invented ; when Queen Amphitrite Stirred up her force from Devonian beds. The race of the fishes In ocean grew mighty. Queer-looking fishes with bucklers for heads. Fishes, fishes — small greedy fishes ! With wings on their shoulders and horns on their heads. With scales bright and shiny, that shoot through the briny Cerulean halls on Devonian beds ! God bless the fishes ! — but now on the dry land, In days when the sun shone benign on the poles. Forests of ferns in the low and the high land Spread their huge fans, soon to change into coals ! Forests of ferns — a wonderful verity ! Rising like palm trees beneath the North Pole; And all to prepare for the golden prosperity Of John Bull reposing on iron and coal. Now Nature the eye of the gazer entrances With wonder on wonder from teeming abodes ; From the gills of the fish to true lungs she advances, And bursts into blossoms of tadpoles and toads. 136 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Strange Batrachian people, Triassic all, Like hippopotamus huge on the roads ! You may call them ungainly, uncouth, and unclassical. But great in the reign of the Trias were Toads Behold, a strange monster our wonder engages, If dolphin or lizard your wit may defy, Some thirty feet long on the shore of Lyme-Regis, With a saw for a jaw, and a big staring eye. A fish or a lizard ? an ichthyosaurus. With a big goggle eye, and a very small brain, And paddles like mill-wheels in clattering chorus. Smiting tremendous the dread-sounding main ! And here comes another ! can shape more absurb be, The strangest and oddest of vertebrate things ? Who knows if this creature a beast or a bird be, A fowl without feathers, a serpent with wings ? A beast or a bird — an equivocal monster ! A crow or a crocodile, who can declare ? A greedy, voracious, long-necked monster, Skimming the billow, and ploughing the air. Next rises to view the great four-footed nation, Hyenas and tapirs, a singular race. You may pick up their wreck from the great Paris basin, At the word of command every bone finds its place. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 137 Palaeothere, very singular creature ! A horse or a tapir, or both can you say ? Showing his grave pachydermatous feature, Just where the Frenchman now sips his caf(^. And now the life-temple grows vaster and vaster, Only the pediment fails to the plan ; The winged and the wingless are waiting their master, The Mammoth is howling a welcome to Man. Mammoth, Mammoth ! mighty old Mammoth ! Strike with your hatchet and cut a good slice ; The bones you will find, and the hide of the mammoth. Packed in stiff cakes of Siberian ice. At last the great biped, the crown of the mammals, Sire Adam, majestic, comes treading the sod, A measureless animal, free without trammels To swing all the ^^oace from an ape to a god. Wonderful biped, erect and featherless ! Sport of two destinies, treading the sod, With the perilous licence, unbridled and tether- less, To sink to a devil or rise to a god. And thus was completed — miraculous wonder ! The world, this mighty mysterious thing ; I believe it is more than a beautiful blunder, And worship, and pray, and adore, while I sing. 138 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Wonder and miracle ! — God made the wonder ; Come, happy creatures, and worship with me ! I know it is more than a beautiful blunder, And I hope Tait, and Tyndall, and Huxley agree. CONCERNING I AND NON-I A METAPHYSICAL SONG Air—' Seit Vater Noah ' * Since father Noah first tapped the vine, And warmed his jolly old nose, All men to drinking do much incline, But why, no drinker yet knows ; We drink and we never think how ! And yet, in our drinking. The root of deep thinking Lies very profound. As I will expound To all who will drink with me now ! The poets, God knows, a jovial race. Have ever been lauding of wine ; Of Bacchus they sing, and his rosy face, And the draught of the beaker divine ; * The idea of this song is taken from Baggesen's song in Methfessel's Liederbiich. In the execution I gave myself free reins, feeling that to attempt a translation in such a peculiar case would have been to insure failure. — ^J, S. B. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 139 Yet all their fine phrases are vain ; They pour out the essence Of brain-effervescence, With rhyme and rant And jingling cant, But nothing at all they explain. But I, who quaff the thoughtful well Of Plato and old Aristotle, And Kant and Fichte and Hegel can tell The wisdom that lies in the bottle ; I drink, and in drinking I know : With glance keen and nimble I pierce through the symbol. And seize the soul Of truth in the bowl, Behind the mere sensuous show ! Now brim your glass, and plant it well Beneath your nose on the table. And you will find what philosophers tell Of I and non-I is no fable. Now, listen to wisdom, my son ! Myself am the subject, This wine is the object ; These things are two, But I'll prove to you That subject and object are one. I take this glass in my hand, and stand Upon my legs if I can, And look and smile benign and bland, And feel that I am a man. I40 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Now stretch all the strength of your brains ! I drink — and the object Is lost in the subject, Making one entity, In the identity Of me, and the wine in my veins ! And now if Hamilton, Eraser, or Mill This point can better explain, You may learn from them, with method and skill, To plumb the abyss of your brain ; But this simple faith I avow. The root of true thinking Lies just in deep drinking, As I have shown In a way of my own. To this jolly good company now. SONG OF A BACHELOR IN DIVINITY Air — * Seit Vater Noah in Becher goss ' I've stood my trials, I've left the school, I'm capped with a learned B.D., Of Latin and Greek and Hebrew I'm full, Old Wisdom dwelleth with me ; And now, if you'll list to my rhymes, I'll flap my young pinions In my new dominions. And vent what I may In a delicate way ; For stone walls have ears sometimes. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 141 I'm a Protestant good ; I hate the Pope, In every shape and degree, The Popish Pope, and the Presbyter Pope, And all the Popes that be ; For this above all things I prize. To have free admission. With no man's permission, Both early and late. Through the gracious gate, To the prayer-hearing God in the skies. I hate the Pope ; and in God's own book I read the message of grace. And I claim a freeman's right to look The Master I serve in the face ; And I speak this out plainly, because If you swear to a lesson From human confession, You're a muff and a spoon, And a blinking poltroon, And a traitor to Protestant laws. Some preach a god so savage and grim, When he snorts in his terrible wrath, They crouch and cower and fawn to him, And lick the dust in his path ; But against this I flatly rebel, And boldly deny it. That such a stern fiat Was forged above By the Father of love, To swamp half His children in hell. 142 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Some say that through their chosen veins There creeps a magical virtue, To charm away all sorrows and pains That issue of Adam is heir to ; But this is not Gospel at all ; Not narrowly creeping, But liberal sweeping, On sinful race Came God's free grace, By the preaching of Peter and Paul. Some preach a religion of dainty air. They come with candle and bell, And cassock and cope and surplice fair, And might of miraculous spell ; But this I declare to you all, That by dresses and laces, And bows and grimaces, A man should strive His soul to shrive. Stands not in the gospel of Paul. And now I think you will understand. Of crotchet, and whim, and conceit. We can boast enough in this Christian land. To turn into bitter our sweet ; Then take my advice sans offence ; To make harmless the potion. Of each darling notion. Just temper the draught. Before it is quaffed. With a few drops of plain common sense ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 143 You've heard my song ; if you think it long, I'll give you the gist in a line, 'Tis the letter that kills, in sermon or song, The Spirit alone is divine ; God's grace comes to me and to you, Not by counting of beads well, • Or conning of creeds well, But by resolute will To struggle with ill, And by faith that can dare and can do ! YOUNG MAN, BE WISE ! Air — ' One there is above all others ' Would'st thou reap life's golden treasure. Young man, be wise ! Cease to follow where light pleasure Cheats blinking eyes ; Let no flattering voices wiix thee, Let no vauntful echoes din thee. But the peace of God within thee Seek, and be wise ! Where the fervid cup doth sparkle. Young man, be wise ! Where quick glances gleam and darkle, Danger surmise ! Where the rattling car is dashing, Where the shallow wave is plashing, Where the coloured foam is flashing. Feast not thine eyes ! 144 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Rocking on a lazy billow With roaming eyes, Cushioned on a dreamy pillow, Thou art not wise ; Wake the power within thee sleeping, Trim the plot that's in thy keeping ; Thou wilt bless the task when reaping Sweet labour's prize. Since the green earth had beginning. Land, sea, and skies, Toil their rounds with sleepless spinning, Suns sink and rise ; God, who with His image crowned us. Works within, above, around us ; Let us, where His will hath bound us. Work and be wise ! All the great, that won before thee Stout labour's prize. Wave their conquering banners o'er thee ; Up, and be wise ! Wilt thou from their sweat inherit. Fruits of peace, and stars of merit. While their sword, when thou should'st wear it, Rust-eaten lies ? Work and wait, a sturdy liver ; (Life fleetly flies !) Work, and pray, and sing, and ever Lift hopeful eyes ; JOHN STUART BLACKIE 145 Let no blaring folly din thee ! Wisdom, when her charm may win thee, Flows a well of life within thee ; Young man, be wise ! MY LOVES Air — ' Shall T wasting in despair ? ' (Suggested by Ansecreon's 'e? Sair cast doun was learned Sam At this end of the Greeking o't ; He could dae nae mair wi' cram At this stage o' the Greeking o't. I, i62 THE SELECTED POEMS OF But he was teugh as ony Scot, He was plucked, but yield would not. Sooner would he hang and rot, Than thus be balked at the Greeking o't. At the door he made a din, Rap, rap, for the Greeking o't ! Is the Greek Professor in ? Yes, yes, for the Greeking o't ! Sam his plea wi' tears would win, He fleeched and grat his een quite blin', To pluck him twice was just a sin, For a sma' fault at the Greeking o't ! Professor was a kindly man. Ha, ha, the Greeking o't ! Felt for a' the student clan That swat sair at the Greeking o't, * Though you're nae just in the van. My heart is wae your worth to ban. Ye hae done the best ye can. So ye may pass at the Greeking o't.' Sam'el Sumph is now M.A., Ha, ha, for the Greeking o't ! He can preach and he can pray. That's the fruit of the Greeking o't. He can thunder loud and fell, An awfu' power in him doth dwell. To ope and shut the gates of hell, That's the prize o' the Greeking o't. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 163 Wait a year and ye will see, Ha, ha, the Greeking o't ! High upon the tap o' the tree, Sam perch'd by the Greeking o't ! In the Kirk Assembly he Sits as big as big can be. Moderator Sam, D.D., That's the crown o' the Greeking o't ! A PSALM OF BEN MORE How beautiful upon the mountains, Lord, Is Earth, thy world, how beautiful and grand ! Ofttimes with firm unwearied foot I clomb The old grey Ben, whose peak serene look'd down In glory on the light careering clouds That swept the nearer heights ; but never fill'd My wondering eye such pomp of various view As now, from thy storm-shatter'd brow, Ben More. How fearful from this high sharp-riven rim To look down thy precipitous forehead seam'd With scars from countless storms, whence to the plain In long grim lines the livid ruin falls. And think how with a touch the involving blast From the rude North might seize such thing as I, And whirl me into dust in that black glen. Sown with destruction ! But such danger now Touches not me, when in her gentle mood Nature, all robed in light, and shod with peace. Upon the old foundations of her strength Sits like a queen. How glorious in the West 1 64 THE SELECTED POEMS OF The sheen of ocean lies, the boundless breadth Of gleaming waves that girdle in the globe With their untainted virtue, strangely cut By rocky terraces projecting far In measured tiers, and long-drawn sprawling arms Of huge-slabbed granite huddled into knobs. And studded, far as the rapt eye can reach, With isle and islet sown in sportive strength. Even as the sky with stars — the sandy Coll, Tiree-tway-parted, and the nearer group Of Ulva, Gometra, and Lunga's isle. And the flat Pladda, and the steep Cairnburg, Where erst the Norseman, monarch of the main. His sea-girt castle kept ; and stout Maclean Cromwell's harsh might defied, and planted proud The flag of Charles, and on the ill-starred clans Brought loss and harm, and crown'd authority's Retributive mace. But chiefly, thy dark mass Enchains my view, in pillared beauty rare. World-famous Staffa, by the d^dal hand Of Titan Nature piled in rhythmic state, A fane for gods, and with the memory wreathed Of Fingal, and the ancient hero-kings AVhom Ossian sang to the wild ringing notes Of his old Celtic harp, when Celtic songs \Vere mighty in the land, and stirred the soul Of generous clanship in the men who strode Their native hills with pride, a prosperous race, Now few and poor by Saxon lords controlled, Shorn of their glens, and dwindling fast away Into a name. Nor less thy old grey Hne, lona, holds my gaze, where late I trod JOHN STUART BLACKIE 165 The grave of kings, and by the figured cross Stood reverent, raised by grateful piety To the adventurous Saint, who launched his bark From Erin's clerkly shore, nor looked behind. Till he had made that harsh grey rock a school For gentleness and tenderness and truth, And Gospel charms to tame mistempered souls Through all the savage North. Hence veering round Southward, Cantire's long arm, and Islay's heights And lofty Jura's towering tops stand out Majestic, and the quaint green-vested knolls Of sheep-cropped Lorn, and Oban's quiet bay Beloved of boats. And with more distant sweep Eastward the strong sky-cleaving Grampians rise From Arroquhar's heights to Cruachan's shapely peaks And Buchaill's fair green cone, and thy huge bulk Broad-breasted Nevis, and the mighty host Of granite battlements that look sternly out On savage Skye, and with her stiffly bear The cuffs and buffets of the strong-armed blast From the still-vexed Atlantic, mother of rains. These be thy ramparts, Scotland, these the fence Which Nature raised, to keep thy children free From the invading Roman, and the pride Of power aggressive. O ! how lovely sleeps The sun upon each soft green-mantled glen, By those grim bulwarks shielded, where the smoke From lonely hut in odorous birchen bower Signs the abode of men, the healthful home Whence breezy Scotland sends her hardy sons Far-venturing o'er the globe, to win much gold, And fair approval, and high-throned command, i66 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And all that Earth, a willing tribute, yields To patient thought, strong will, prompt hand, and grasp Tenacious. Nor the fervid spirit here Fails, that beneath a cool impassive front Nurses the sacred flame, which bursts with power From Caledonian pulpits, strong to wake The sting of conscience in lethargic souls Long drugged to drowsy dulness, or enthralled By base convention. But I feel the keen Uncustomed temper of the thin clear air On this dry peak, where no hot streams are bred, Creep with a gradual chillness through my frame ; And I must leave thy tale, thou mighty Ben, Half sung : nor mine, in sooth, the learned skill To chronicle the story of thy birth Portentous, then when God's high call redeemed The elements from chaos, and made Earth Start from the seas, and bade the mountains rise With giant fronts star-threatening, and deep glens Sundered from glens, and mighty plains from plains Remotely cast, abode with skill prepared By toilsome Nature's patient alchemy For man, proud flower and fruitage of her growth. These grey-blue rocks in shattered fragments strewn Upon thy aged crown, if they could speak, Would tell a tale that science tempts in vain With many a lofty guess, and name the hour When the same chemic fire that smelts the bowels Of hot Vesuvius, 'neath her rocky ribs Mother of fertile ashes, heaved thy cones JOHN STUART BLACKIE 167 From the tremendous depths of boiling seas With subterranean thunders terrible, And tremulous quakings of the tortured Earth In her primeval throes ; and say what tribes Of monsters then first crawled in slimy beds Unshapely, or with hideous flapping vans Clove the thick air, and glared with great round eyes Through the gross mists, that from the labouring Earth Rose feverous. Thus stirred by Titan force Sprang proud Ben More to being, what long space Of centuried ages, ere sire Adam first Greeted with glad surprise the genial day I know not, nor much reck. Enough that here, Last product of the slow-creating years, Victors we stand, upon so vast a stage Where human work well linked to work divine Creates new wonders daily ; I'm content. Let others probe the immense of Possibles With proud conjectures, stamping with the seal Of sacred truth each darling notion bred Of green conceit, and plumed with windy pride ; Such fair fantastic triumphs I forego. Sober to seek, and diligent to do My human work in this my human plot Of God's vast garden, all my joy to pluck The noisome weeds, and rear the fragrant rose. Not quarrelling with its thorn. — Now fare thee well Thou far-viewed Ben ! and may the memoried pomp Of thy great grandeur make my smallness great, That in the strait and choking times of life I still may wear thy presence in my soul, i68 POEMS OF JOHN STUART BLACKIE And walk as in a kingly hall, hung round With living pictures from the proud Ben More Monarch of Mull, the fairest isle that spreads Its green folds to the Sun in Celtic seas. SONNETS BEN MUICDUIBHE O'er broad Muicduibhe sweeps the keen cold blast, Far whirrs the snow-bred, white-winged ptarmigan, Sheer sink the cliffs to dark Loch Etagan, And all the hill with shattered rock lies waste. Here brew ship-foundering storms their force divine, Here gush the fountains of wild-flooding rivers ; Here the strong thunder frames the bolt that shivers The giant strength of the old twisted pine. Yet, even here, on the bare waterless brow Of granite ruin, I found a purple flower, A delicate flower, as fair as aught, I trow, That toys with zephyrs in my lady's bower. So Nature blends her powers ; and he is wise Who to his strength no gentlest grace denies. 169 U I70 THE SELECTED POEMS OF LOCH RANNOCH MOOR In the lone glen the silver lake doth sleep ; Sleeps the white cloud upon the sheer black hill : All moorland sounds a solemn silence keep ; I only hear the tiny trickling rill 'Neath the red moss. Athwart the dim grey pall That veils the day, a dusky fowl may fly ; But, on this bleak brown moor, if thou shalt call For men, a spirit will sooner make reply. Come hither, thou whose agile tongue doth flit From theme to theme with change of wordy war ; Converse with men makes sharp the glittering wit, But Wisdom whispers truth, when crowds are far. Come, sit thee down upon this old grey stone ; Men learn to think, and feel, and pray, alone. THE LORD'S DAY IN lONA Pure worshipper, who on this holy day Would'st shake thee free from soul-encrusting cares, And to the great Creator homage pay In some high fane most worthy of thy prayers. Go not where sculptured tower or pictured dome Invites the reeking city's jaded throngs. Some hoar old shrine of Rhine-land or of Rome, Where the dim aisle the languid hymn prolongs ; Here rather follow me, and take thy stand By the grey cairn that crowns the lone Dun Ee, JOHN STUART BLACKIE .171 And let thy breezy worship be the grand Old Bens, and old grey knolls that compass thee, The sky-blue waters, and the snow-white sand, And the quaint isles far-sown upon the sea. THE BUCHAILL ETIVE (Argyleshire) Tkou lofty shepherd of dark Etive glen. Tall Titan warder of the grim Glencoe, I clomb thy starward peak not long ago, And call thee mine, and love thee much since then. Oft have I marvelled, if mine eye had been Strange witness to Creation's natal hour. How wondrous then had showed the flaming scene When out of seething depths thy cone with power Was shot from God. But now upon thy steep Fair greenness sleeps on old secure foundations. And on thee browse the innocent-bleating sheep And timorous troops of the high-antlered nations ; And I am here. Time's latest product, Man, To work Thy will, O Lord, and serve Thy stately plan. MOONLIGHT AT KING'S HOUSE (Argyleshire) O FOR the touch that smote the psalmist's lyre. When the great beauty of the world he saw, And sang His praise, instinct with holy awe, W^ho rides the whirlwind, and who reins the fire ! 172 THE SELECTED POEMS OF But not alone proud Lebanon's fulgent face Hath power the eye of tranced seer to draw ; Here, too, in Grampian land God rules by law, Which clothes the awfullest forms in loveliest grace. The placid moon, the huge sky-cleaving Ben, The moor loch glancing in the argent ray, The long white mist low-trailing up the glen. The hum of mighty waters far away. All make me wish that worthy words would come ; But all I find is — worship, and be dumb ! CHINESE GORDON Some men live near to God, as my right arm Is near to me ; and thus they walk about Mailed in full proof of faith, and bear a charm That mocks at fear, and bars the door on doubt, And dares the impossible. So, Gordon, thou. Through the hot stir of this distracted time, Dost hold thy course, a flaming witness how. To do and dare, and make our lives sublime As God's campaigners. What live we for but this. Into the sour to breathe the soul of sweetness. The stunted growth to rear to fair completeness, Drown sneers in smiles, kill hatred with a kiss. And to the sandy waste bequeath the fame That the grass grew behind us where we came ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE 173 SYDNEY DOBELL (On hearing of his death) And thou too gone ! One more bright soul away To swell the mighty sleepers 'neath the sod. One less to honour and to love, and say, Who lives with thee doth live half-way to God. My chaste-souled Sydney ! Thou wert carved too fine For coarse observance of the general eye : But who might look into thy soul's fair shrine Saw bright gods there, and felt their presence nigh. Oh, if we owe warm thanks to Heaven, 'tis when In the slow progress of the struggling years Our touch is blessed to feel the pulse of men Who walk in love and light above their peers White-robed, and forward point with guiding hand, Breathing a heaven around them where they stand. BALLADS, LEGENDS AND NARRRATIVE POEMS THE LAY OF THE BRAVE CAMERON At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high, Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye, Eager to leap, as a mettlesome hound. Into the fray with a plunge and a bound, But Wellington, lord of the cool command, i Held the reins with a steady hand, Saying, ' Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough, Giving the Frenchman a taste of your stuff. When the Cameron men are wanted.' Now hotter and hotter the battle grew. With tramp, and rattle, and wild halloo, And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood. Right on the ditch where Cameron stood. Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance On his captain brave a lightning glance, Saying, * Cameron, now have at them, boy, Take care of the road to Charleroi, Where the Cameron men are wanted ! ' 174 POEMS OF JOHN STUART BLACKIE 175 Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow Into the midst of the plunging foe, And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current ; And he fell the first in the fervid fray, Where a deathful shot had shore its way, But his men pushed on where the work was rough, Giving the Frenchman a taste of their stuff. Where the Cameron men were wanted. Brave Cameron then, from the battle's roar, His foster-brother stoutly bore, His foster-brother, with service true, Back to the village of Waterloo. And they laid him on the soft green sod, And he breathed his spirit there to God, But not till he heard the loud hurrah Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras, Where the Cameron men were wanted. By the road to Ghent they buried him then. This noble chief of the Cameron men, And not an eye was tearless seen That day beside the alley green : Wellington wept, the iron man ; And from every man in the Cameron clan The big round drop in bitterness fell. As with the pipes he loved so well His funeral wail they chanted. And now he sleeps (for they bore him home, When the war was done, across the foam) 176 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben, With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men. Three thousand Highlandmen stood round, As they laid him to rest in his native ground, The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed, Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never failed, Where a Cameron man was wanted. THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBA ' Son of Brendan, I have willed it I will leave this land and go To a land of savage mountains, Where the Borean breezes blow ; To a land of rainy torrents, And of barren, treeless isles, Where the winter frowns are lavish, And the summer scantly smiles ; I will leave this land of bloodshed. Where fierce brawls and battles sway, And will preach God's peaceful Gospel In a grey land, far away.' Beathan spake, the son of Brendan — ' Son of Phelim art thou wise ? Wilt thou change the smiling Erin, For the scowling Pictish skies ? Thou, the lealest son of Erin, Thou, a prince of royal line, Sprung by right descent from mighty Neill, whose hostages were nine ? JOHN STUART BLACKIE 177 Wilt thou seek the glens of Albyn For repose from loveless strife ? Glens, where feuds, from sire to grandson. Fan the wasteful flame of life ? Wilt thou leave a land of learning, Home of ancient holy lore. To converse with uncouth people. Fishing on a shelvy shore ? Wilt thou leave the homes of Gartan, Where thou suck'd the milky food From the mother-breast of Aithne, Daughter of Lagenian blood ? Wilt thou leave the oaks of Derry, Where each leaf is dear to thee. Wandering, in a storm-tost wherry. O'er the wide, unpastured sea ? Son of Phelim, Beathan loves thee, Be thou zealous, but be wise ! There be heathens here in Erin ; Preach to them 'neath kindly skies.* Then the noble son of Phelim, With the big tear in his eye. To the blameless son of Brendan Firmly thus made swift reply — ' Son of Brendan, I have heard thee. Heard thee with a bleeding heart ; For I love the oaks of Derry, And to leave them gives me smart ; But the ban of God is on me, Not my will commands the way ; Molaise priest of Innishmurry Hights me go, and I obey. M 178 THE SELECTED POEMS OF For their death is heavy on me WhovXi I slew in vengeful mood, At the battle of Culdremhne, In the hotness of my blood. For the lord that rules at Tara, In some brawl that grew from wine, Slew young Carnan, branch of promise. And a kinsman of my line ; And the human blood within me Mounted, and my hand did slay. For the fault of one offender. Many on that tearful day ; And I soil'd the snow-white vestment With which Etchen, holy man, Clonfad's mitred elder, clad me When I join'd the priestly clan ; And my soul was rent with anguish And my sorrows were increased, And I went to Innishmurry, Seeking solace from the priest. And the saintly Molaise told me — " For the blood that thou hast spilt, God hath shown me one atonement To make clear thy soul from guilt ; Count the hundreds of the Christians Whom thy sword slew to thy blame. Even so many souls of heathens Must thy word with power reclaim ; Souls of rough and rude sea-rovers. Used to evil, strange to good, Picts beyond the ridge of Albyn, In the Pagan realm of Brude." JOHN STUART BLACKIE 179 Thou hast heard me, son of Brendan ; I have will'd it ; and this know, Thou with me, or I without thee, On this holy hest will go ! ' Beathan heard, with meek agreement. For he knew that Colum's will. Like a rock against the ocean. Still was fixed for good or ill. * Son of Phelim, I have heard thee ; I and Cobhtach both will go, Past the wintry ridge of Albyn, O'er the great sea's foamy flow ; Far from the green oaks of Derry, Where the cukoo sings in May, From the land of falling waters Far, and clover's green display ; Where Columba leads we follow. Fear with him I may not know, Where the God thou servest calls thee, Son of Phelim, I will go.' II ' Son of Brendan, I am ready : Is the boat all staunch and trim ? Light our osier craft and steady, Like an ocean gull to swim ? I have cast all doubt behind me, Seal'd with prayer my holy vow, And the God who heard me answers With assuring presence now.' And the son of Brendan answer'd — ' Son of Phelim, thou shalt be i8o THE SELECTED POEMS OF Like God's angel-guidance to us As we plough the misty sea. We are ready, I and Cobhtach, Diarmid in thy service true, Rus and Fechno, sons of Rodain, Scandal, son of Bresail, too ; Ernan, Luguid Mocatheimne, Echoid, and Tochannu brave, Grillan and the son of Branduh, Brush with thee the briny wave.' Thus spake he. Columba lifted High his hand to bless the wherry. And they oar'd with gentle oarage From the dear-loved oaks of Derry ; Loath to leave each grassy headland, Shiny beach and pebbly bay, Thymy slope and woody covert. Where the cuckoo hymn'd the May ; Loath from some familiar cabin's Wreathy smoke to rend their eye. Where a godly widow harbour'd Laughing girl or roguish boy. On they oar'd, and soon behind them Left thy narrow pool, Loch Foyle, And the grey sea spread before them Many a broad unmeasured mile. Swiftly now on bounding billow On they run before the gale. For a strong south-wester blowing Strained the bosom of their sail. On they dash : the Rhinns of Islay Soon they reach, and soon they pass ; JOHN STUART BLACKIE i8i Cliff and bay, and bluffy foreland, Flit as in a magic glass. What is this before them rising Northward from the foamy spray ? I^nd, I wis — an island lorded By the wise Macneil to-day, Then a brown and barren country, Cinctured by the ocean grey.* On they scud ; and there they landed, And they mounted on a hill, Whence the far-viewd son of Brendan Look'd, and saw green Erin still. * Say'st thou so, thou son of Brendan ? ' Quoth Columba ; 'then not here May we rest from tossing billow With light heart and conscience clear, Lest our eyes should pine a-hunger For the land we hold so dear. And our coward keel returning Stint the vow that brought us here.' So they rose and trimmed their wherry. And their course right on they hold Northward, where the wind from Greenland Blows on Albyn clear and cold ; When, behold, a cloud came darkling From the west, with gusty blore, And the horrent waves rose booming Eastward, with ill-omened roar ; * The Island of Colonsay, south of Mull, from which the late Lord Colonsay took his title. The verses were written before his death. 1 82 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And the night came down upon them, And the sea with yeasty sweep Hiss'd around them, as the wherry Stagger'd through the fretted deep. Eastward, eastward, back they hurried, For to face the flood was vain, Every rib of their light wherry Creaking to the tempest's strain ; Eastward, eastward, till the morning Glimmer'd through the pitchy storm, And reveal'd the frowning Scarba, And huge Jura's cones enorm. ' Blessed God,' cried now Columba, ' Here, indeed, may danger be From the mighty whirl and bubble Of the cauldron of the sea ; Here it was that noble Breacan Perish'd in the gulfing wave — Here we, too, shall surely perish. If not God be quick to save ! ' Spake : and with his hand he lifted High the cross above the brine ; And he cried, ' Now, God, I thank Thee Thou hast sent the wished-for sign ! For, behold, thou son of Brendan, There upon the topmost wave, Sent from God, a sign to save us, Float the bones of Breacan brave ! And his soul this self-same moment, From the girth of purging fire, Leaps redeem'd, as we are 'scaping From the huge sea-cauldron dire.' JOHN STUART BLACKIE 183 Spake : and to the name of Breacan Droop'd the fretful-crested spray ; And full soon a mild south-easter Blew the surly storm away.* Ill Little now remains to tell ye, Gentles, of great Phelim's son ; How he clave the yielding billow Till lona's strand he won. Back they steer'd, still westward, westward ; Past the land where high Ben More Nods above the isles that quaintly Fringe its steep and terraced shore. On they cut — still westward ! westward ! On with favouring wind and tide, Past the pillar'd crags of Carsaig Fencing Mull's sun-fronting side, Pass the narrow Ross, far-stretching Where the rough and ruddy rocks Rudely rise in jumbled hummocks. Of primeval granite blocks ; Till they come to where lona Rears her front of hoary crags. Fenced by many a stack and skerry Full of rifts, and full of jags ; * The legend about the bones of Breacan is of course taken from the old Latin book, otherwise it had no title to be here. In Gaelic, the first element of the compound word corryvreckan means a cauldron^ and the other element breac means spotted : so that etymologically the name seems only to mean the whirl or cauldron of the sea spotted with foam. i84 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And behind a small black islet Through an inlet's narrow space, Sail'd into a bay white bosom'd, In the island's southward face. Then with eager step they mounted To the high rock's beetling brow — * Canst thou see, thou far-view'd Beathan, Trace of lovely Erin now ? ' ' No ! thou son of Phelim, only Mighty Jura's Paps I see, These and Isla's Rhynns, but Erin Southward lies in mist from me/ * Thank thee, God ! ' then cried Columba ; ' Here our vows are paid, and here We may rest from tossing billow, With light heart and conscience clear.' Downward then their way they wended To the pure and pebbly bay. And with holy cross uplifted, Thus did saintly Colum say — * In the sand we now will bury This trim craft that brought us here, Lest we think on oaks of Derry, And the land we hold so dear ; ' Then they dug a trench and sank it In the sand, to seal their vow. With keel upwards, as who travels In the sand may see it now. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 185 THE DEATH OF COLUMBA Saxon stranger, thou did'st wisely, Sunder'd for a little space From that motley stream of people Drifting by this holy place ; With the furnace and the funnel Through the long sea's glancing arm, Let them hurry back to Oban, Where the tourist loves to swarm. Here, upon this hump of granite, Sit with me a quiet while. And I'll tell thee how Columba Died upon this old grey isle. 'Twas in May, a breezy morning. When the sky was fresh and bright, And the broad blue ocean shimmer'd With a thousand gems of light. On the green and grassy Machar, Where the fields are spredden wide, And the crags in quaint confusion Jut into the Western tide : Here his troop of godly people, In stout labour's garb array'd. Blithe their fruitful task were plying With the hoe and with the spade. * I will go and bless my people,' Quoth the father, ' ere I die. i86 THE SELECTED POEMS OF But the strength is slow to follow Where the wish is swift to fly ; I am old and feeble, Diarmid, Yoke the oxen, be not slow, I will go and bless my people, Ere from earth my spirit go.' On his ox-drawn wain he mounted. Faithful Diarmid by his side; Soon they reach'd the grassy Machar, Soft and smooth, lona's pride : ' I am come to bless my people, Faithful fraters, ere I die ; I had wish'd to die at Easter, But I would not mar your joy, Now the Master plainly calls me, Gladly I obey His call ; I am ripe, I feel the sickle, Take my blessing, ere I fall.' But they heard his words with weeping, And their tears fell on the dew, And their eyes were dimmed with sorrow, For they knew his words were true. Then he stood up on the waggon, And his prayerful hands he hove. And he spake and bless'd the people With the blessing of his love : ' God be with you, faithful fraters, With you now, and evermore ; Keep you from the touch of evil. On your souls His Spirit pour ; God be with you, fellow workmen. And from loved lona's shore JOHN STUART BLACKIE 187 Keep the blighting breath of demons, Keep the viper's venom'd store ! ' Thus he spake, and turn'd the oxen Townwards ; sad they went, and slow, And the people, fix'd in sorrow, Stood, and saw the father go. II List me further, Saxon stranger, Note it nicely, by the causeway On the left hand, where thou came With the motley tourist people. Stands a cross of figured fame. Even now thine eye may see it. Near the nunnery, slim and grey ; — From the waggon there Columba Lighted on that tearful day, And he sat beneath the shadow Of that cross, upon a stone. Brooding on his speedy passage To the land where grief is none ; When, behold, the mare, the white one That was wont the milk to bear From the dairy to the cloister. Stood before him meekly there. Stood, and softly came up to him, And with move of gentlest grace O'er the shoulder of Columba Thrust her piteous-pleading face, Look'd upon him as a friend looks On a friend that goes away, i88 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Sunder'd from the land that loves him By wide seas of briny spray : * Fie upon thee for thy manners ! ' Diarmid cried with lifted rod, ' Wilt thou with untimely fondness Vex the prayerful man of God ? ' ' Not so, Diarmid,' cried Columba ; * Dost thou see the speechful eyne Of the fond and faithful creature Sorrow'd with the swelling brine ? God hath taught the mute unreasoning What thou fail'st to understand, That this day I pass for ever From lona's shelly strand. Have my blessing, gentle creature, God doth bless both man and beast ; From hard yoke, when I shall leave thee, Be thy faithful neck released.' Thus he spoke, and quickly rising With what feeble strength remain'd, Leaning on stout Diarmid's shoulder, A green hillock's top he gained. 'I'here, or here where we are sitting. Whence his eye might measure well Both the cloister and the chapel, And his pure and prayerful cell. There he stood, and high uplifting Hands whence flowed a healing grace, Breathed his latest voice of blessing To protect the sacred place, — Spake such words as prophets utter When the veil of flesh is rent, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 189 And the present fades from vision, On the germing future bent : ' God thee bless, thou loved lona, Though thou art a little spot, Though thy rocks are grey and treeless, Thine shalt be a boastful lot ; Thou shalt be a sign for nations ; Nurtured on thy sacred breast, Thou shalt send on holy mission Men to teach both East and West ; Peers and potentates shall own thee, Monarchs of wide-sceptre'd sway Dying shall beseech the honour To be tomb'd beneath thy clay ; God's dear saints shall love to name thee, And from many a storied land Men of clerkly fame shall pilgrim To lona's httle strand.' Ill ^rhus the old man spake his blessing ; Then, where most he loved to dwell, Through the well-known porch he enter'd To his pure and prayerful cell ; And then took the holy psalter — 'Twas his wont when he would pray — Bound with three stout clasps of silver, From the casket where it lay ; There he read with fixed devoutness, And with craft full fair and fine. On the smooth and poUsh'd vellum Copied forth the sacred line. 190 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Till he came to where the kingly Singer sings in faithful mood, How the younglings of the lion Oft may roam in vain for food, But who fear the Lord shall never Live and lack their proper good.* Here he stopped, and said, ' My latest Now is written ; what remains I bequeath to faithful Beathan To complete with pious pains.' Then he rose, and in the chapel Conned the pious vesper song Inly to himself, for feeble Now the voice that once was strong ; Hence with silent step returning To his pure and prayerful cell, On the round smooth stone he laid him Which for pallet served him well. Here some while he lay ; then rising. To a trusty brother said : ' Brother, take my parting message, Be my last words wisely weigh'd 'Tis an age of brawl and battle ; Men who seek not God to please, With wild sweep of lawless passion Waste the land and scourge the seas. Not like them be ye ; be loving. Peaceful, patient, truthful, bold, But in service of your Master Use no steel and seek no gold.' * Psalm xxxiv. lo. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 191 Thus he spake ; but now there sounded Through the night the holy bell That to Lord's Day matins gather'd Every monk from every cell. Eager at the sound, Columba In the way foresped the rest, And before the altar kneeling, Pray'd with hands on holy breast. Diarmid followed ; but a marvel Flow'd upon his wondering eyne, — All the windows shone with glorious Light of angels in the shrine. Diarmid enter'd ; all was darkness. * Father ! ' But no answer came. * Father ! art thou here, Columba ? ' Nothing answer'd to the name. Soon the troop of monks came hurrying, Each man with a wandering light, For great fear had come upon them, And a sense of strange affright. ' Diarmid ! Diarmid, is the father With thee ? Art thou here alone ? ' And they turn'd their lights and found him On the pavement lying prone. And with gentle hands they raised him, And he mildly look'd around, And he raised his arm to bless them, But it dropped upon the ground ; And his breathless body rested On the arms that held him dear, And his dead face look'd upon them With a light serene and clear ; 192 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And they said that holy angels Surely hover'd round his head, For alive no loveliest ever Look'd so lovely as this dead. Stranger, thou hast heard my story. Thank thee for thy patient ear ; We are pleased to stir the sleeping Memory of old greatness here. I have used no gloss, no varnish, To make fair things fairer look ; As the record stands, I give it, In the old monk's Latin book. Keep it in thy heart, and love it. Where a good thing loves to dwell ; It may help thee in thy dying. If thou care to use it well. j GLENCOE A HISTORICAL BALLAD I The snow is white on the Pap of Glencoe,. And all is bleak and dreary, But gladness reigns in the vale below, Where life is blithe and cheery. Where the old Macdonald, stout and true,. Sits in the hall which his fathers knew. Sits, with the sword which his fathers drew On the old wall glancing clearly, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 193 Where the dry logs blaze on the huge old hearth, And the old wine flows that fans the mirth Of the friends that love him dearly. Heavily, heavily lies the snow On the old grey ash and the old blue pine, And the cold winds drearily drearily blow Down the glen with a moan and a whine ; But little reck they how the storm may bray, Or the linn may roar in the glen. Where the bright cups flow, and the light jests play. And Macdonald is master of men, Where Macdonald is king of the feast to-night. And sways the hour with a landlord's right, And broadens his smile, and opens his breast, As a host may do to a dear-loved guest ; And many a stirring tale he told Of battle, and war, and chase, And heroes that sleep beneath the mould. The pride of his lordly race ; And many a headlong venture grim, With the hounds that track the deer, By the rifted chasm's hanging rim And the red-scaured mountain sheer. And many a song did the harper sing Of Ossian blind and hoary. That made the old oak rafter ring With the pulse of Celtic story ; And the piper blew a gamesome reel That the young blood hotly stirred, And they beat the ground with lightsome heel Till the midnight bell was heard. And then to rest they laid them down, N 194 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And soon the strong sleep bound them, While the winds without kept whistling rout, And the thick snows drifted round them. II But one there was whose eyes that night No peaceful slumber knew, Or, if he slept, he dreamt of blood, And woke by Coe's far-sounding flood. To make his dreaming true. A Campbell was he, of a hated clan, — God's curse be on his name ! — Who to Macdonald's goodly glen On traitor's errand came. He had the old man's niece to wife, (A love that should have buried strife,) I And shook his hand for faithful proof. And slept beneath his friendly roof; And he that night had shared the mirth Around the old man's friendly hearth, And, wise in devil's art, Had laughed and quaffed, and danced and sung, And talked with honey on his tongue. And murder in his heart. And now, to buy a grace from power And men the slaves of the venal hour. Or with the gust of blood to sate A heart whose luxury was hate. His hand was on the whetted knife That thirsts to drink the old man's life ; And soon the blood shall flow, From which the curse shall grow, i I JOHN STUART BLACKIE 195 That since the world to sin began Pursues the lawless-handed man ; And false Glen Lyon's traitor name Shall live, a blazing badge of shame, While memory links the crimson crime. The basest in the book of Time, With Campbell and Glencoe. Ill 'Tis five o'clock i' the morn ; of light No glimmering ray is seen, And the snow that drifted through the night Shrouds every spot of green. Not yet the cock hath blown his horn, But the base red-coated crew Creep through the silence of the morn With butcher-work to do. And now to the old man's house they came. Where he lived in the strength of his proud old name A brave unguarded life ; And now they enter the old oak room, Where he lay, all witless of his doom, In the arms of his faithful wife ; And through the grace of his hoary head. As he turned him starting from his bed, They shot the deadly-missioned lead. And reaved his purple life ; Then from the lady, where she lay With outstretched arms in blank dismay, They rove the vest, and in deray They flung her on the floor ; 196 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And from her quivering fingers tore With their teeth the rare old rings she wore ; Then haled her down the oaken stair Into the cold, unkindly air, And in the snow they left her there, Where not a friend was nigh. With many a curse, and never a tear. Like an outcast beast to die. IV And now the butcher-work went on Hotly, hotly up the glen ; For the order was given full sharply then The lion to slay with the cubs in his den, And never a male to spare ; And the king's own hand had signed the ban, To glut the hate of the Campbell clan, And the spite of the Master of Stair. From every clachan in long Glencoe The shriek went up, and the blood did flow Reeking and red on the wreathed snow. Every captain had his station On the banks of the roaring water, Watching o'er the butchered nation Like the demons of the slaughter. Lindsay raged at Invercoe, And laid his breathless twenty low ; At Inveruggen, Campbell grim Made the floor with gore to swim — Nine he counted in a row Brothered in a bloody show. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 197 And one who oft for him had spread The pillow 'neath his traitor head, To woo the kindly rest. At Auchnachoin stern Barker pressed The pitiless work with savage zest, And on the broad mead by the water Heaped ten souls in huddled slaughter. The young man blooming in his pride, The old man with crack'd breath. The bridegroom severed from his bride, And son with father side by side. Lie swathed in one red death ; And Fire made league with Murder fell, "Where flung by many a raging hand, From house to house the flaming brand Contagious flew ; and crackling spar And crashing beam, make hideous jar. And pitchy volumes swell. What horror stalked the glen that day, What ghastly fear and grim dismay. No tongue of man may tell ; What shame to Orange William's sway, When Murder throve with honours decked, And every traitor stood erect. And every true man fell ! Tis twelve o'clock at noon ; and still Heavily, heavily on the hill The storm outwreaks his wintry will, And flouts the blinded sun ; 198 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And now the base red-coated crew, And the fiends in hell delight to view The sanguine slaughter done. But where be they, the helpless troop, Spared by red murder's ruthless swoop — The feeble woman, the maiden mild. The mother with her sucking child. And all who fled with timely haste From hissing shot, and sword uncased ? Hurrying from the reeking glen. They are fled, some here, some there ; Some have scrambled up the Ben And crossed the granite ridges bare. And found kind word and helping hand On Appin's green and friendly strand ; Some in the huts of lone Glenure Found kindly care and shelter sure. And some in face of the tempest's roar. Behind the shelving Buchailmore, With stumbling foot did onward press To thy Ben-girdled nook, Dalness ; And some huge Cruachan's peak behind Found a broad shield from drift and wind. And warmed their frozen frames at fires Kindled by friendly Macintyres, But most — O Heaven ! — a feeble nation. Crept slowly from the mountain station ; The old, the sickly, and the frail, Went blindly on with staggering trail, The little tender-footed maid. The little boy that loved to wade In the clear waters of the Coe, JOHN STUART BLACKIE 199 Ere blood had stained their amber flow — On them, ere half their way was made, The night came down, and they were laid Some on the scaurs of the jagged Bens, Some in black bogs and stony glens. Faint and worn, till kindly Death Numbed their limbs, and froze their breath. And wound them in the snow. And there they lay with none to know, And none with pious kind concern To honour with a cross or cairn The remnant of Glencoe. And on the hills a curse doth lie That will not die with years ; And oft-times 'neath a scowling sky, Through the black rent, where the torrent grim Leaps 'neath the huge crag's frowning rim, The wind comes down with a moan and a sigh ; And a voice, like the voice of a wail and a cry, The lonely traveller hears, A voice, like the voice of Albyn weeping For the sorrow and the shame That stained the British soldier's name, When kingship was in butcher's keeping, And power was honour's foe ; Weeping for scutcheons rudely torn, And worth disowned and glory shorn. And for the valiant-hearted men That once were mighty in the glen Of lonely, bleak Glencoe. 200 THE SELECTED POEMS OF ANCRUM MOOR A HISTORICAL BALLAD King Henry was a rampant loon, No Turk more bold than he To tread the land with iron shoon And tramp with royal glee. God made him king of England ; there His royal lust had scope Tightly to hold beneath his thumb People and peer and Pope. And bishops' craft and lawyers' craft | Were cobwebs light to him, And law and right were blown like chaff ^ Before his lordly whim. And many a head of saint and sage In ghastly death lay low, That never a man on English ground Might say King Henry no. Now he would swallow Scotland too To glut his kingly maw, And sent his ships, two hundred sail, Bewest North Berwick Law. And he hath sworn by force to weld Two kingdoms into one. When Scotland's Queen with Scotland rights, Is wed to England's son. JOHN STUART BLACKIE • 201 And he hath heaped the quay of Leith With devastation dire, And swept fair Embro's stately town Three days with raging fire. And he hath hired two red-cross loons,* False Lennox and Glencairn, From royal Henry's graceless grace A traitor's wage to earn. And he hath said to the warders twain — Sir Ralph and stout Sir Bryan — * Ride north, and closely pare the claws Of that rude Scottish lion. ' And all the land benorth Carlisle That your good sword secures, Teviotdale and Lauderdale, And the Merse with all its moors. Land of the Douglas, Ker, and Scott, My seal hath made it yours.' And they have crossed from Carter Fell, And laid the fields all bare ; And they have harried Jeddart town, And spoiled the abbey there. * The Border clans who had been induced to side with Henry wore the red cross of St George as a badge to distinguish them from the patriotic party. 202 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And they have ravaged hearth and hall, With steel untaught to spare Or tottering eld, or screaming babe, Or tearful lady fair. And they have come with snorting speed, Plashing through mire and mud, And plunged with hot and haughty hoof Through Teviot's silver flood. And past the stronghold of the Ker * Like rattling hail they pour, Right in the face of Penilheugh, And up to Ancrum Moor. ' Where be these caitiff Scots ? ' outcries Layton, with hasty fume. * There ! ' cries Sir Eure ; * the cowards crouch Behind the waving broom. '■ Have at them, boys ! they may not stand Before our strong-hoofed mass ; Like clouds they come, and like the drift Of rainless clouds they pass ! ' ' Not so, Sir Eure ! ye do not well Thus with light word to scorn The Douglas blood, the strong right arm Of Bruce at Bannockburn. * Ancrum House, now the residence of Sir William Scott of Ancrum, but at the date of the ballad possessed by a branch of the noble race of the Kers. I I iiiw— ^»^J JOHN STUART BLACKIE .203 * Lo ! where they rise behind the broom And stand in bristling pride, Sharp as the jag of a grey sea-crag That flouts the billowy tide. * With six-foot lances sharply set They stand in serried lines, Like Macedonian phalanx old, Or rows of horrid pines.' Sir Eure was hot : he might not hear, Nor pause to weigh the chances, But spurred his steed in mid career Upon the frieze of lances. Madly they plunge with foaming speed On that sharp fence of steel, And on the ground with bleeding flanks, They tumble, toss, and reel Charge upon charge ; but all in vain The red-cross troop advances — Rider and horse, high heaped in death, Lay sprawling 'neath the lances. But what is this that now I see ? In battailous array Matrons and maids from Ancrum town Are mingled in the fray. A goodly band ; not Sparta bred More valiant-hearted maids Than these that front the fight to-day. With pitchforks and with spades. 204 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And as they come, * Broomhouse ! ' they cry ; These butcher loons shall rue Their damnbd force on that fair dame Whom at Broomhouse they slew.* And there stands one, and leads the van, — A Maxton t maid, not tall, But with heroic soul supreme She soars above them all. With giant stroke she flails about, And heaps a score of dead, That bring — oh, woe ! a vengeful troop Upon her single head. With swoop of trenchant blades they come, And cut her legs away, And look that she shall straightway fall On ground and bite the clay. Say, is it by St Bothan's power, Or by St Boswell's grace. That still she fights, and swings her arms. And stoutly holds her place ? I know not ; but true men were there, Who saw her stand a while Fighting, till streams of her brave blood Gave riches to the soil ; * In one of their savage raids the troops of the warder had burnt the tower of Broomhouse, and in it its lady, a noble and aged matron, with her whole family. — Tytler. t A village on the Tweed, about two miles north of Ancrum Moor, once very populous, and still marked by an old cross. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 205 And then she fell ; and true men there, Upon the blood-stained moor Upraised a stone to tell her fame, That ever shall endure. All praise to Humes, and Kers, and Scotts ! But fair Maid Lilliard's deed Shall in green honour keep this spot, While Teviot runs to Tweed ! IPHIGENIA Atris de Kal KKrjSSvas Trarpcpov^ Trap ov8^v aidva Trapdiveidv t idevTO He hath lashed the flood of Helle, bound the billow with a chain ; And the rivers shrink before him, and the sheeted lakes are dry. From his burden-bearing oxen, and his hordes of cavalry ; And the gates of Greece stand open ; Ossa and Olympus fail ; And the mountain-girt ^monia spreads the many- watered vale ; And her troops of famous horse, before the puissant Persian's nod. Flee ; the death-defying Spartans prostrate lie be- neath his rod. Where with fleshy breast they walled thy famous pass, Thermopylae. And the god that shakes Cithaeron feared to block his forceful way ; And the blue-eyed maid of Athens shook not then her heavenly spear. Rock-perched Pallas, when the tread of the high- clambering foe was near ; p 226 THE SELECTED POEMS OF And the sacred snake, huge-twining guardian of the virgin shrine. Where the honeyed cake was waiting, tasted not the food divine ; Stood nor man nor god before him ; he hath scoured the Attic land. Chased the valiant sons of Athens to a barren island's strand ; He hath hedged them round with triremes, lines on lines of bristling war ; He hath doomed the prey for capture; he hath spread his meshes far; And he sits sublimely seated on a throne with pride elate. To behold the victim fall beneath the sudden- swooping Fate. Who may stand against his might? — with thy thin slip of rocky coast, Athens, wilt thou tell thy fifties 'gainst the thou- sands of his host ? All the might of all the Orient, from the Ganges- watered Ind To the isles that fringe the JEgean, 'gainst thy little state combined ; Turbaned Persians, with gay panoply from the gold of distant mines. Host immortal with their wives, and troops of spangled concubines ; Mitred Cissians, high-capped Sacae, and the As- syrian brazen-crested ; JOHN STUART BLACKIE 227 The high-booted Paphlagonian ; the swart Indian cotton-vested ; Shaggy warriors, goatskin-mantled, from the dreary Caspian strand. And the camel-mounted riders from the incense- bearing land, Thracians fierce, with shouts Bacchantic, and more savage war-halloo ; Sacred Tmolus' sons, and Lydia's soft and silken- vested crew ; And the sons of hoariest Thebes, and sacerdotal Memphis, where Gods, in brutish incarnation, bellow through the sacred air; And the sun-scorched, painted Ethiop, with his huge-spanned bow of war. And the woolly-headed Libyan, driving swift the scythed car; And the boatmen of the lowland, that, with fre- quent-beating oar, Plough the pools where floats the lotus, by the fat Nile's peopled shore : Such a crew he drives against thee. 'Neath the dusky-vested Night, He hath ranged them to entrap thee. Now behold the glorious light, Beaming broadly from the chariot of the silver- steeded day. Shows revealed the triple barrier of his ships in close array, 228 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Girdling in the coast of Ajax. Yet no wavering fear is there ; Firmly stands the line of Athens. Hark ! their loud shouts split the air. Not the expected note of terror, not the wild cry of despair; Foolish Xerxes ! 'tis the exultant power that swells strong manhood's breast; 'Tis the broadly-billowed paean from the freemen of the West. ' Sons of the Greeks ! now save your country ! save your wives and children dear ! Save the sepulchres of your fathers ! save the shrines of gods that hear When the patriot prays ! This day makes us free or slaves for ever ! ' On they sail, with steady helming, sworn to die or to deliver. Now they meet. Now beak on beak is furious dashed ; and Sidon old Drives her brazen-breasted triremes 'gainst the ships of Athens bold. A moment equal ; but the Athenian, in the des- perate-handed strife. Wields, as patriots well may wield, a surer sword and sharper knife. On he presses — close and closer; cloven booms and shattered sails. And the frequent-crashing oarage, mark the track where he prevails. I JOHN STUART BLACKIE .229 Ocean seethes beneath his fury ; and the hostile- fretted flood Yawns to drink the reeling Tyrian, and the floun- dering Cyprian's blood. Sobs the wave with drowned and drowning : where the narrow channels flow, Vain the strife with death two-handed, here the water, there the foe. Ship on ship is rudely clashed; for in the narrow strait confined, Room is none to use their numbers; and, with strivings vain and blind. Where they move they clog the movements of the friend they hoped to aid. Where they fight they help the battle of the foe they should have stayed. Vainly, with her Carian triremes, o'er the terror- tangled scene Artemisia rides the battle like an Amazonian queen ; All is reasonless confusion. O'er the purple-stream- ing tide, Helmless ships and shipless pilots struggle with the billows' pride Vainly — for the west wind rising with harsh wing and savage roar Drives the foundered and the drowning countless on the Colian shore. And to crown such wreck and carnage, when the hottest fight was o'er. Rode the Athenian galleys proudly to a rocky islet's shore, 230 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Near to Salamis — there the king, to top the sure deemed victory, Susa's chiefest bloom had stationed ; and in waiting there they he To help their conquering friends, and swell the hoped-for triumph. Them the foe Circle round with bristling beaks, and, where the billowy waters flow. Blast them with the arrowy tempest, crush them with the huge-heaved rock. Mow them down in rows defenceless, like the butch- ered bleating flock. From his throne the monarch sees it, heap on heap of helpless slaughter. With the life of Persia crimsoned far the fair Saronic water. Rend thy robes, thou foolish Xerxes, rend the air with piteous cries ! On the rocky coast of Hellas gashed the pride of Persia lies ! Wake thee ! wake thee ! blinded Xerxes ! God hath found thee out at last ; Snaps thy pride beneath His judgment, as the tree beneath the blast. Haste thee ! haste thee ! speed thy couriers — Persian couriers travel lightly — To declare thy stranded navy, and by cruel death unsightly Dimmed thy glory. Hie thee ! hie thee ! hence e'en by what way thou camest. JOHN STUART BLACKIE 231 Dwarfed to whoso saw thee mightiest, and where thou wert fiercest, tamest ! Hide thee, where blank Fear shall hunt thee, and, more surely to undo thee, Thirst and hunger where thou goest, brothered demons, shall pursue thee. Where Cithaeron dear to Bromius nods his horror- crested wood, To the Phocian, to the Dorian, where Spercheius rolls his flood, Through ^monia steed-delighting, by Magnesia's wave-lashed strand. Through the hardy Macedonian's, through the fierce-souled Thracian's land, By the reedy Bolbe's waters, by the steep Pangaean height, By the stream of holy Strymon thou shalt spur thy sleepless flight. Frost and Fire shall league together, wrathful Heaven to Earth respond, Strong Poseidon with his trident break thy im- pious vaunted bond ; Where he passed, with mouths uncounted eating up the famished land, Now a slender skiff shall ferry Xerxes to the Asian strand Haste thee ! haste thee ! they are waiting by the palace gates for thee, By the golden gates of Susa eager mourners wait for thee ; Haste thee, where the guardian elders wait, a hoary-bearded train ; 232 THE SELECTED POEMS OF They shall see their king, but never see the sons they loved again. Where thy weeping mother waits thee, queen Atossa waits to see Dire fulfilment of her troublous vision-haunted sleep in thee. She hath dreamt, and she shall see it, how an Eagle cowed with awe Gave his kingly crest to pluck before a puny Falcon's claw. Haste thee ! where the mighty shade of great Darius through the gloom Rises dread, to teach thee wisdom, couldst thou learn it, from the tomb. There begin the sad rehearsal, and, while streaming tears are shed. To the thousand tongues that ask thee, tell the myriads of the dead ! Blame the god that so deceived thee — for the mighty men that died Blame all gods that be, but chiefly blame thyself, and thine own pride ! Drown thy sorrow with much wailing ! beat thy breast, thy vesture rend. Tear thy hair, and pluck thy beard — weep till thou hast no tears to spend ; Call the mourning women to thee ! while they lift the Mysian wail. Thou to Susa's sonless mothers pour the sorrow- stieaming tale ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE • 233 POLEMO Afirju d/XT]V X^7w ffoi, cap fxri tis yevvrjdy dvcodeu, ov dvparai idciy T7]v ^aaiXiiap toO Qeov. — ^JOHN iii. 3. Peregrinatus est hie in ncquitid, 7ion habitavit Valerius Maximus 'Tis morn. On Fames, nurse of hardy pines, Gleams the new-started day. And on ^gina's briny water shines The clear far-shimmering ray. 'Neath the old Attic rock white vapours creep And on the dusty road, O'er the meek army of his bleating sheep The shepherd wields his goad. The city sleeps ; save where the market shows The first green-furnished stalls. And from his lair of shelterless repose * The squalid beggar crawls. Who bursts into the peaceful street, with sound Of brawl, and wrangling fray, Rushing with blushless stare and staggering bound. To greet the modest day ? A band of revellers, with torn chaplets crowned ; And at their head I know The rich man's son, for shameless vice renowned. Licentious Polemo 234 THE SELECTED POEMS OF Onward they reel, as whim may point the way ; But he, with firmer pace, Who hath a will strong to assert its sway Even in the drunkard's place. And whither now ? Sometimes God leads a fool To knock at wisdom's door ; And so the reveller rushes to the school Where Plato's holy lore Is taught by sage severe Xenocrates, Who, at that early hour, Mingled wise disputation with the breeze That stirred the learned bower. Amid the listening scholars Polemo Sate down ; and, from his place. With impudent stare his strong contempt did show, In the mild lecturer's face. The teacher saw, nor stirred his soul serene, That reveller to reprove, But changed his theme, and, with unaltered mien. More apt discourse he wove Of temperance, purity, high self-control. Ideal harmonies fine, And all that lifts man's doubtful-swaying soul From bestial to divine. The scoffer heard ; but soon, with softened stare And flinching look, confessed How deep the preacher probed his heart ; for there He felt a strange unrest. JOHN STUART BLACKIE • 235 And as the wise man, with the waxing theme, More grave and weighty grew, With swelhng doubts he felt his bosom teem, His flushed cheek paled its hue. And from his head he plucked the violets blue ; And, as the speaker woke More fretful tempest in his breast, he drew His hand beneath his cloak; And rose ; and stood as one that fronts a foe ; Then, with a sudden turn, Sank ; in a gushing flood the salt tears flow ; And, with wild thoughts that burn, He from the audience rushed. But not his soul From the new awe that found him Might rush ; but, with a tyrannous strong control, Missioned from God, it bound him, And with his mutinous temper wrestled long. Till, like a lamb, he lay ; Then rose, like one with a new nature strong, To a new life that day ; And by the chaste and blue-eyed goddess sware That, from that sacred hour. He the philosopher's sober garb should wear, And walk in learned bower : And, as he sware, so lived, that not a breath Might his pure fame besmirch ; And taught by word, and mightier deed, till death ; A saint in Plato's church. 236 THE SELECTED POEMS OF PROMETHEUS Udaas rix^at ^porrdiaLV 4k Uponr)d4u}S. — ^SCHYLUS Blow blustering winds ; loud thunders roll ! Swift lightnings rend the fervid pole With frequent flash ! his hurtling hail Let Jove down-fling ! hoarse Neptune flail The stubborn rock, and give free reins To his dark steeds with foamy manes That paw the strand ! — such wrathful fray Touches not me, who, even as they, Immortal tread this lowly sod, Born of the gods a god. II Jove rules above ; Fate willed it so. 'Tis well ; Prometheus rules below. Their gusty game let wild winds play, And clouds on clouds in thick array Muster dark armies in the sky ; Be mine a harsher trade to ply. This solid Earth, this rocky frame To mould, to conquer, and to tame ; And to achieve the toilsome plan, My workman shall be man. Ill The Earth is young. Even with these eyes I saw the molten mountains rise JOHN STUART BLACKIE 237 From out the seething deep, while Earth Shook at the portent of their birth. I saw from out the primal mud The reptiles crawl of dull cold blood, While winged lizards with broad stare Peered through the raw and misty air. Where then was Cretan Jove ? where then This king of gods and men ? IV When naked from his mother Earth, Weak and defenceless, man crept forth, And on mis-tempered solitude Of unploughed field and unclipt wood Gazed rudely ; when with brutes he fed On acorns, and his stony bed In dark unwholesome caverns found ; No skill was then to till the ground, No help came then from him above, This tyrannous-blustering Jove. The Earth is young. Her latest birth. This weakling man, my craft shall girth With cunning strength. Him I will take. And in stern arts my scholar make. This smoking reed, in which I hold The empyrean spark, shall mould Rock and hard steel to use of man ; He shall be as a god to plan And forge all things to his desire By alchemy of fire. ^38 THE SELECTED POEMS OF VI These jagged cliffs that flout the air, Harsh granite block so rudely bare. Wise Vulcan's art and mine shall own, To piles of shapeliest beauty grown. The steam that snorts vain strength away Shall serve the workman's curious sway Like a wise child j as clouds that sail White winged before the summer gale, The smoking chariot o'er the land Shall roll, at his command. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks ! my home Stands firm beneath Jove's thundering dome. This stable Earth. Here let me work ! The busy spirits, that eager lurk Within a thousand labouring breasts. Here let me rouse ; and whoso rests From labour let him rest from life. To live 's to strive ; and in the strife To move the rock, and stir the clod, Man makes himself a god. THE NAMING OF ATHENS llapd^voL 6fi^po