■■ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES BALLADS AND SONNETS. ^iS**^ BALLADS AND SONNETS. BY ALEXANDER ANDERSON. (" Surfaceman ") A.UTHOR OF "SON'US OF THE RAIL," "THE TWO ANGELS," " A SONG OF LABOUR,' AND OTHER POEM?. bonbon : M A C M ILLAN AND CO. 1879. T ! ie Righl 0/ Translation and Reproduction is Resetted, , AMI l.l. V 1111. 1.. 1° vO K5A& DEDICATION TO ARCHIBALD CAMERON CORBETT. i. r ~PHIS, with the memory of that sweet day, When all the placid dreamings of each hill Were deep within us, and the thoughts that fill And widen out our being, as the grey Morning unfolds itself- before the light. For at our feet, and all between us two, Lay the pure grave of Wordsworth in our view, All green and dewy with the tears of night We felt as if the spirit of the place Were with us. We were one with all sweet things- Stream, hill, and lake, had each their tender claim To proffer, and their voices, like the strings Of some great harp, were sounding forth one name, While nature knelt and look'd up in our face. 775444 vi DEDICATU ii. Our old life fled, and, like a tiling forgot, Lay with the yesterdays that make the past. While over all, like purer light, was i ■ placid consecration of the spot. And as a mother leads with winning speech The footsteps of her child, so he who still Remains the poet priest of stream and hill, Led us away into the higher reach Where spirit touches spirit, till we saw A newer meaning on the very grass, Whose freshness was the colour of his art, A glory in mute things, a sacred awe ( If some high end in all that is and was, \nd still he kept his hand upon our heart. in. 1 so I give, in token of that hour, This simple book of early song to thee, Sung in far years that had a richer dower, And brought twelve Mays instead of one to me. Phe gift is nothing— for to me it seems Mere spindrift from ihose mighty wav< ong, DEDICATION. vii Heard in my youth, as sailors hear in dreams, The booming of the sullen ocean, strong For conflict with the shore. But thou and I Can only feel the link that lies in This, — The interchange of thought, the quiet bliss, And all the silent rapture of the sky, While at our feet, as earnest of that trust, Which is of faith and love — the poet's dust. CONTEXTS. IN ROME I AGNES DIED . « 2 ~ BLOOD ON THE WHEEL 39 CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE 45 BLIND MATTHEW - 2 ADA 5- JENNY WI' THE AIRX TEETH 59 JAMIE'S WEE CHAIR . . . , 62 A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS 66 CUDDLE DOON 8 1 ALEXIS 84 DAFT AILIE . . ' 96 MAY MIDDLETON'S TAM I05 JOHN KEATS Ill THE ENGINE I15 THE CUCKOO 121 LOOK TO THE EAST 1 24 b x >NTENTS. THE DEIL'S STANE 128 THE MOTHER AM) 1IIK ANGE1 I3§ THE OPEN SECRET '40 1 II I PIRIT OF THE V. - U4 NOTTMAN 14 ( ' SUMMER INVOCATION '5' READING THE LOOK. I5 6 ■ NETS TO A PICTURE 15$ SONNETS TO A PICTURE l6l THE RED LEAF 164 HE CAME FROM A LAMJ 1 67 A PARTING 17° WHERE I AM LYING NOW 17- A MEMORY 174 AGNES '77 MARY ISO THE WORSHIP OK SORROW 182 EARLY POET LIFE 185 I ME LOST EDEN FOUND AGAIN 1 89 OVER THE SEA, ANNIE " 191 SONNETS TO A FRIEND 193 BALLADS AND SONNETS. IN ROME. A POEM IN SONNETS. "Roma! Roma! Roma! Non e piu come era prima ! " nrO-MORROW I will be in Rome, and thou Within thy village. I can see thee stand. Thine eyes in the direction of this land : Fair pillar of the past, as it is now The refuge of its heirlooms. In my ears I hear thee speaking as upon that day We parted, saying — " When thou goest away To make a golden epoch in thy years By travel, speak not of the Rhine's swift roll, Mont Blanc, the Jungfrau, or the Alps that rise Like icy Titans, nor of sunset skies; But when thou reachest Rome let all thy soul Fly to the past, and as it speaks to thee From out its temples, speak thou so to me.'' B IN ROME. II. The one dream of our boyhood ! Dost thou not Remember how we stood in mimic fight, \n v > lenchless but with himself. Lo I how it turns From the high Creek and all his higher -low. And, shooting onward to a sister clime. Crowns with no stint a later Angelo. Ml. I he thoughts that only male with gods alone And all that high conception when the mind books heavenward for a model to its kind ( )f what a god may be, meet here in stone. The Sun Cod ! Dost thou not behold him now With head thrown back, as if his native sky 11 id come, in some wild moment, all too nigh, IN ROME. 9 Then fled, but left its splendours on his brow? Thou glorious Archer ! In that awful hour, Granted by Heaven, did the sculptor kneel Before his chisel touch'd the virgin block, Feeling thy presence give consent and power? We know not. We can only see and feel That Heaven's fire with his sped every stroke. XIII. Back to the grand Apollo ! Tell me not A mortal had to do with this. I know That if a god content him here below, A mightier one must bind him to the spot. Can this be genius that can so enthral, And lift us, Mahomet-like, until we feel The very heaven around us, and we reel In the delight of worship? Who can call This splendid triumph stone ? Say rather we Behold a god who came to men, and met His punishment in marble • yet he lives While we, with all our throbbing being set, Worship with the bold thought that it may be Idolatry that Heaven itself forgives. io IX ROME. XIV. I turn'd from the Apollo with my mind Back to the Venus. I can sec her now- Looking at me with that divine-like brow Round which the adoring world will ever bind Its love for ages. All that hath been sung Since Time grew up to manhood lingers round That snowy form, that ever seems spell-bound In its own whiteness, and for ever young. We lose our being as we look and wear Into her beauty, and become as naught ; We are the stone, and she the glowing thought. For ever with us and for ever lair, — Goddess of Love — and we who stand but seem To touch the confines of her endless dream ! XV. I see her yet — the glorious shape to which The pilgrim fondly wanders ! Let me kneel, As if in that one act my soul could feel .And, all miraculously lifted, reach The sculptor's height in that impassion'd hour When the fair dream the world will not let die Took shape in stone, as if a god were nigh, IN ROME. ii Limb, breast, and brow asserting conscious power And claiming worship. O ! did she l look thus In that sweet hour, when glowing from her flight She knelt by pale Endymion in delight, Kissing his brow and lip, and tremulous With sighs from heaven, whisper, "It is he, The Latmian ! "—and so let her passion free. XVI. I stood before the Laocoon, and felt A soul move in the stone ; as if the pain For ever prison'd there had power to melt And fuse itself in double strength again Into the gazer as he stands, and feels The marble horror catch his breath until He sinks, and, in his very weakness, reels Before that form those coilings never kill. Look on the father who with quivering form Strives to unlace the strain that never slips, But keeps eternal clasp upon the place; A Ahile all the agony, like a lake in storm, Moves from huge limbs to straining finger tips, Then makes a dread Vesuvius of the face. 1 Diana. 12 IN* KOMI. XVII. Temple of all the gods! and hero the dust Of one reposes, who with early fame Went into death, and left behind the name ( )f Raphael, to defy the years' quick rust. How shall we name him who with quick, pure eyes Snv Heaven's Divinest, and in earth-made hues Painted the glory of His look, as dews Catch the first light that falls from summer skies? Sav, poet of Christ in colours, who stood near The light of Heaven, until its very siren Took him all kindly to itself at length, Yet left him not, but went before his bier, And, souHikc in that work, 1 his last and best/ Saw the great Master enter into rest. XVIII. 2 I'ne stone rolls from His feet like mountain mist . Before Him, ghostdike, in the vanquish'd tomb. The bands of linen lie within the gloom — 1 The Transfiguration. - One of Raphael's pictures, unfortunately lost or destroyed, was tlic Resurrection of our Saviour, who is represented bursting out of the sepulchre, "perhaps," says the authoress of Rome in the Nine- \th Ciii/ury, " one of the grandest concept! >ns in the world." IN ROME. 13 White pledges of the newly-risen Christ. He comes forth ! from the splendour of His brow Gethsemane and the Cross have fled. He stands, A halo of love around Him, as His hands Clasp each in prayer ; God's early morning glow Falls on Him, matching in those deep, sad eyes The light of conquest gain'd for all our race, As if God bent Himself, and from above Shed on Him all the glory of the skies; While the earth, dumb at such astounding love, Turns round to gaze for ever on His face. XIX. Here on this spot the heroic martyr 1 stood, God's fire upon his brow and in his heart, As the two gladiators drew apart Glaring at each in their wild thirst for blood. Lo ! as the ages joll aside their gloom We see him yet ; the hero as he sinks Keeps to his purpose born of Christ, nor shrinks Though human tigers track him to his doom. Talk of this planet's holy spots ! my feet Within this amphitheatre are on 1 Telernachus. u IN ROMI . Its holiest, for a brother here alone Stood up for God and man, till in the heat Of Roman thirst for blood he sank, and pass'd, An early Livingstone, but not the last. xx. I saw the stage of Time, and on it kings Strutted and fought, then laid them on the bed Of earth, that took them, like the blood they shed, Kindly; and they were with forgotten things. Then nations rose, who, branching out became The very backbone of the universe. They reach'd their bloom until, as when a curse Withers, they shrank and dwindled like a flame That lacks fresh fuel. All this while I saw Shadows creep o'er their ruins, and in awe I turn'd to Time, and ask'd him to define These shadows ; and he answer'd thus to me — "These are the forecasts of great worlds to be;'' I woke, and I was on the Palatine. XXI. Arc nations, then, like flowers that have their bloom, Dying, as the still centuries pass away 5 IN ROME. 15 Alas ! behind their acme lurks the doom To write its " Mene " on corroding clay. Belief, whether it be in gods or God, Can still work miracles ; but it it fail, And Argus doubt with poisonous darts assail Its inmost hold ; then realms and men corrode. The Past behind thee teaches this. Look back ! Lo ! from the wreck of worlds stand Greece and Rome With pleading silence in their eyes, whose track Shows what may be when doubt has found a home. I stood in Rome, but, when this came to me, My England ! I was looking back to thee. XXII. Two of great England's singers, lying each By each : one rose up wroth at human wrong, And hung half-way to heaven in his song, Till the heart burst in his desire to teach The melody he heard from where he was. The other wander'd to the early past, Yearning with a boy's ardour to recast Its mythologic utterances. But as The sun takes dews, so did their beauty him ; He pass'd, leaving behind sweet words that must iG IN KOMI . For ever keep him here. The other, too, Left melody that still will float and swim ; Aerial mist with heaven shining through, And here a little space divides their dust. XXIII. Cor Cordium, thou art near to Shelley's heart; Stop, if thou canst, the beatings of thine own, For here a purer beats a perfect part, \nd models thought upon a purer tone. Ay, Shelley's heart, it may be naught to thee, But in it lay the light which, though unseen, Had the full stamp of that which is to be — It now is, but the earth is all between. 1 claim no tears for him. If thou art one Who hears between the breathing of the years. Thou shalt not miss his music ; if alone, It shall be sweeter and seem from the spheres : For his was from the higher realm of good Brought down to men, not to be understood. xxi\. And wilt thou go away from Rome, nor see The resting place of Keats, from whom thy soul IN ROME. 17 Took early draughts of worship and control — A pilgrim thou, and from beyond the sea? I turn'd, and stood beside his grassy grave. Almost within the shadow of the wall Honorian ; and as kindred spirits call Each unto each, my own rose up to crave A moment's sweet renewal by the dust Of that high interchange in vanish' d time, When my young soul was reeling with his prime ; But now my manhood lay across that trust. Ah ! had I stood here in my early years, This simple headstone had been wet with tears. xxv. I go, for wider is the space that lies Between the sleeper in his grave and me ; I look back on my golden youth, but he Cannot look backward with less passion'd eyes. There is no change in him ; the fading glory Of mighty Rome's long triumph is around, But cannot come anear or pierce the bound Of this our laurell'd sleeper, whose pale story Takes fresher lustre with the years that fly. c iS IN ROME. But Roman dust upon an English heart Is naught, yet this is Keats's, and a part Of England's spirit. With a weary sigh I turn from sacred ground, and all the way Two spirits were with me— Keats and David Gray. XXVI. I left the crowd to. its own will, and mused Upon thy village life, that scarcely opes One pathway for the liberal thought, nor copes With the result that broadens; but suffused With straiten'd range of thought, keeps on, nor sees The world with proper vision. Creeds and sects Are here, still seeing within each defects, And men will battle to the last for these. It will be so. Yet think, ere we condemn, What our faith is to us is theirs to them ; And so grow broad with sympathy, nor sink Into the barren pasture of old saws, But think that God will open up His laws, And tell us we are safer than we think. XXVII. Tiber ! thy city's great have sunk and died Making her famous, yet thou rollest on IN ROME. 19 (For time shrinks back from nature) ; in thy tone To me, a pilgrim standing by thy side, A threnody comes forth and fills my ears ; And all the heroic annals of the past Rise up, as if the hand of time had cast Its fingers on the keyboard of the years, Hymning their changes. What a mighty reach From the wild, fierce, wolf-suckled twins until Seven hills saw mighty Rome repose on each — Gateway to worlds which she oped at will, But now for ever shut, and in her ken No " sesame " to open them again ! XXVIII. Tiber ! before I pass away from thee, One other dream. I stand with half-shut eye, And hear a mighty army's vaunt and cry; Then see within the pass the heroic Three. Hark to the clang that strikes against the bridge That shakes (such strength was in a Roman's blow, When faith was potent centuries ago); Then the loud crash, as two from off its ledge Leap among friends. But where is he, the best, c 2 2o IN ROME. The mightiest — Horatius? In thy wave He plunges, and around him thou dost lave Thy yellow surges on his mailed breast. Thy foam is on his beard, he gains the land. Thou Roman ! and I stretch him forth my hand. XXIX. Who rests within this soil must slumber well, For on it the sad, earnest past hath shed Its holiest consecration, and the dead Know it, and beneath can feel its spell ; To die, then, and to rest in Roman mould Were something : wearing into all the past, Whose glory like a sunbeam backward cast Might keep the heart from ever growing cold. It is as if the spirit of ancient Rome Unveiling all its glory, cried — "Come ye And look upon me, but in looking die, And let thy dust within my shadow lie, While the soul flying from its first found home Comes to me with the dreams it had of me." XXX. 1 lean bark. I am ripe for dreams to-day ; For who that rests beneath a skv like this IiN ROME. 21 Could shirk their soft existence, and so miss Communings that etherealise the clay? Rome is her own wide grave, and there can be No aftermath for her. The wise and good — Her foster-children — claim' d it as they stood. Through the spent avalanche of the years I see The light of each great soul, and, dreaming on, What Rome was sinks, as if to make a base To the grand structure of the mind which God Seals as a symbol of Himself alone ; I enter; though I cannot see His face I know that I am near His pure abode. XXXI. Roma ! Roma ! Roma ! Thus my lips Took the soft language of the glowing skies Of Italy. A stranger with dim eyes Takes leave of thee, and like a shadow slips From thy fair presence. With me I had brought Dreams of my boyhood, and I take away Others of sadder colour, as one may When leaving the still room wherein our thought Is with the sainted dead. But as I go 22 IN ROME. I feel that ever after in my breast What Rome has been, and is, will take its rest, And be a picture in me, with the glow Of sunset over it. Her mighty great Are with her to the end, above her fate. XXXII. The ruins of years — nay, Time himself — are here : I sit within them ; but the brooding heart Wanders to Florence, to become a part ( )t one, by whom, as we walk with our peer, Sorrow went forth, nor left him till he died — Dante, upon whose cheek the grime of hell Seems half-wash'd off by the hot tears that fell At sight of those that wail'd on either side. lie stood in heaven with that spot, but still The effluence from the celestial glow ( )f her who led him, made him feel the ill He left behind on earth. So stern yet meek He went, not looking up, but bent his brow, Conscious of all the stains upon his cheek. XXXIII. Florence I they cried, and as they spoke, I stood, And said— the quick tears filling up my eyes — IN ROME. 23 Dante's lost city, which, with life-long sighs, He yearn'd for, and from which the sullen brood Of factions drove him. Had he found this home, One marvel less had been in books, and we Had seen no vision of the world to be, Or known how far thought can be made to roam. Dante's lost city ! In these words we feel That lone worn spirit of his break forth in sighs, And all our own half-smitten, till we reel, Seeing those eyes that seem so sunk and dull, By looking on the gnawing of the skull, 1 Or blinded by the light of Paradise. XXXIV. Infinite sorrow, like a martyr's crown, Rests upon Dante. And those stern sad eyes Can hide it not, though ever looking down, While those of Beatrice pierce the seventh skies. Dost thou remember how we stood, and kept Our gaze upon the picture where the two Were thus seen ? She so pure and sweet to view : He earthy, though within the heavens. I wept, 1 La bocca sollevo dal fiero pasto Quel peccator, &c. — Inferno. Canto xxxiii. 24 IN ROME. Touch'd with the spirit of his grief, which spoke To mine, until when from my trance I woke 1 heard thee say — " In these two arc express' J The higher and the lower nature, which, Being within us, we are claim'd by each, Like the two spirits in Faust's weary breast." XXXV. The rapt diviner poets struggle still, Like angels with one wing, to reach their heaven, Though it may be with dust-soil'd pinion, till Death pities, and the other wing is given. This earth is not for them, and when they come They stand as strangers, till, at last, they speak Their mission in keen words, through which we hear The low deep yearning to regain their home, That, though they stand on earth, is ever near, Till the light fades upon their brow and cheek ; Then Heaven takes back its own that was so sweet. In this thought I can lie in Italy, And roll aside part of the sky, ami see Beatrice with Dante at her feet. IN ROME. XXXVI. 25 In England now ! and yet the Rome I left Follows me like a shadow. I can still Limn forth those ruins, which men's hands and skill Made for the ages. But the Goth hath cleft His ruthless way, and Time has followed him. The Forum, Colosseum, Capitol, The palace of the Caesars dark and dim, The Circus and the Pantheon, the soul Of what Rome was, her temples — all is dead But that which was of Heaven; the far thought Of poet, sage, historian, still have part In all the present ; Sculpture bows her head, And full-eyed Painting, with her glorious art, Puts down her footstep, hallowing all the spot. XXXVII. To-morrow I will be with thee, and break Upon thy silence, and thy treasured books. In fancy I can see thy eager looks And hear thy sudden questions, as we take Our evening walk adown the little street. 26 IN ROME. How did I feel when in the evening hour I stood within the Forum, with the power Of Cicero upon me? Did my feet I [alf shrink to touch the ground where the abodes ( )f men had been who were fit mates for gods? And last — What have you brought me ? For I crave Some souvenir of fallen Rome, and I, Knowing thy early worship will reply — A wither'd violet from Keats's grave. AGNES DIED. A pure sweet one that came but for a while, As flowers come, and then went back to heaven, To whom, as light unites in light, was given The gentle purpose, and the tender smile Of all fair things ; who, dying, left behind The gracious memory of all her ways, The quiet raptures of melodious days, The folded blossom of her child-like mind. And I who still remain can feel the band Of her fair life on mine, as from the skies We feel the sunshine which we walk among, Nay, more ; if I could touch the spirit-land, To look for Agnes in the sinless throng, I know I still should know her from her eyes. T KNOW not how it is, but all the past Is with me, speaking of its early things, As old men like to talk about their youth. And in its voice a clearer, sweeter chord Is heard, and I, half in a waking dream, Musing upon the music, think a while Like one who on a sudden sees two paths Before him, and, uncertain which to take, 28 AGNES DIED. Halts for a moment till his eye alights On some familiar mark or shape of hill Seen years before, and straightway goes his way ; So, thinking on that voice, a gracious time Comes back, and in its light I stand, and say, A touch of sorrow in my whisper, " Strange That there should be so much to move my soul In words so plain and simple — Agues died." Hut let me trace a pathway through the years, Whose tombs are pillars bearing up the past, And lay my hand upon that time when she Knew not the shadow creeping on her cheek, I hilling its roses, but in happy strength Met the sweet brow of every day that brought Glad youth and all its fairy world to her. The first of our acquaintance sprung from where Most human friendships spring — the school, and we. Half shy and strange at first, broke up the ground With words of little use to older heads, \nd questions, such as owe their birth to all The inventive gift of children free to choose What their quick fancy thinks is best; and now You may be looking for a long account AGNES DIED. 29 Of wandering slowly home in afternoons, Amid the loyal waste of summer light ; Of holidays in which we tasted heaven ; Of the long looking forward to that time When six weeks made us like the kings and queens In olden stories which when brought to mind Bring back the child into our heart once more, And all again is sunshine. But, alas, I lack the fitting dress of words — not thought — For, looking back, the glory of that time Rises like light upon the dark, and makes A halo round it, beautiful and bright, As if we saw the sun through our own tears. So we grew up, and with the kindly years Our friendship grew the stronger, and I watch'd With a boy lover's eye the opening bud Of her sweet spirit ; saw its infant germ Expand beneath the breathing of the years, Touch the soft outline of her gentle form, And tint the cheek with colour like the rose When first it breaks its little cell of green ; So I, who made her centre of my thought, Became her worshipper; for when we know 3 o AGNES DIED. The purity of that to which we bow We grow sincere indeed. And she was all That one might picture Eve to be when in The slumber of her Paradise she woke, And found herself within the clasp of flowers. What wonder, then, if Agnes, yet a child, Was to me all I wish'd for, that my life Took half its being from the warmth of hers ; That all my motions were as if her eyes Kept watch upon me ; that my sleep became The silent picture of the day, and set The sweet rehearsal of my waking thoughts Before me in the fairy hue of dreams ; That her sweet voice made all my pulses thrill While the light touch of her ethereal hand Made the heart quicken, as beneath the shock Of strangely started fears or open wrong. O ! love like this is worth ten years of all The staider bearing of a sober manhood. And if, perchance, we smile at all the warmth Of boyish passion in those early days, It reaches further than the lips, and in The heart we feel the sadness living on, AGNES DIED. 31 Crown'd with the vain regret, the broken light Of an existence only to be seen Lighting some distant peak within the heart. So I in Agnes found another life, And felt the wonder of another land, As if an angel had come down from heaven To fill me with a little of his joy. But did her eyes find out this love of mine, And catch the worship which I wrapp'd her in? This was the question which I ask'd myself, But found no fitting answer to reply ; For she partook so much of simple things, And had such purity of thought and speech, That if a thought of love had wing'd its flight Across the open spaces of her heart, It would have lost itself at once within The fair fresh foliage of its innocent depths, As when a bird will fly across a vale And sink from sight amid a wealth of leaves. Thus thought I, as the happy days flew on, Flinging their sweetest light on me, until A shadow fell upon my heart, and struck The blossoms I had form'd, as when a hand Strikes all unwittingly a feeble rose, $2 AGNES DIED. Whose leaves — full spent and ripe — fling down at once Their rosy graces on the heedless ground. For Agnes changed, and yet no change I knew, But still it was a change, for which no name Grew on the lip ; a fear, a little hint, The shadow of a shadow, yet afar, The unseen touch of some sweet angel's hand, That none could see but Death— who, passing by. Stood for a moment ere he went away And left his smile to mingle with her own. But let me try to paint that one sweet day We spent within the woods, before her strength Grew a soft traitor, and confined her steps To the hush'd precincts of her sacred room. The sun was bright that day, and all the sky C.limmer'd like magic with its sunniest light, As if it knew that I, in later times, Would look back on that fading light, and sigh, And sadden at that splendour sunk in death. We took our way along a path which kept Our footsteps by a lake, wherein was seen A little island dripping to the edge With golden lilies, double in their bloom ; AGNES DIED. 33 When some, more amorous than the rest, leant o'er And nodded to their shadows seen below. The coot came forth at times to show the speck Of white upon his wings, then swept away Behind the twisted roots. The silent heron, Amid the tiny pillars of the reed, Kept eager watch, nor stirr'd upon his post, But stood a feather'd patience waiting prey; While in the woods the birds, as if ashamed Of all their silence through the silent night, Gave forth in concert one great gush of song, That flooded all things, till the very leaves Flutter'd to find a voice to vent their joy. We heard the piping of the amorous thrush — The bird that sings with all his soul in heaven — The mellow blackbird, and the pert redbreast, Whose song was bolder than his own bright eye ; While fainter notes of lesser choristers Came in like semitones to swell the whole ; While over all, to crown this one great song, The lark — the grey Apollo of his race, The feather'd Pan, the spirit clad in song — High up, and in the very sight of heaven, Pour'd downward with the brightness of the smiles D ■i AGNES DIED. I 'i angels all his spirit, le Whether his song belong'd to God or us. And there we sat within the woods, and saw The lake between the trees, and now and then The gentle shadow of a cloud above Passing along its bosom, as a thought Across the calmness of a poet's brow. And all around the lilies grew, and on The bank beside us, rearing its sweet head. The azure fairy of the woodland grass, That has a spot of heaven for its eye, The violet nestled, while, close by its side, The primrose, yellow star of earth's green sky, I'eep'd up in quick surprise, and, further on, \n orchis, like the fiery orb of Mars, Rose up with purple mouth agape to catch All murmurs and all scents that came its way. So in this Paradise we sat, until We broke the silence with soft speech, to fit The purer thought which, at the golden touch Of the pure tilings beside US, grew within, Blowing to instant blossom. Then our talk 'look simple bounds, and, with a fond delight, AGNES DIED. 35 We touch'd on all the heart will think, when youth Ranges throughout its chambers; like to one Who dares the sanctity of some fair room. And finds in every corner fresh delight. But I was bound by one great spell which she Knew nothing of. I could not speak my love. Nor could she see it, though in that sweet guise In which we hide it only to be seen. And so the converse sped — now quick at times, Now slow, and then an interval in which We went through all the paths of spoken thought. Making the pleasure double by retouching In silence the past interchange of words. We felt the welcome of the summer day, We heard its music rising everywhere; Yet strange that all our thoughts should slip away And strike a chord that beat not unison With all this joy; for from our dreams and smiles We shrunk, and, with a shadow in our eyes, We struck upon the cypress'd edge of death. Then solemn grew our converse, and she spoke In low, sweet whispers, which to me were spells Of deeper quiet, as she strove to make D 2 . !.s DIED. A land wherein a great world moves like ours I >istinct and clear to all the grosser eye ; And simple as hers. If she painted heaven. She knew not, as she .spoke, how all my heart Follow'd her words, and hung upon their tones Helpless, and with no wish to change the t Hut catch the eloquence of what she spoke, For truth lives nowhere but in simple words. I hear her voice again this very hour] Clear and distinct, as if the death it wore Made it the clearer, even as two friends, Apart from each, but with a lake between, Will keep up converse, losing not a word, Because the faithful waters lie between. So the pure essence of an unseen sweetness, breathing out odours from the land of death, Speaks to me, and my spirit at each word Wafted from lips that have no human breath, Sighs like green leaves beneath the summer rain When all the clouds are weeping tears of joy. but let me to the end, nor lengthen out This memory only for myself, for dreams Bring to the dreamers only pain or joy. AGNES DIED. In two weeks after, all I held as sweet And pure of Agnes was within the grave. For since time found a being comes this truth, The sweetest heart within the sweetest breast Beats not a tune to gain the ear of Death. So Agnes died, as flowers will die when frost Falls, ere the sun is up, upon their bloom ; Or when some curious hand will open up The undeveloped bud, that by its hue The eye may picture forth the perfect flower, And shape a pleasure for the coming years. Thus into the great garden of this life Came Death, and, lighting with an eager eye Upon the bud I thought would bloom for me, He prest aside the leaves that hid as yet The glorious promise of a glorious flower, Letting its unripe fragrance sink and die Upon the bosom of the careless air, And so despoil'd it ; leaving unto me > The scatter'd leaves to gather up at will. So Agnes went away, when all her life Stood like a prophet, mixing in its cup Rare hopes, and novel tasks, and gentle dreams, That took their colour from her own pure heart ; 3 S AGNES DIED. And just as she had raised it to her lips To touch the golden nectar, lo ! it fell In rainbow pieces at her stricken feet; And from the fragments lying now in dust, As jewels glimmer through the barren sand, I lave I shaped out this sacred memory Of her who rose upon my young pure life First planet there, as in the midnight sky A meteor lingers till it grasps the sight, Then shooting paler light across the heaven, Fades, as a smile might from an angel's lips, Behind the silver fretwork of the stars. BLOOD ON THE WHEEL. '' T)LESS her dear little heart!" said my mate, and he pointed out to me, Fifty yards to the right, in the darkness, a light burning steady and clear. ''That's her signal in answer to me, when I whistle, to let me see She is at her place by the window the time I am passing here." I turn'd to look at the light, and I saw the tear on his cheek — - He was tender of heart, and I knew that his love was lasting and strong — But he dash'd it off with his hand, and I did not think fit to speak, But look'd right ahead through the dark, as we clank'd and thunder'd along. 4 o BLOOD ON THE WHEE1 They had been at the school, the two, and had run, like a single life, Through the mazes of childhood up to the sweetei and firmer prime, And often he told me, smiling, he had promised to make her his wife, In the rambles they had for nuts In the woods in the golden autumn time. " I must make," he would add, " that promise good in the course of a month or two ; And then, when I have her safe and sound in a nook of the busy town, No use of us whistling then, Joe, lad, as now we in cline to do, For a wave of her hand, or an answering light as we thunder up and down." Well, the marriage was settled at last, and I was to stand by his side, Take a part in the happy rite, and pull from his hand the glove; And still as we joked between ourselves, he would say, in his manly pride, BLOOD ON THE WHEEL. 41 That the very ring of the engine-wheels had some- thing in them of love. At length we had just one run to make before the bridal took place, And it happen'd to be in the night, yet merry in heart we went on ; But long ere he came to the house, he was turning each moment his face To catch the light by the window, placed as a bea- con for him alone. "Now then, Joe," he said, with his hand on my arm, " keep a steady look out ahead While I whistle for the last time ; " and he whistled sharply and clear ; But no light rose up at the sound ; and he look'd with something like dread On the white-wash'd walls of the cot, through the gloom looking dull, and misty, and drear. But lo ! as he turn'd to whistle again, there rose on the ni?ht a scream, 42 BLOOD ON THE WHEEL. And I rush'd to the side in time to catch the flutter of something white ; Then a hitch through the engine ran like a thrill, and in haste he shut off the steam, "While we stood looking over at each with oui hearts beating wild with affright. The station was half a mile ahead, but an age seem'd to pass away Ere we came to a stand, and my mate, as a drunken man will reel, Rush'd on to the front with his lamp, but to bend and come back and say, In a whisper faint with its terror — "Joe, come and look at this blood on the wheel." ( heat heaven ! a thought went through my heart like the sudden stab of a knife, While the same dread thought seem'd to settle 0:1 him and palsy his heart and mind. For he went up the line with the haste of one who is rushing to save a life, And with the dread shadow of what was to be I follow'd closely behind. BLOOD ON THE WHEEL. 43 What came next is indistinct, like the mist on the mountain side — Gleam of lights and awestruck faces, but one thing can never grow dim : My mate, kneeling down in his grief like a child by the side of his mangled bride, Kill'd, with the letter still in her hand she had wish'd to send to him. Some little token was in it, perhaps to tell of her love and her truth, Some little love-errand to do ere the happy bridal drew nigh ; So in haste she had taken the line, but to meet, in the flush of her fair sweet youth, The terrible death that could only be seen with a horror in heart and eye. Speak not of human sorrow — it cannot be spoken in words ; Let us veil it as God veil'd His at the sight of His Son on the cross. For who can reach to the height or the depth of those infinite yearning chords 44 IM.OOD ON THE W HEEL. Whose tones reach the very centre of heaven v, swept by the fingers of loss ? She sleeps by the little ivied church in which she had bow'd to pray — Another grave close by the side of hers, for he died of a broken heart, Wither'd and shrunk from that awful night like the autumn leaves in decay, And the two were together that death at first had shaken so roughly apart But still, when I drive through the dark, and that night comes back to my mind, 1 can hear the shriek take the air, and beneath m< fancy I feel The engine shake and hitch on the rail, while hollow voice from behind Cries out, till I leap on the footplate, " Joe, come and look at this blood on the wheel ! " CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE. TT is a pleasant thing to rhyme, Providing it but bring you money; But sweeter still to pass the time In building fabrics high and sunny. Alnaschar, ere he bent his knee To give a climax to his lecture, Could by no chance have mated me At atmospheric architecture. From early boyhood I began To follow Vathek, and erected A goodly pile, upon a plan That was not with due care inspected. I rear'd up columns rich with fret, And all the cunning of the gilder ; But somehow, to my deep regret, They always fell upon their builder. t CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE. I rear*d in many a forest black Huge castles by deep moats defended; \nd strode their master, mail on back, With half-a-dozen knights attended. We sat, like those of Branksome Hall, In armour, just as we were able, And drank red wine from goblets tall, And clash'd mail'd hands across the table. From this you cannot fail to guess That I was with the Middle Ages, Ami never was at ease unless With stately dames and graceful pages. But what with manhood sober'd down, Those dreams that made me so despotic Have burst their chrysalis, and flown, And left me others less Quixotic. And now, when in my building mood, And all my whims have free expansion, I shape within a sober wood An old discolour'd Gothic mansion. You scarce can see it for the trees That kindly interlace their branches, CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE. 47 Through which the sunshine slips at ease, And falls in sunnv avalanches. Around are long and shady walks, That lead in many a quaint direction — Fit haunts for sage who sighs and talks, And shakes his head as in dejection ; Or some bold poet, when his thought Was at its swiftest mood for seizing The glowing images it sought, And mould them into something pleasing. Clear leaping fountains here and there Through all the summer day are playing; Soft winds are coming through the air, That bring sweet incense in their straying. And statues from the Greek are set — Aglow with all their snowy graces — In nooks where drooping leaves are met, And half conceal them in their places. But in my own sweet sanctum, where No outer noise dare make intrusion, / 4 8 CHATEAUX IX ESPAGN] . You ought to pay a visit ther And sec the poet in seclusion. The rich light falls upon the wall, Then fades away to something fainter. Before white marble busts, and all The masterpieces of the painter. Here as you enter, on your left A Goethe stands, whose marble vision Seems still to keep that light which cleft Through all this life with such precision. While on your right, with upturn'd brow, A Schiller stands, with noble presence, To teach one all the upward glow Revolving round the purer essence. Then right before me where I sit A Milton looks across to Dante, Whose brows contract, as loth to fit The slender sprig of laurel scanty. These two would always catch my eye "U'hen looking up for inspiration, \i.(l teach me, when the mood was high, To mould the keen imagination. CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE. 49 In every nook within the room My favourite books get sacred lodgment— Word-webs from the brain's restless loom, Spun out with truth and sober judgment. A hundred spirits there repose, Who, at my slightest will and pleasure, As Ariel did at Prospero's, Kneel down and offer up their treasure. Like Southey, all my days would be Among the dead, but that is lying; The mighty dead, it seems to me, Are those that only are undying. Of course they take our death, a pain Which we, as humankind, inherit, And pass for ever, to remain Swift's struldbritgs living in the spirit. But I digress. Not all alone Am I within this learned palace, For, as the twilight wanders on And feels along the distant valleys, The door creeps softly back, and then A fairy creature growing bolder E 50 ( HATEAUX EN ESPAGN1 . Comes in, and, soft as falling rain, Lays both her hands upon my shoulder. Then turning round, I see a face Where love with rounded youth is blended. And all the nameless winning grace, Above my own all softly bended ; And, ere I can get time to speak, Or smile a welcome at the meeting, Two little lips, all coy and meek, Against my own press rosy greeting 'to- Then, sitting on my knee, she slips One arm around me, while the other Comes down, until her finger tips Are in my beard to plague and bother. And still she whispers, while her look Turns sad to see* my deep abstraction — " Come, take a rest, your last new book Might surely give you satisfaction." But just as I put up my hand To brin- her head a little nearer. CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE. 51 To kiss the lips that so command, And tell her she is growing dearer — Beim liimmel ! swift as lightning flies, My statues, mansion, wife and fountains Dissolve, and I — I rub my eyes, Like Rip Van on the Kaatskill mountains. And so, instead of all my fame, My pictures, busts — both Greek and Roman — A wife, a noble after-name, Which makes its owner envy no man ; Instead of running into town To see the last new book or picture, Or hear some oracle full grown Deliver philosophic stricture: In lieu of this, a case of books, A little room confined and narrow, That might have sour'd the anxious looks Of Faust, whose thoughts eat to the marrow ; A little desk, where all my brains Get warp'd with long Parnassian creepers, And dull'd throughout the day by trains, Pick, shovel, hammers, rails, and sleepers. e 2 BLIND MATTHEW. First appeared in the Quiver, and taken from that Magazine by kind permission of Messrs. Cassell, Petter, & Galpin. T3LIND Matthew, coming down the village street With slow, sure footsteps, pauses for a while, And in the sunlight falling soft and sweet His features brighten to a kindly smile. Upon his ear the sounds of toil and gain, Clanking from wood-girt shop and smithy, steal. And soft he whispers, " O my fellow-men, I cannot see you, but I hear and feel." Then smiling still he slowly steps along, And every kindly word and friendly tone, Like the old fragment of an early song, Wakes thoughts that make the past again his own. BLIND MATTHEW. 53 The children see him, and in merry band Come shouting from their glad and healthy play, " Here is blind Matthew, let us take his hand, And see if he can guess our names to-day." Then all around him throng, and run, and press, And lead him to his seat beneath the tree, Each striving to be first, for his caress, Or gain the favour' d seat upon his knee. And Matthew, happy in their artless piate, Cries, as he slips into their guileless plan, " Now she who holds my right hand is sweet Kate, And she who holds my left is little Anne." Then all the children leap with joyful cries, Till one fair prattler nestling on his breast Whispers, " Blind Matthew, tell us when your eyes Shall have their light, and open like the rest ? " Then closer still he draws the little one, Laying his hand upon her golden head ; Then speaks with low, soft, sweet and solemn tone, While all the rest range round with quiet tread. 54 BLIND MATTHEW. 1 [e tells how Christ, in ages long ago, Came down to earth in human shape and name, Walking his pilgrimage, begirt with woe, And laying healing hands on blind and lame. Then of blind Eartimeus, the beggar, he Who by the wayside sat, and cried in awe, " Jesus, thou Son of David, look on me ; " And Jesus look'd and touch'd him, and he saw. •• But not on earth these eyes of mine shall fill With light," thus Matthew ends, "for in this night I must grope on with Christ to guide me still, And lie will lead me through the grave to light. • So when you miss old Matthew from the street. And in the quiet of the churchyard lies A new-made grave, to draw your timid feet, Then will you know that Christ has touch'd my eyes. A D A. ' YINCt full-length upon the summer grass, And by the murmur of a summer stream, I heard the village bell, and turning round To him who sat beside me with his feet Touching the ripple of the brook, I said, " Who sinks into the churchyard rest to-day ? " Then he, half lifting up his earnest face, Paused for a little while, and then replied — " Ada, whose beauty was a fairy thing, But brighter now by Death, whose pencil tints His marks with such sweet colours." Then he sunk Into that dreamy reverie which shuts All thought from out its vision, and so thinks, And thinks, and thinks, and yet thinks naught at all ; But I, half-answer'd, could but ill abide His silentness, and so I question'd still : 56 ADA. "But who is Aila? you have never said; And there you dream, and think, and all the while The tolling of the bell within my ear, And yet 1 know not unto whom it offers Such sweet and stirless rest." Then starting up From all his fit of mute philosophy He said, "Why, surely you have not forgot Ada, who flash'd upon you like a star Three months ago, when you were in the woods. At your old rambles, and she knew it not, But pass'd you in her beauty by, and you Fell half in love with her and writ a song?" Then all at once came, like remember'd dreams, The solitude around the woodland walk, And all the fringing of the idle rhyme (Now something better by the help of Death), Which 1 had made in haste, and sung to him A half-hour after. " Now, what better time Than this," I cried, "to sing that song again, When she is passing from all mortal view Into the shady quietness." And he, ADA. 57 Catching the broader finish of the plan, Said, " Let the song be sung, but make a pause Between each stanza, that the bell may chime Its echoes at the finish of each verse, And let your poet's fancy shape the words" So, with the humming idyll of the brook As an accompaniment I sang the song : Ada came down by the path in the wood, In the flush and the warmth of the day, And the spirits that live in the solitude (For there be such they say) Came out from their haunts by tree and brook, And wherever sunbeams play, To gaze, as she pass'd like a bud on the lake — A sweet Diana of earthly make — In the clasp of the amorous day. I ceased, and the sad bell took up the pause, And sang an answer to its solemn chime : Ada walks no earthly path, Other things are hers this hour She has all an angel hath — 5 3 ADA Glory and celestial power ; Nought may look on her but eyes Purged from aught of mortal sight, As she walks in balmy light In the halls of Paradise. So the dust may shrink, but she Through the years, in the spheres, Is one great type of immortality. So sang the bell, and when its echo died I took my part in turn, and sang again : I was out in the wood when she pass'd me by, Half-hid that she could not see, So a woman's wish was in her eye, And a smile that made me, I know not why, Guess and dream that she Was far away in the golden hope Of the coming time, and the novel scope I )f wifehood, and the prattling bliss Of little lips, and this, and this Was the light and colour within her eye, And the smile as she pass'd me by. JENNY WI' THE AIRN TEETH. "\ I THAT a plague is this o' mine, Winna steek his e'e, Though I hap him ow'r the head As cosie as can be. Sleep ! an' let me to my wark, A' thae claes to aim ; Jenny wi' the aim teeth, Come an' tak' the bairn : Tak' him to your ain den, Where the bowgie bides, But first put baith your big teeth In his wee plump sides ; Gie your auld grey pow a shake, Rive him frae my grup — Tak' him where nae kiss is gaun When he waukens up. 6 o JENNY WI' THE AIKN TEETH. Whatna noise is that I hear Comin' doon the street ? Weel I ken the dump-dump O' her beetle feet. Mercy me, she's at the door, 1 lear her lift the sneck ; Whisht ! an' cuddle mammy noo Closer roun' the neck. Jenny wi' the aim teeth, The bairn has aff his claes, Sleepin' safe an' soun', I think — Dinna touch his taes ; Sleepin' weans are no for you ; Ye may turn about An' tak' awa' wee Tarn next door I hear him screichin' oot. Dump, dump, awa' she gangs Back the road she cam' ; I hear her at the ither door, Speirin' after Tain. lie's a crabbit, greetin' thing, The warst in a' the toon ; JENNY WI' THE AIRN TEETH. Little like my am wee wean — ■ Losh, he's sleepin' soun'. Mithers hae an awfu' wark Wi' their bairns at nicht — Chappin' on the chair wi' tangs To gi'e the rogues a fricht. Aulder weans are fley'd wi' less, Weel aneuch we ken — Bigger bowgies, bigger Jennies, Frichten muckle men. JAMIE'S WEE CHAIR. T^HE snawdrap was oot, and the primrose was seen In the cleuch, while the side o' the burnie was green ; The mavis was heard singin' sweet in the wud, While a safter licht fell frae the edge o' the clud ; The whaups an' the peaseweeps skirl'd lood on the hill, When the pride o' the hoosc, oor wee Jamie, fell ill ; But lang ere that snawdrap had wither'd an' gane, A wee grave was a' we had left o' oor wean. 'Twas an unco sair trial for baith John an' me, For the bairnie was just the tae licht o' my e'e. As for him, he scarce ken'd what he whiles wud be- at, Wi' his wee Jamie this and his wee Jamie that ; JAMIE'S WEE CHAIR. 63 But that nicht when Death cam' in white licht owre his broo, He said, takin' 'my han', " Jean, that's owre wi' us noo ; " Then he sat down an' grat, cryin', half in despair, " We hae naebody noo to fill Jamie's wee chair." I bore up mysel', wi' the tear on my cheek, An' the thochts in my heart that I couldna weel speak, An' aften I took a step ben to the room To kiss the wee lips that still keepit their bloom ; But at last, when the day cam' to tak' him away, An' the last o' the fouk was seen climbin' the brae, I cam' in frae the door, an' I grat lang an' sair, Wi' my heid on the airm o' my Jamie's wee chair. O, the bliss o' warm tears when the sair heart is fu', Fa'in' saft on oor grief like kind Heaven's ain dew, Till, as rain lowns the win', so the sorrow that fain Wad rise up against God settles calmly again ; An', as saft, siller cluds an' the wide, happy sky Turn the brichter and bluer when storms hae gaen by, Sae the gloom roun' my life lichten'd up everywhere As I rase an' took ben my deid Jamie's wee chair. 64 JAMIE'S WEE CHAIR. Then I took doon the plaicks frac the shelt on the wa', The whussle, the peerie, the pony, an' ba', Put them safe in the drawer ; an', when I had dune, The door saftly open'd, an' John steppit in. He stood just awee, then began to look roun', But stoppit on seein' the plaicks a' ta'en doon ; Then he spicr'd, his voice shakin' wi' grief mair an' mair, "Jean, where hae ye puttin oor Jamie's wee chair?" I rase, as he spoke, frae the cheerless fire en', Gaed into the room, brocht the chair quately ben, Put it into its place, never liftin' an e'e, But sat doon, while John drew himsel' nearer to me ; Then I fan' his braid han' tak' a grup o' my ain, As he said, " Jean, it's a' for the sake o' the wean, For ye ken weel aneuch that the bairn last sat there. So atween us this forenicht we'll keep his wee chair." We drew near the hearth, the tears fillin' oor een As we sat han'-in-han' wi' the wee chair atween ; An' aye as we thocht on a bricht lauchin' face, An' a curly bit heid noo nae mair in its place, We turn'd, as if a' oor sair loss was a name, An' wee Jamie wad juist be aside us the same. JAMIE'S WEE CHAIR. 65 O, it tak's unco schulin', an' God's help an' care, To mak' mithers believe in an empty wee chair. We sat, while the hills creepit close in the nicht; But the stars, lookin' doon, kent that a' wasna richt, For they whisper'd to me o' a joy yet in store, An' a something abune them I ne'er had afore. I turn'd roun' to John, laid my han' on his knee, As I tell't what the stars keepit savin' to me ; Then we kneel'd doon, oor hearts risin' up in a prayer, As oor heids met aboon oor deid Jamie's wee chair. Years hae gaen by since thaun, but still warm in oor heart What the stars said has aye been fulnllin' its pairt : An' we see noo that a' was intended for guid, Though God's han' at the time by oor sorrow was hid ; But as rainbows are brichter against a black sky, So God's meanin's grow clear when His shadow gangs by; An' in a' the bit trials that fa' to oor share, We aye keep atween us oor Jamie's wee chair. A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. '! he following poem was the result of a visit which I, along with three others, paid to Pamphy linns, a romantic spot lying hidden in a wood which stretches along the Barr Moor in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar. I have availed myself of a poetical license, ami cribed the linns a-> swollen by rains, and foaming down tl waterfall which forms the piice de resistance of the place. The friends wlm accompanied me will pardon me where I have deviated from fact to fiction, especially my young Edinburgh friend whom I have bored in the text. The poem is warmly dedicated to the tl "\1 7"E took a walk to Pamphy linns — Three other friends and I, Glad-hearted as when day begins With summer in the sky. Our talk was edged with homely wit, The banter flew apace, And ever at a happy hit The laughter clad our face. But we were used to each, and knew The harmless fence of tongue; So quip and jest rose up and flew And prick'd, but never stung. A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. 67 The lark was far above our head, The daisy at our feet, The heather show'd a coming red Of tiny blossom sweet. The sheep turn'd round to see us pass, The milky snow-white lambs Gamboll'd and sniff' d the growing grass, Or nestled by their dams. The pure air brought the far hills near, Their furrows came to sight ; And here and there a stream grew clear, And smiled in the sunlight. "O, friend of mine, who late," I said. " Has left the streets of men, Let all this quiet overhead Bring back thine own again. Look how the Earth puts forth her pride And blooms around, to draw Thy soul out till it toss aside The phrases of the law. ¥ 2 68 A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. For what arc musty words to this — your writs ami pros and cons — When Nature, full of summer bliss, Her summer vesture dons? So, Faust-like, own her quiet power. And let her have her will, And let thy fingers clasp a flower, Instead of inky quill." Our path lay through the sunny fields, In gentle ups and downs ; Dear heart ! I thought, but nature yields A bliss unmatch'd in towns. At length we reach'd a shepherd's cot, That sat between two woods — Fit home for all the stirless thought That, dovedike, sits and broods. I knew the shepherd ; for a space We rested by his hearth, And saw the moorland on his fa< And in his honest mirth. A WALK TO TAMPHY LINNS. 69 O ! blessings on a hillside life That trammels not the heart, But in its gentle pleasures rife Stands with its back to art. How far above the studied speech Of empty polish'd sound, That glides within a proper reach, Where rule has set the bound. And blessings on the girl who stood In better garb than silk, And proffer'd to us, shy of mood, A glass of cooling milk. Her cheek was soft with health's fair tint, And in her drooping eye Sweet thoughts came up that fain would hint That maidenhood was nia;h. 1 Her brow was open, frank, and free, Half-hid by wealth of tress — A very W 7 ordsworth's girl was she For woodland simpleness. 7 o A WALK TO 1'A.Ml'IIY [.INNS. 0, Janet, half-way through thy teens, Ami all the world to learn, Lean to thine own sweet heart, as leans From moss-clad rock the fern : And hear the wish that springs from mine before I pass away — Keep thou that simple life of thine, Take to the town who may. We reach'd a belt of wood at last, And with a lusty cheer I cried, " Now all our toil is past, For Pamphy linns are here." We took the shaded path that led To the turf-clad foot-bridge, Then struck into the streamlet's bed, And held along its edge. We reach'd the falls, and, looking round, ( )n either side were trees, And at our feet the hurrying sound < )f water ill at ease. A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. 71 Huge rocks with moss half-cover'd dipt Or in the stream reclined, As if they once had partly stript To bathe, but changed their mind. O'er these the water foam'd and splash'd In many a whirl and turn, Or from moss'd outlets peep'd and dash'd To kiss a wander'd fern. We clomb the highest peak of rock, And, halting there to breathe, Heard with continual splash and shock The water run beneath. Then, rising, down the fretted steep To reach the base below We struggled, careful heed to keep, As Alpine hunters go. We reach'd the foot, and found a rest Beneath the trees' sweet shade, Where Nature for her woodland guest A flower-deck'd seat had made. 7- A YVA! K TO PAMPHY LINNS. From there we wratch'd the falls ab<>\ The rorks half-worn and gray, That still, like shapeless Sphinxes, strove To tear their veils of spray. A dreamy, cooling murmur went, Like winds when spring is near, Through all the trees, that stood intent, And prick'd their leaves to hear. I leant back in a shady place, Where sunlight could not gleam : If poets are a dreaming r. Then here they well might dream. But " Further down," was still the cry — "Down to the seat," they said; " There let another hour go by — The hanging rocks o'erhead." So there we went, and with our kni We roughly carved our names, As some carve out their shorten'd lives With vacillating aims. A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. 73 And as I carved, a primrose bright Look'd on with wondrous" eye, As if for ever in its sight A troop of fays pass'd by. Upon the rocks, from German rhyme, I writ two lines to say — " O, happy tima of love's young prime, Would it could last alway ! " l But ere we turn'd our path to trace, I , cried, " Farewell, thou stream ! If poets are a dreaming race, Then here they well might dream." So through the woods we went, but still What German Schiller sung Came ever up against my will, And somewhat lightly stung. O, happy time when love is sweet, And life takes little heed, 1 " O, das sie ewig griinen bliebe, Die schone Zeit der jungen Liebe." — Das Lied von der Glocke. 74 A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. But rolls a rainbow at our feet, Would it could last indeed ! And every flower in shaded nook, Speedwell and violet, Cried, with a wonder in their look — So big, and dreaming yet ? Then out at last into the fields, Tinged with the daisy's dyes ; Dear heart! I said, hut Nature yields A bliss the town denies; For here she dwells, and keeps apart From all the busy street, Still talking with her own rich heart, Whose lightest thought is sweet. And yet, as when in dreams we A city built of air, So rose a vision unto me Thai sent my thoughts elsewhere. A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. 75 Edina too is fair, I said, And took my young friend's arm. For there the magic past hath shed An ever-growing charm. Twice have I trod its streets, and heard In fancy all the while Legends in hints and whisper'd word From narrow street and pile. But still the eye from every quest Would stop, to wander on To those gray rocks that had for crest The lordly pile of stone. Up, up it tower'd, as if in rage The modern change to view; Like Carlyle, from the middle age, With brow knit at the new. I, too, have touch' d Queen Mary's robe, With well-shaped Darnley nigh ; Have heard the murder'd Rizzio sob With blood-choked, helpless cry. 76 A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. While through this war of unchcck'd will. Its battles, broils, and shocks, A stirring voice was speaking still — The voice of fearless Knox. God ! when upon his grave I stood — Now daily trod by feet — His soul went flashing through my blood In mighty waves of heat. For great, good men can never die, Howbeit the ages roll ; But still unseen arc ever nigh, To strengthen soul by soul. But past is all that reign of force, Its deeds of blood and pain, Gone as a river dries its source, Never to fill again. For lo ! to hide each bloody spot A nobler comes behind ; The curbless sway of growing thought, The dynasty of mind : A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. 77 Which changes, and hath changed the earth, As gods the sculptor's stone ; A universal Protean birth, Whose fiat thunders on. There, too, beneath the statued dome He sits, the Scott we claim ; Fit Mahomet for those who come As pilgrims of his fame. Light was his task, some cry, but he, He changed the novel's bent ; And with its Gothic tracery A chaster purpose blent. I pass those mighty ones, who then Were ever in my sight — Strong kings who struggled with the pen To widen human right. Yes ! She is wondrous fair, and sweet This summer day would be If I could lie on Arthur's Seat, And my schoolmate with me. 7 S A WALK TO PAMPHY LINNS. For still her magic power prevails, And still my thoughts take wing To her, the city of the tales, Without its roving king. But shame on me that I should prate Of all that city's grace And beauty in such quiet state Around my own sweet place. P"or look ! three miles adown the vale Sanquhar lies in gray light ; And further on, time-struck and frail, The castle lifts its height. '.-- , Bones of the iron age, it stands, And, as to madness grown, Flings down each year, from powerless hands, A crutch of scattered stone. And right before us, near yet far, Furrow'd with winter rills, That dry in summer like some scar. Stretch out the Todholes hills. A WALK TO PAMPIIY LINNS. 79 And speck-like at their base is seen The ..cot- of shepherd Dryfe — True soul of honest heart and mien, And simple mountain life. But here is Killo bridge, and there Nestles old Killoside ; My blessings on the homely pair ^Vho 'neath its roof abide. And right in line that puff of smoke That every moment comes, Is Bankhead, where, in ceaseless yoke, The engine clanks and hums. A little further on we pace, Then through a field again, And all at once, before our face, Kirkconnel full and plain. I see the churchyard and the church, The gravestones standing by; You need not through our Scotland search For sweeter place to lie. So A WALK TO 1'AMliIV LINNS. And further up I catch the gleam Upon the pastor's pool ; The manse above, still as a dream, Stands in the shadows cool. But there, from schoolhouse to the mill, Our hamlet stretches out ; Without one stir it slumbers still, Save when the schoolboys shout. And now we cross the new foot bridge. That spans the Nith below, Nor loiter to lean o'er the edge To watch the water flow ; But hasten up the narrow road To reach the old stone seat Beside the door, there rest and nod To friends across the street. CUDDLE DOON. r FHE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' muckle faucht an' din ; O, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues. Your faithers comin' in. They never heed a word I speak ; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, " O, bairnies, cuddle doon." Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid — He aye sleeps next the wa', Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece" — The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' and fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun', Then draw the blankets up an' cry, " Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." G CUDDLE DOON. But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes, ■ Mither, mak' Tarn gie ower at ance, He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischiefs in that Tarn for tricks, He'd bother half the toon ; But aye I hap them up an' cry, "(), bairnies, cuddle doon.'' At length they hear their faither's fit, An', as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa', While Tarn pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, As he pits aff his shoon. " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon." An' just afore we bed oorsel's, We look at oor wee lambs ; Tarn has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tarn's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An' as I straik each croon, CUDDLE DOON. S3 I whisper, till my heart fills up, >! O, bairnies, cuddle doon." The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet, come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, " O, bairnies, cuddle doon." G 2 A ALEXIS. A passing glimpse into the life of one Who went apart — a dreamer of fair dreams, That fell upon his heart and mule sweet spots, As when the summer beams slip through the leaves Aihl pitch their camps of light upon the grass. He went apart, for he had still within The fair rieh company of noble things, And all that converse which belongs to youth When hope is high and wears its fullest (lower ; But he will pass, as footprints pass away, Beneath the tread of all the hungry years Who will not wait a moment on a name ; Ami with him too shall pass the many dreams That bent their bow above his life, and drew The heavens nearer — tfiese will fade, and he Will shroud himself within the pa^t, nor leave A light to break or line to mar that sky Which bends a common shadow over all. So be it. And that little space wherein We took our daily dow er of life, may grow A ranker growth of grass or trailing weed, Or harden with the tread of stranger feet. What boots it, if the common grey comes down To shade the life we led, if all the years That lead the future onward, lift the thread Of that fair purpose which ran through his life, And wind it into that great cord which draws The rough world onward to the good to be. LEXIS grew apace, and through his youth Ran dreams and splendours, as a summer bow ALEXIS. Lighting upon two hills uprears its arch Against the clouds, and all the space below Lies warm within its shadow : So his life, Beneath such dreams, took golden hues of light, And beat in wonder. He was yet a child, Standing upon the flower-grown edge of life, Yearning for manhood, which was seen afar. Half-veil' d in shadow. Eager looks he cast Before him to that wonder-land which sent Sweet echoes onward, that, to his rapt ear, Were perfect music. To his soul within, Expanding like a bud, these sounds became Sure guides, that led his glowing thoughts away To sunny regions, where the Beautiful, Armida-like, sat canopied with roofs Of dazzling golden fretwork. Life to him Was the pure surface of a glossy shell, Seen with the eye, but felt with no rough touch. He knew not mankind, for the gift that looks Beneath, and shapes from word and look the key To open beings, was not his. He stood A dreamer in the land of dreams, nor felt The world jar with their action, but like one Who feels himself drawn into some delight 86 ALEXIS. And cannot turn, he went, and all the way lie hail the unseen company of song. Which, like low breathings coming from the sea, Touch'd him to a new being, and he smiled To think the gods had, in their idle moods, Leant from their windless halls to touch his lips With consecrating fire and make him sing — A working priest of song amid his kind. And with this thought there came to open up His life a vision of high fame, as in the night When the swift lightning runs a fiery track To earth, and all the night grows white with fear So m Alexis rose the sudden hope ( >l what might be when all this office fill'd With the pure reaching forward of the thought Which makes the poet ; energies which strive, Like some impulsive touch of God's, to shape A higher life, which he forecasts himself, And works out as he sings, still looking back To see if any follow. Thus in him There was continual bud and bloom, as in A wood that slopes to catch the first of spring, When unseen angels open up the flowers, And bid them turn their clear wet eves to God. ALEXIS. 87 Fancies were his which like strong sunlight made Within his heart the prints of joy and love, As angels' footsteps print the floor of heaven. So he grew up, and everywhere he found A wealth of friends, who smiling seem'd to him The early reflex of those times when truth Was uppermost — the strength and soul of speech. He bent himself to all their wish, he found A pleasure in forestalling purpose, took 1 Words as a pledge for the fair truth, and smiled To see the earth roll back to all its plan. Then fell across his path a brighter beam, From which his heart drank sweeter melody, As when a sunbeam falls across a brook, And gives a lighter music to its sound. And she, the maiden who upon his life Came like a wave of sunshine, as it slips Along a field rich with the look of May, Was fair and beautiful, and her sweet eyes Look'd like a spirit's but half an hour in heaven. What rapture was within him when he saw This maiden rising up through all his dreams To crown the inmost thoughts within his soul. What worship shook his heart, when all the earth ALEXIS. Rose up, like sonic great organ, in whose tone He heard the prelude to his life — we know But cannot utter; for our deepest thoughts Are known but to ourselves, and will not take I he garb of words. This much we know, that she Clided throughout his life in light and love, As down the Oanges floats the steady light Of one frail lamp, still telling those who watch Far off upon the bank that all is well. He now was in the higher bounds, and saw The early meaning of the glorious earth Unveil itself, and in his soul there stirr'd A sweet unrest, that was so sweet to him ; He wish'd no other for his paradise. This was the golden summer of his life; The mirror of his being, in whose light He saw the very gods pass on with smile - And music, leaving in their odorous tracks The incense of Olympus. What to him Was all the daily life of living men, The custom and the course of earthly things? He saw them not, for like the flower that turns Its blossoms to the sun it follows still, ^<> all the thoughts and visions of the soul ALEXIS. S9 Turn'd to that maiden, who for ever stood Before him, the divinest of all things That God hath sent into this world of ours. We pause before we touch the other life, To dream again the dreams Alexis dreamt : For life moves on in change, but still the heart Turns to the softer as the purest, best. And thus at times our own will muse, and think Upon Alexis, and his early dreams So purely fashion'd : and the new-found song That in his bosom leapt, as when a stream Slips down a few feet into foam, and makes A lulling music through the day and night. This was a golden season in his life When all the chords of being, beat as one, And hops and love their fingers touching, each Made melody from which sweet thoughts uprose To fall in light upon his heart, as, when Far off where earth and heaven seem to meet Patches of sunlight, God's own gardening, fall In slips of sliding glory on the hills. He stood blindfolded with his dreams, until The rude fact coming, with unsparing hand, All MS. Snatch'd at the bandage which, unloosen'd, fell. And left him face to face with sterner life. ( >h ! the harsh truth that must be learn'd with tears By those who stand a step within the pale < >f life's strange mysteries. As a towering tree, Struck by a sudden blight, though yet in prime, Shakes, at the sudden breathing of a wind, Its leaves from branches shrunk and dry, so at The shock of real life all the golden thought Fell off, and left him with a naked heart To front the rough world with. He stood and saw His life-dreams lying at his very feet Shrunk into ashes ; for the one high idol He worshipp'd, took the common form of earth. And dwindled into a mere human shape, Laying aside divinity as one Flings off cast clothing. All those attributes Which he, as pilgrims deck the shrine of saints, Had given to that maiden, fell away. Leaving her Lamia-like to stand and prick His dreams, until, like other human things, They warr'd upon each other. Then he turn'il As one may who has fought for years to reach His life's aim but to fail, and turn away ALEXIS. " i A calm face but a bleeding heart within, The world not heeding of it. Then his life Fell into gaps and chasms he could not step Or even bridge, and in him the dislike For fellowship rose up, and made his heart A hermit in the breast, nor gave himself To aims and purposes that work with men, Drawing them on and up. He made himself An adept in tongue-fence, and stung with words The lighter fools around him. Out of this He made a kind of armour, under which He found such shelter that they let him pass, Dreading its sting. But still with this there came. From the night-time that lay around his heart, Voices that whisper'd higher things, and sent A yearning through his being, felt as yet Like idle sounds that strike upon the ear When one lies in the shade for summer-heat. Feeling around the edges of a dream. But from this sting and idle quip of tongue, As only fit for those who deftly move Small puppets at a village fair, he turn'd, And made himself the guest of other minds In other language. He was strangely stirr'd ALEXIS. To find the same young worship in their hearts, The same fond idols lying in the dust, Like broken masterpieces of i\c:d times When gods had temples : then the fire and heat < )f all their youth-time, sinking down to warm The roots of manhood, growing out to flower In high endeavour. It may be that this, And the contagion shooting from the soul (For all true souls stand girt in their own heat, Warming all those who stand within it), made Alexis find his depth, and shape his life In other channels. In those noble ones Who stereotype themselves in words he found The aspirations and the high desire To make the human take celestial shape, And stand a little nearer to the gods. So this grew in him also, as a bud Swaying beneath the love-sigh of the spring Swells out the livelong day, until he found The looking backward not for any life Upon this earth. He Hung away those dreams Which lay within the past, as when a rainbow Fades, leaving one small speck against a cloud, Pledge of its disappearance, and rose up ALEXIS. 9.1 To battle manlike — to do what he could To help his fellows, having in his heart Those words of Goethe — " One should know his fellows, And knowing, also learn not to despise " — A higher wisdom still. So there is now In this Alexis better thought in germ To meet the future with. For from his life The noonday glare has fled, and left behind The quieter light that draws the eye, as when We stand and for a moment face the sun, Seeming to sink between the hill and sky, Then turn to view the chasten'd light behind — Faint harbinger of twilight. Life to him Has half unveil'd its meaning, and he sees No puppet show to make a wrinkle live About the lip and eye, but earnest work For earnest men, within whose band must be No dainty worker, gloved, and ever strong In idle words, but bare-arm'd fighters, swift To take advantage of the rising ground And wave their fellows onward. He has learnt, Though he is yet what some call young, that men Are ever to be on this miraculous earth ,; ALEXIS. To make it better, working hand and brain To lift it higher, standing linn of foot, Shoulder to shoulder, striving for all good, And keeping Clod and duty in the eye, Vs sailors keep the light that marks their port For guide and haven. Shame on him if he Should stand an idle Memnon in the crowd, (jiving responses to each one who strikes, For the mere whim of hearing sound, and thus Be jester to his fellows, as a mother May hum a cradle-song to please her child Fretful with sleep. What need of nursery rhyme In this great age of sounding wire and wheel, Science and all her handmaids? Rather toil. And manly living, manly thought, and all Those grander interests ever moving on To where we strive for. Crude and vaguely dim Is this life of Alexis yet, but still It rises slowly upward, as the moon Hound in a slip of crescent rises up And shines a silver sickle in the sky. He may fail in the task of working out What he has laid before him as a plan, And sink before the crescent culminates ALEXIS. 95 And shines an orb, as vessels sink at sea, Reaching no port. But now he tears away The dreamer from his being, calling out To all his fellows (for in him the wish To see them reach the purer heights of life Shoots from the rest, and claims his deepest thought, As high hills claim the sun) to rise and take The nobler pathway, working on and up ; Not resting, though the sweat be in our eyes Blinding our motions, till the brute be shorn From out our being, and we stand erect, The earth beneath our feet, the sky above, And right before us all the nobler path That narrows not as earthly pathways do, But ever broadens as it reaches up Until it ends beside the feet of God. DAFT A I LIE. ^\AFT Ailie cam' in by the auld brig-en' As the sunlicht, saU an' sweet, Fell doon on the laigh, white wa's o' the toon, An' the lang, quate, single street. It fell on her sair-worn, wrinkled face, An' on hei thin gray hair; But the licht that lay in her een was a licht That shouldna hae been there. An' aye she lookit roun' an' roun'. An' aye a waefu' smile I .ay on her lips, that were thin an' white, As she mum'led an' sang the while. Then the weans cam' runnin' oot o' the schule- The schule had scaled for the nicht — An' they a' cam' roun' Daft Ailie, an' cried An' laup in their mad delicht. DAFT AILIE. 9 Then they took a haud o' ecah ither's han's, An' made her gang in the ring, An' they danced roun' aboot her, an' sang a sang That made the hooses ring. But when they had danced an' jamp their fill, They closer an' closer drew, Cryin', " Ailie, afore we let you oot, Ye maun make us a bonnie boo." Then she boo'd to them a' as they stood aroun', Wi' the boo o' a leddy born, An' said, " 0, weanies, baith ane an' a', Ye maun come to my bridal the morn. But I maun away to the auld wud brig, An' sit 'neath the rowan tree, An' there I will wait till my bonnie bridegroom Comes ower to marry me." "An' what is your bonnie biidegroom like? Is he strong, an' braid, an' braw? An' wha is he that will come an' tak' Auld Ailie frae us a' ? " H DAFT AILIE. "Oh, my ain bridegroom is tall an' fair, An straucht as a hazel tree, An' licht is the touch o' his han' in mine, When lie speaks in the gloamin' to me. An' weel he likes me, I ken, an' wed Can he whisper his manly voo ; An' weel I like to listen to him — I can hear his voice the noo. I saw ane laid oot in white deid-claes, But my een were unco dim, An' I couldna hear a word that was said, Though they tauld me it was him. But I turn'd my heid frae the cauld, white deid, That was quate as quate could be, An' turn'd an' gaed doon to the brig, to wait For my bridegroom comin' to me. But I sometimes think he is unco lang, An' I weary a' the day, WaithV here for my bonnic bridegroom to com. An' tak his Ailie away." DAFT AILIE. 99 "But, Ailie, Ailie," the weans cry out, "Your hair is gray an' thin, An' your cheeks are sae sunk that nae bonnie bridegroom Will come sic a bride to win." " O, weanies, weanies ! haud a' your tongues ; Ye dinna ken what ye say; My cheek is reid, an' my e'e is bricht, For I'm tvventy-ane this day. But I maun away to the auld wud brig, An' sit 'neath the rowan tree ; Dinna gang to the schule the morn, but come An' see my bridegroom an' me." Then they let her oot o' the ring, an' she gangs Wi' the same strange, waefu' smile, Doon the lang quate street, an' she sings a sang Asjhey follow her a' the while. But she hauds her way to the en' o' the toon, An' aye she sorts her hair, Wi' the same wild licht flaffin' up in her een That shouldna hae been there. h 2 loo HAFT A 1 I.IK. O weans ! O weans ! gang a' to your names, An' let puir Ailie alane; She gangs to sit by the aulcl wud brig To settle her wan'erin' brain. She sits for hoors by that auld, frail brig, Ow'r the braid, deep, dookin' pool, But a weary, weary wait she will hae, As she sings her sangs o' dool ; For nae bonnie bridegroom will ever come To tak' her by the han', Save ane that comes frae the Ian' o' the deid, When the last lang breath is drawn. But weel I min that, in a' the toon, The brawest amang them a' Was Ailie, what noo gangs frae hoose to hoose, Giein' ilka body a ca\ Her cheeks hail the saft, sweet bloom o' youth, An' gowden her lang, thick hair, An' bricht was the look o' her bonnie blue e'e, For a sweet life-dream was there. DAFT AILIE. 101 Ay, weel micht they glance like the simmer licht, When the sun gangs doon in the west, For the first pure dream o' love was there, An' it wadna gie her rest. But her bridal day cam' quickly roun', An' mirth an' daffin' was rife, As we sat ben the room for the hoor to come That wad see sweet Ailie a wife. An' O ! but she lookit bonnie an' braw In the flush o' her maiden pride ; An' should I live to a hunner lang years, I shall ne'er see a bonnier bride. But waes me ! whaten a storm cam' on On that happy afternoon ; The Nith rase up wi' an angry sough, An' reid wi wrath cam' doon. The nicht drappit doon, and it grew sae dark That the hill abune the brae, Where ye gather in simmer the berries sae black, Was hid as if ta'en away. 102 DAFT AILIE. An' never a single star was seen In the heaven sac dark an' wide, Vet lichtly the bridegroom cam' doon the path, To claim his winsome bride. The lave that were wi' him they talkit an' lauch'd In a' their youth an' glee, Till they cam' to the brig ow'r the dookin' pool, By the lang, braid rowan tree. Then the young gudeman that was soon to be Gaed on't wi' a lichtsome spang; An' he cried to the lave to come on behin'. For Ailie wad think them lang. But alake! what a cry gaed up through the nicht, To the heicht o' the stars aboon — Sic a cry never rase to their llickerin' licht Save frae lips o' men that droon. For half o' the brig had been torn away By the angry strength o' the spate, An' the young bridegroom slippit ow'r in the dark To his quick an' awfu' fate. DAFT AILIE. 103 They faun' him next day in the minister's holm, Where the water had flung him oot; An' they brocht him up to the far toon-en', But they happit his bridal suit. They laid him doon, an' they took it aff, An' dress'd him frae heid to feet In the dress they put on when we're wedded to death— The lang, white windin' sheet. Then Ailie cam' in, but O, what a change Had come on her through the nicht; Her gowden hair had a seance o' gray, An' her een had a strange wild licht. An' aye she lookit, an' turn'd roun' an' roun'. While they watch'd her a' the while; "O, where is my bonnie bridegroom?" she ask'd, An' her lips had a waefu' smile. " O, Ailie, this is your bonnie bridegroom That lies in the airms o' death ; Will ye no tak' a look at his face, an' kiss The lips that hae nae breath?" 104 DAFT AILIE. " O baud your tongues, baud a' your tongues, Dinna tell sic lees to me ; I will gang mysel' to the auld wud brig, My ain bridegroom to see. I will wait by the rowan tree till he comes— I ken that he winna be late, An' I'll sing the sangs I hae heard him sing, They will cheer me as I wait." So she turn'd an' gaed doon to the auld wud brig, As ye see her gang the noo, WT the same waefu' smile on her thin white lips, An' the sorrow upon her broo. An' aye she wan'ers aboot the brig, Ye may see her late an' sune, Still waitin' for him wha is in his grave, An' the green, green grass abune. Then, weanies, wcanics, gang a' to your ban An' let puir Ailie be ; Ye little ken what a weird she drees, \)y the auld braid rowan tree. MAY MIDDLETON'S TAM. T^RAE the schulehoose that sat at the heid o' the green, To the fit o' the toon where the smiddy was seen — Frae the narrow close mooth to the hoose on the brae, Where the weans at odd times met to scamper an' play — Frae the heid o' the parish to a' the laigh boun', In a word, tak' at ance the hale country-side roun', Frae the laird to the joiner that cooper'd a tram, A' had an ill word o' May Middleton's Tam. He had gleg een, an' mooth that was aye on the gape, But his face for sax months hadna lookit on saip ; An' Nature hersel' had supplied him wi' shoon, Sae waukit he'd dee maist afore they wore dune. His knees play'd bo-keek through a rive in his breeks, For his mither lang syne had lost a' faith in steeks ; But he scamper'd aboot fu' o' glee as a lamb — 'Od, an awfu' ill plague was May Middleton's Tam. 106 MAY MIDDLETON'S TAM. The back o' his han' was as broon as a taid, An', as he had grown since his jacket was made, The half o' his airm to the elbow was bare, An' a scrimpit bit sark half in tatters was there; While, what wi' the dichtin' his nose noo and thaun, The tae sleeve was bricht as the lid o' a can — There was nae washin' day to mak' dirt tak' a dwam But wear on an' wear dune wi' May Middleton's Tarn. Had a stane been sent through ony window within A mile frae his hoose, or some mischief been dune ; The mooth o' the pump stappit up, or a score, Or the heid o' a man drawn wi' chalk on the door ; A deuk or a hen gotten deid, or a wean Knockit into the siver when ilowin' wi' rain — ■• Wha could hae dune this?" An' the answer aye cam' — "Deil tak' him, wha else but May Middleton's Tarn : " He stole a' the bools frae the rest o' the weans, An' pelted the big anes wha fash'd him wi' stanes ; He knockit aft" bonnets, he ran ahint gigs, lie elimb'd up on cairts, an' he ran alang brigs; He jaggit the cuddy o' big ragman Jock Till the croons that it made nearly frichten'd the folk ; MAY MIDDLETON'S TAM. 107 An' yet, at the schule, nane could say verse or psalm Freer aff heart an' tongue than May Middleton's Tam. He was held o' a' ill baith at mornin' an' late, Sae that maist o' the folk wish'd him oot o' the gate, But Birky, the maister, wha keepit the schule, Said, aye when they ca'd him a rascal an' fule — 'There is something in Tam, if ye just wait a wee, That will mak' ye a' glower, ill an' a' though he be." But I wat Birky 's faith was consider'd a sham, For the deevil's ain bird was May Middleton's Tam. He was twice carried hame wi' a cut in his heid, Ony ithers but him 'twad hae streekit them deid ; But the eggs o' a corbie or piat to him "Were something worth while to risk life for an' limb. He was catch'd by the miller gaun doon the mill race, A' the hairm was a fricht, an' less dirt on the face ; An' thrice he was brocht half-droon'd oot o' the dam — Od, the hangman was sure o' May Middleton's Tam. His mither, puir woman, did a' that she could To keep him in boun's, as a richt mither should; But ance ower the door, she was oot o' his thocht, An' a crony gaun by he was ready for ocht. 10S MAY MIDDLETON'S TA!I£. Then bare-leggit weans at the door micht look oot To get, in the by-gaun, a push or a cloot ; But they took to their heels wi' a jump like a ram - They a' stood in fear o' May Middleton's Tarn. But ill as he was, he grew up stoot an' steivc, Braid shuider'd, big baned, an' a dawd o' a neivej Then he wrocht noo an' thaun, when the simmer cam roun', Howin' turnips, or drivin' some nowte to the toon ; But as yet wark an' him werena like to agree, A! his talk was 'boot sailors an' storms at the sea, Till ae day he left withoot tears or a qualm, An' the village was rid o' May Middleton's Tarn. Years gaed by, an' nae word cam' frae Tarn, till at last His mither herscf thocht that a' hope was past, When ae day the postman gaed in at the door — A thing the douce neebours had ne'er ken'd afore ; 1 5ut aye after that a blin' man micht hae seen That her hoose an' hersel' were mair cheerfu' an' bien. •• Lod," quo' ane, as she lean'd hersel' 'gainst the door jamb, " I las ocht been sent harne by her ne'er-dae-weel Tarn ?" MAY MIDDLETON'S TAM. 109 But a greater surprise they were a' yet to get, When the handy bit farm o' Whaupfields was to let; Neebours ran into neebours wi' weans in their arm, Cryin', "Help us, May Middleton's Tarn's got the farm;" An' after awee, it was heard Tam himsel' Wad be back in his ain native clachan to dwell. He cam', an' the doors were as fu' as could cram Wi' folk keen to look at May Middleton's Tam. But losh ! what a braw, strappin' fellow they saw, Broon-faced, and a beard that was black as a craw; Lang, lang did they glower, till the blacksmith said " Fegs, What a change since he broke wi' a stane Whaupey's legs." Here it cam' to his min' o' the wark on the farm, Sae he added, "But Tam never did ony harm." Then he ended by makin' a sort o' salaam Doon the street to the hoose o' May Middleton's Tam. But when ance Tam was into his farm, an' had made A' things snod, an' his mither as mistress array'd, He tea'd a' the neebours, and tellt them what wark He had makin' a fortune that cost him much cark. no MAY MIDDLETON S TAM. Then he turn'd roun' to Birky, the maister, wha sat By his side, lookin' up as if prood aboot that, An' said, clappin' his back, "Here's your health in a dram, I • r ye aye took the pairt o' May Middleton's Tarn." An' frae that day to this ilka body speaks weel ( )' Tarn, while they praise his guid praties an' meal ; An' mithers, who ance could hae seen his neck tlirawn, Gie him days at the hay when there's ower muekle mawn. E'en the landlord himsel' comes an' cries, unco big, " Here, boy, come an' baud Mr. Middleton's gi For since things took a turn, an' his guid fortune cam', He is noo nae mair ken'd as May Middleton's Tarn. JOHN KEATS. ' ' He is made one with Nature ; there is heard His voice in all her music." — Shelley. T^HERE be more things within that far-off breast, Whereon the flowers grow, Of the boy poet, in his Roman rest, Than hearts like ours can know. He slumbers, but his sleep hath not our fears. For all aside is thrown ; And from the gateway of his tombed years A power is moving on. And in that power is hid a voice that speaks To hearts that throb and rise Erom common earth, and worship that which seeks The wider sympathies. ii2 JOHN KEATS. For he is silent not j and from the bounds Wherein his footsteps move Come, like the wind at morn, all summer sounds Of boyhood thought and love. So he to us is as an oracle Whose words bedrip with youth ; The latest spirit, bathing in the well Of Pagan shape and truth. A passionate existence which we scan ; But first must lay aside The rougher thinking that belongs to man, And take the unsettled pride Of eager youth and fancy, and a strength Misled by the fond zeal For Grecian look and light, yet found at length The power to touch and feci. So, taking this into thy thought, yc trace His wealth of opening lor. He bursts upon you with his freshest grace, And moves a man no more — JOHN KEATS. u; But a bright shadow in the heart's expanse Crown 'd with the tenderest rays Of love, and thought of as the far-off glance Of early summer days. So bring him from beneath the sky of Rome, From all her youngest flowers. I weep that there his dust should find a home, And all his spirit ours ! But no ! ye cannot ; for a bond he keeps Whose ties are firmly strung — The lone yet passionate heart of Shelley sleeps Beside the dust he sun?. ■&■ And it were vain to leave him there and foil His rest — so let them sleep Within the silence of that glorious soil, Whose inspirations steep Their songs in colours like the summer boughs, Whose freshness ever strives, And blooms, like asphodels, upon the brows Of two immortal lives. , I4 JOHN KEATS. And there they sleep, as if their fates had said They shall not sleep alone; The singer and the sung must fill one bed, And make their ashes one. And so it is ; and through the years that roll, That sepulchre of theirs Ts as a passionate and wish'd-for goal To which all thought repairs- While in our hearts, as is their dust at Rome, Their spirits feel no wrong ; But shine to us like gods serenely from The Pantheon of Song. THE ENGINE. " On fire-horses and wind-horses we career." — Carlyle. IT URRAH ! for the mighty engine, As he bounds along his track : Hurrah, for the life that is in him, And his breath so thick and black. And hurrah for our fellows, who in their need Could fashion a thing like him — With a heart of fire, and a soul of steel, And a Samson in every limb. Ho ! stand from that narrow path of his, Lest his gleaming muscles smite, Like the flaming sword the archangel drew When Eden lay wrapp'd in night ; For he cares, not he, for a paltry life As he rushes along to the goal, It but costs him a shake of his iron limb, And a shriek from his mighty soul. I 2 n6 THE ENGINE. Vet I glory to think that I help to keep His footsteps a little in place, And he thunders his thanks as he rushes on In the lightning speed of his race ; And I think that he knows when he looks at me, That, though made of clay as I stand, I could make him as weak as a three hours' child With a paltry twitch of my hand. But I trust in his strength, and he trusts in me, Though made but of brittle clay, While he is bound up in the toughest of steel, That tires not night or day; But for ever flashes, and stretches, and strives, While he shrieks in his smoky glee — Hurrah for the puppets that, lost in their thoughts, Coukrrub the lamp for me ! that some Roman — when Rome was great — Some quick, light Greek or two — Could come from their graves for one half-hour To see what my fellows can do ; 1 would take them with me on this world's wild steed, And give him a little rein; THE ENGINE. 117 Then rush with his clanking hoofs through space, With a wreath of smoke for his mane. I would say to them as they shook in their fear, "Now what is your paltry book, Or the Phidian touch of the chisel's point, That can make the marble look, To this monster of ours, that for ages lay In the depths of the dreaming earth, Till we brought him out with a cheer and a shout, And hammer'd him into birth?" Clank, clank went the hammer in dusty shops, The forge-flare went to the sky, While still, like the monster of Frankenstein's, This great wild being was nigh ; Till at length he rose up in his sinew and strength, And our fellows could see with pride Their grimy brows and their bare, slight arms, In the depths of his glancing side. Then there rose to their lips a dread question of fear- " Who has in him the nerve to start i iS THE ENGINE. In this mass a soul that will shake and roll A river of life to his heart ? " Then a pigmy by jerks went up his side, Flung a globe of fire in his breast, And cities leapt nearer by hundreds of miles At the first wild snort from his chest. Then away he rush'd to his mission of toil, Wherever lay guiding rods, And the work he could do at each throb of his pulse Flung a blush on the face of the gods. And Atlas himself, when he felt his weight, Bent lower his quaking limb, Then shook himself free from this earth, and left The grand old planet to him. But well can he bear it, this Titan of toil, When his pathway yields to his tread ; And the vigour within him flares up to its height, Till the smoke of his breath grows red ; Then he shrieks in delight, as an athlete might, When he reaches his wild desire, And from head to heel, through each muscle of steel, Runs the cunning and clasp of the fire. THE ENGINE, 119 Or, see how he tosses aside the night, And roars in his thirsty wrath, While his one great eye gleams white with rage At the darkness that muffles his path; And lo ! as the pent-up flame of his heart Flashes out from behind its bars, It gleams like a bolt flung from heaven, and rears A ladder ot light to the stars. Talk of the sea flung back in its wrath By a line of unyielding stone, Or the slender clutch of a thread-like bridge, That knits two valleys in one ! Talk of your miracle-working wires, And their world-embracing force, But himmel 7 give me the bits of steel In the mouth of the thunder-horse ! Ay, give me the beat of his fire-fed breast, And the shake of his giant frame, And the sinews that work like the shoulders of Jove When he launches a bolt of flame ; And give me that Lilliput rider of his, Stout and wiry and grim, 120 THE ENGINE. Who can vault on his back as lie puffs his pipe, And whisk the breath from him. Then hurrah for our mighty engine, boys ; He may roar and fume along For a hundred years ere a poet arise To shrine him in worthy song; Yet if one with the touch of the gods on his lips, And his heart beating wildly and quick, Should rush into song at this demon of ours, Let him sing, too, the shovel and pick. THE CUCKOO. A MID the sound of picks to-day, And shovels rasping on the rail, A sweet voice came from far away, From out a gladly greening vale. My mate look'd up in some surprise ; I half stopp'd humming idle rhyme : Then said, the moisture in my eyes, "The cuckoo, Jack, for the first time." How sweet he sang ! I could have stood For hours, and heard that simple strain ; An early gladness throng'd my blood, And brought my boyhood back again. The primrose took a deeper hue, The dewy grass a greener look ; The violet wore a deeper blue, A lighter music led the brook. 122 THE CUCKOO. Each thing to its own depth was stirr'd, Leaf, flower, and heaven's moving cloud. As still he piped, that stranger bird, His mellow May-song clear and loud. Would I could see him as he sings, When, as if thought and act were one, He came ; the gray on neck and wings Turn'd white against the happy sun. I knew his well-known sober flight, That boyhood made so dear to me ; And, blessings on him ! he stopp'd in sight, And sang where I could hear and see. Two simple notes were all he sang, And yet my manhood fled away ; Dear God ! The earth is always young, And I am young with it to-day. A wondrous realm of early joy Grew all around as I became Among my mates a bearded boy, That could have wept but for the shame. THE CUCKOO. 123 For all my purer life, now dead, Rose up, fair-fashion' d, at the call Of that gray bird, whose voice had shed The charm of boyhood over all. O early hopes and sweet spring tears ! That heart has never known its prime That stands without a tear and hears The cuckoo's voice for the first time. LOOK TO THE EAST. *T^HE dead man came from out the grave, He grasp'd my hand, and said, "Be brave." I cried, " So very far away, \ • i thou hast sympathy with clay." He said, "What would it profit me To turn from thy humanity ? " "Alas!" I sigh'd, "I am but dust, And the old failing of mistrust • Comes up within me, and I fear I falter with no purpose here." The dead man stood like one who saith A prayer, then ask'd, "Hast thou no faith?" LOOK TO THE EAST. 125 I look'd at him; within his eyes The tears rose up as in surprise. Then I made answer to his thought — "Thou knowest all, and I know nought." Across his brow a shade of pain Pass'd, but to leave it clear again. He ask'd, reproach his voice within, "Art thou, too, smitten with that sin Which looks before this life, to seek, What God himself wall never speak, Until this death we paint so grim, Guide thee through the dread grave to Him?" I bow'd my head as if in shame To hear the dead man's gentle blame. Then, sweet and low, he spoke again, "Hast thou faith in thy fellow men?" 126 LOOK TO THE EAST. "Yea," I return'd, "for still my kind Toil to leave something good behind, Which, in the unborn after years, Will ripen kindly with their peers." I paused, and he, when this was said, Laid one soft hand upon my head, And thus made answer ere I wist, " Behind thy kind work God and Christ, And all the marvels men can do, Are but the shadow of these Two. Whom, then, deserves thy greater trust, God, Christ, or men who are but dust?" I knelt down at the dead man's feet;. His tears fell on me soft and sweet. He raised me up, and hand in hand We stood, as two together stand. LOOK TO THE EAST. 127 Then breast to breast, within my ear He whisper'd words of love and cheer. Such words a living mortal may Not whisper, but the dead can say. Then said, as he touch' d lips and eyes, " Look to the east ; the sun will rise." I turn'd; my soul was strong again To trust God, Christ, and toiling men. And still when doubt wakes from its rest That dead man clasps me to his breast, And soul to soul like friends respond : Mine from this earth ; his from beyond. Mine sighs, "I falter;" his replies, " Look to the east ; the sun will rise." THE DEIL'S STANE. '' In the very centre of the deep gorge of this linn is an immense boulder, estimated at thirty tons -weight. It is a mass of water- worn granite, probably from the Isle of Arran, as its granulated particles seem to be precisely of the same character of those that compose the granite of Goatfell. It must have been conveyed in the age of the northern drift, or dropped from the base of some massive iceberg as it sailed the waters that erst covered these heights. It is rounded like an egg, and has a belt of finer grain begirding its bulk like an iron hoop around a barrel." — Simpson's " Voice from the Desert." Such is the account given !>y the late Dr. Simpson of Sanquhar; but in the neighbourhood the boulder in question is known by the dignified appellation of the " Deil's Stane." How it came to get such a title I have not been able to learn. Long ago, a pedlar was murdered near the spot for the sake of the petty wares he traded with among the hills. They still show you his blood in the channel of the Orchard burn, close to where the stone is lying. This, like all other blood shed in like circumstances, will not wash nit. I have in the following poem, with the license usually granted to rhymers, wandered from received tradition in order to "point a moral and adorn a tale." << /^\ WHAUR hae ye been, my bonnie, bonnie bairns, Sae lang awa' frae me? < 'ome in, come in, for I'm weary to hae Wee Jeanie upon my knee. THE DEIL'S STANE. I2 g I lookit lang doon the howms o' the Craw'ck, Where the fairies by munelicht play, Then up to the daisies that grow sae white On the side o' the Carco brae. For I thocht that ye micht be pooin' flooers, An' weavin' them into a croon For wee Jeanie's heid ! but I saw na ane, Though I lookit roun' an roun'." " O, grannie, grannie, we werena there, Nor yet in the howms doon by; For we sat by the edge o' the Orchard bum, An' we heard the cushie's cry. Then we frichten'd the troots wi' oor wee white feet, As we paidled up the burn, Till they splutter'd to win frae oor sicht in the broo, Wi' mony a jouk an' turn. But at last we waded nae fairer up, But set wee Jeanie her lane, Wi' a bunch o' primroses in her han', On the tap o' the deil's big stane." K i 3 o I ill': DEIL'S S IAN! "O bairnies, bairnies, what is't ye say? An' what docs your grannie hear? What made ye gang up to the deil's big stane — That place sae dark an' drear? Uake, alake, when the clock strikes twal. What soun's an' what sichts are there ; When the howlet flaps wi' an eerie cry, Through the woods o' Knockcnhair ! Then chields that hae drucken baith Lang an' late At their howfs in Sanquhar toon, As they staucher by hear the paidlar's cry, An' the big stane rumblin' doon. But here, as we're a' sittin' roun' the fire, An' wee Jeanie upon my knee, I will tell ye the tale o' the paidlar's death. As my mither tauld it to me. Wee Mungo Gin was an auld, auld man, Wi' a hump upon his back ; But fu' yauld was he at speelin' a brae To a herd's house wi' his pack. THE DEIL'S STAKE. 131 For the clink o' siller put smiles on his face, An' a gleg look in his e'e ; But wae to the greed that brocht on his doom, An' the death he had to dee. He keepit his purse in a stockin' fit — A purse fu' heavy an' lang; An' ilka mornin' he counted it ow'r, For fear that it micht gang wrang. An' aye as the shillin's play'd slip aff his loof, An' jingled into the lave, He scartit his heid, an' he hotch'd an' lauch'd Till he scarce could weel behave. O, bairnies, bairnies, the love o' gowd Turns into an awfu' sin, For the heart grows hard, an' lies dead in the breast, Like the bouk o' my nieve o' whin. An' we canna look straicht in oor neebor's face, For oor human love gets thrawn ; x\n' we canna look up to the sky abune, For oor heid is downward drawn. k 2 2 THE DEIL'S STANE. Sae Mungo, the paidlar, gaed aye half boo'd. Comin' up or gaun doon a brae ; For the luve o' the siller he liket sae wed Was in him by nicht an' day. An' wed could he manage to wheedle an' Bell, To the lassies oot on the hill, A brooch for their shawls, or a finger ring, That was gowd in their simj le skill. But alake for the greed that hung ow'r his heid To bring him meikle woe, As a thunder cloud rests on the high Bale Hill, An' darkens the fields below, but I'll tell ye the tale that my mither tauld, When I was a toddlin' wean ; It will mak' ye nae mair tak' the Orchard burn To sit on the deil's big stane. Ae afternoon, as Mungo, half boo'd, Held alang steep Carco brae, Croonin' into himscT, for his heart was glad Ow'r the bargains he'd made that day; THE DEIL'S STANE. A' at ance, afore ever he kent, a han' Touch'd the hump that was on his back, An', turnin' roun', no a yaird frae himsel' 'Was a man that was cled in black." '•' O, Mungo, Mungo, pit doon yer pack, An' sell to me," said he, " A necklace for ane o' the witches o' Craw'ck, Wha has dune gude wark for me." Then the paidlar open'd his pack in a glint, An' oot wi' the wanted gear ; " A shillin's the price ; " said the man in black " O, Mungo, your shillin's here." Then he slippit the shillin' into his han', An' steppit alang the brae; But what made Mungo jump up an' dance, Like schule weans at their play? Ay, weel micht he jump like daft, for he saw A joyfu' sicht, I wis; Instead o' the shillin' a guinea lay there, That bv nae kent law was his. 134 i Hi DEIL'S STANE. \ et he row'd ii up in a cloot by itsel', For fear it micht grow dim, An' never let on to the neebors he mel O' the luck that had fa'en to him. The next time gangin' ow'r Carco heicht, A lun' was laid on his back, An', lookin' aroun', no a yaird frae himsel' Was the same man cled in black. Then the paidlar's heart sank doon like a stane As he thocht to himsel', nae doot, He has come again to tak' back his ain, That I canna dae withoot. But he juist said. " Mungo, come doon wi' your pack, An' sell me richt speedily A necklace for ane o' the witches o' Craw ■"< I.. Wha has dune gude wark for me." Then Mungo, richt happy that this was a', Cam' oot \vi' the wanted gear ; "A shillin's the price;" said the man in black — " O, Mungo, your shillin's here." THE DEIL'S STANE. 135 Then he slippit the shillin' into his loof, While the paidlar steekit his een • Nor open'd them up till the man in black Was naewhere to be seen. Then he keekit into his loof, an' there Lay anither gowd guinea bricht ; Sae he row'd it up wi' the first in a cloot. An' thocht that a' was richt. • The next time gangin' ow'r Carco hill, A han' was laid on his back, An', lookin roun', no a yaird frae himsel' Was the same man cled in black. But a frichtfu' look was upon his broo, As he leant against a stane That Mungo had never seen there afore. An' thirty tons if ane. A fear lay cauld at the paidlar's heart, As he sank doon on his knee — " Come ye here to work me scaith or ill, Or to buy a necklace frae me?" i;u THE DEIL'S STAN] . The froon grew black on the stranger's broo As he cried, like a thunder-peal, "A necklace o' fire for the neck o' him Wha cheats baith man an' deil.'' Then the lowe cam' oot at his mooth an' een, On ilk side o' his heid grew a horn, As he seized the paidlar an' whirl'd him ow'r The hill wi' a lauch o' scorn. Doon, doon the hill, as ye ca' a gird, Gaed Mungo, flung by the deil ; An' doon row'd that big stane after him, As steady as some mill-wheel. Then, keep us a' ! what a soun' cam' up Wi' the paidlar's decin' cry ; It gaed doon the Craw'ck an' doon the Nith, An' awn' ow'r the hills oot by. The big stane fell in the Orchard burn, It lies there till this day; An' still at its fit is the paidlar's bluid, That winna wash away. THE DEIL'S STANE. 137 O, bairnies, bairnies, when ye grow up To be lads an' lasses fair, Keep min' o' the death o' Mungo Girr, An' aye deal frank an' fair. An', bairnies, be sure an' keep this in min', For I canna lang be here, That the deil's big stane is on ilka ane's back Wha has love for nocht but gear. THE MOTHER AND THE ANGEL. appeared in Good Words, and taken from that Magazine 1>) kind permission of Messrs. Strahan eV Co. " T" WAX 1' my child,' - the mother said, as through The deep sweet air of purple-breathing morn She rose mid clouds of most celestial hue, P»y the soft strength of angels' wings upborne. Then he who bore her to her heavenly rest Drew back the hand that hid her weeping eyes, And said, " I cannot alter the request Of him whose glory lights the earth and skies. For ere I came, and, as I paused again, To hear His omnipresent words, He said, Tike thou the root, but let the bud remain, To perfect into blossom in its stead. THE MOTHER AND THE ANGEL. 139 And so I bear thee, that in our sweet land You may be one of our immortal kind, With not one task but to reach forth thy hand And guide the footsteps of thy child behind." He ceased, and winging, reach'd those realms on high, Whose lustre we half see through stars below. And all the light that fills our earthly sky Is but a shadow to its mighty glow. Now whether that the mother in this light Stood yearning for her treasure in our hands, Or whether God saw fitting in His might To reunite again the broken bands "O 1 - We know not ; but when night had come at last. And wore to clasp the first embrace of day. An angel enter'd, though the door was fast, And all unseen took what we held away. One took the mother from all earthly claim, From out the bounds of life and all its harms But still I think 'twas God Himself that came, And took the child and laid it in her arms. THE OPEN SECRET. /^OD said, "I take my stand behind Men, Nature, and the shaping mind. And cry, 'The open secret lies To him who reads with proper eyes." Then thought came boldly forth, and lent Its strength to conquer what was meant, The Hebrew with his passionate heart Came on, and solved it part by part. The high Greek saw, but turn'd aside. With beauty walking by his side. At last came One, upon whose head The light of God Himself was shed. THE OPEN SECRET. 141 He read the secret, and divine For ever after grew each line. Then sullen cycles follow'd Him, In which His reading would not dim. The ages sped, but still took heed To wait, and mould a band at need, Whose worded cunning might lay bare The omnific secret everywhere. Stern Dante saw it, though his face Was darken'd by the nether place. Next Shakespeare, who, before his kind, Stept with it forming in his mind. Then Milton, blind and old in years, Stood nearer to it than his peers. Later a Goethe wander'd by, To see it only with his eye. i r THE OPl N SECRE r. At last the nineteenth century came, With railway track and furnace flame, At which, as at a mighty need, Men's thoughts flew into headlong speed. Then one rose up, whose northern ire Smote shams, like sudden bursts of fire. A roughly-block'd Apollo, strong To pierce the coiling Python, Wrong. Last Science, waking from her sleep, Sent forth her thought to sound the deep, Hut, like the dove sent from the ark, It came back, having found no mark, Then she stood up and proudly said, "The open secret is not read." () foolish one! Wrap weeds of shame Around that keen device you claim. THE OPEN SECRET. 145 "Behold!" cries God, "I stand and teach, The open secret is for each. I slip my own wide soul behind Men, nature, and the shaping mind, And he who can unite these three, Until they lose themselves in me, The same hath in him, night and day, The open secret I display." THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERS. (^\ HOW quick, and yet how soft Comes the moonlight from aloft — From the happy starry skies, Like the smiles of angels' eyes, flinging all the silvery whiteness Of its purity and brightness On the stream That dances up with laughter As the wavelets follow after Each other in the glee Of a pleasant symphony. I stand upon the bridge, Leaning on its narrow ledge, Keeping watch with dreaming eye On the river gliding by, Fill I fancy from the deeps, Where the moonlight sits and sleeps, THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERS, 145 I can hear a whisper say — '■ Come away, come away, Come, and never know decay, Come, and rest beneath the stream, And for ever smile and dream. Through the night and sunny day, Dream of things with joyance rife, Dream of all that makes this life Bright and gay. While the waters ebb and creep With their murmurs o'er thy sleep — While the moonlight from above Rains the pale wealth of her love On the wave, on thy grave — Come away." And I feel a strong desire Burning in me to inquire What this gentle sprite may be, Who sings such a song to me From the stream. For, as I hear his lay, Like a voice from far away, With its burden, " Come away," i 4 6 THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERS. I can reason thus how sweet To let all the waters meet ( )'er the weary, dreamy head ; And to sink, as in a b In the tide, and there to lie All the night and watch the sky ; Or sleep, sleep, sleep, While the breezes come and creep— And what mortal would not sleep To such soothing lullaby, While the happy moon above Would iling down her wealth of love On the wave, on my grave, On my dream. NOTTMAN. r ~PHAT was Nottman waving at me, But the steam fell down, so you could not see ; He is out to-day with the fast express, And running a mile in the minute, I guess. Danger ? none in the least, for the way Is good, though the curves are sharp as you say, But bless you, w r hen trains are a little behind, They thunder around them — a match for the wind. Nottman himself is a devil to drive, But cool and steady, and ever alive To whatever danger is looming in front, When a train has run hard to gain time for a shunt. But he once got a fear, though, that shook him with pain, Like sleepers beneath the weight of a train. I remember the story well, for, you see, His stoker, Jack Martin, told it to me. Nottman had sent down the wife for a change To the old folks living at Riverly Grange, L 2 I ,s NOTTMAN. A quiet sleepy sort of a town, Save when the engines went up and down For close behind it the railway ran In a mile of a straight if a single span; Three bridges were over the straight, and between Two the distant signal was seen. She had with her her boy — a nice little chit Full of romp and mischief, and childish wit, Ami every time that we thunder'd by, both were out on the watch for Nottman and I. ■ Well, one day,"' said Jack, "on our journey down, Coming round on the straight at the back of the town. I saw right ahead, in front of our track, In the haze on the rail something dim-like and black. • I look'd over at Nottman, but ere I could speak, He shut off the steam, and with one wild shriek. A whistle took to the air with a bound; Hut the object ahead never stirr'd at the sound. "In a moment he (lung himself down on his knee, Leant over the side of the engine to see, NOTTMAN. 149 Took one look, then sprung up, crying, breathless and pale, ' Brake, Jack, it is some one asleep on the rail ! ' " The rear brakes were whistled on in a trice While I screw'd on the tender brake firm as a vice, But still we tore on with this terrible thought Sending fear to our hearts — 'Can we stop her or not?' " I took one look again , then sung out to my mate, ' We can never draw up, we have seen it too late.' When, sudden and swift, like the change in a dream, Nottman drew back the lever, and flung on the steam. " The great wheels stagger' d and span with the strain, While the spray from the steam fell around us like rain, But we slacken'd our speed, till we saw with a wild Throb at the heart, right before us, — a child ! " It was lying asleep on the rail, with no fear Of the terrible death that was looming so near \ The sweat on us both broke as cold as the dew Of death as we question'd — 'What can we do? " It was done — swift as acts that take place in a dream— Nottman rush'd to the front and knelt down on the beam, 150 NOTTMAN. Put one foot in the couplings ; the other he kept Right in front of the wheel for the child that still slept "'Saved!' I burst forth, my heart leaping with pride, For one touch of the foot sent the child to the side, But Nottman look'd up, his lips white as with foam, • My God, Jack,' he cried, ' It's my own little Tom ! ' " He shrunk, would have slipp'd, but one grasp of my hand, Held him firm till the engine was brought to a stand, Then I heard from behind a shriek take to the air, Lnd I knew that the voice of a mother was there. " The boy was all right, had got off with a scratch : He had crept through the fence in his frolic to watch For his father ; but, wearied with mischief and play, Had fallen asleep on the rail where he lay. " For days after that on our journey down, Ere we came to the straight at the back of the town, \ 3 if the signal were up with its gleam Of red, Nottman always shut off the steam." SUMMER INVOCATION. /^OME forth, and bring with thee a mind That rises to the poet's mood; And leave the village far behind, And spend an hour within the wood ; For there the flowers begin to peer-- Sweet primroses that ever seem The glowing eyes of the New Year Lit up with Summer and her dream. And violets that scarce are seen Until you stoop, with patient eye, And see them in their lowly mien, Blue droplets shaken from the sky. Come forth, so that thy soul again May talk a while with quiet things That living far apart from men, Have in them love's untamper'd springs. IS 2 SUMMER INVOCATION, I heard the voice— like one who dn I went forth, having in my breast A stirring quiet, like the streams When pausing for a little rest. I reach the wood, and all around The yearly mystery of birth Unfolds itself without a sound, And broadens over all the earth. The buds in virgin greenness burst And swell beneath the kindly skies All pure as when they grew at first, Upon the boughs in Paradise. The grass grows up, and in the wind Waves tiny fingers to and fro, As if distraught to probe and find The secret of its life below. I lay myself within the shade, T close my eyes, but in my ear Voices and many sounds invade. With whispers which I like to hear. SUMMER INVOCATION. ;?^ For strange it is that as I lie, The wind, that leaves no footstep, seems The spirit of that melody Which gave my boyhood all its dreams. And as I listen, like a song Dear lips have sung in other years, There comes, with fragrance pure and strong. From pent-up sources — sweetest tears. I weep, and yet I know not why. For joy is hand in hand with pain ; Perchance it is to think how dry Our hearts remain for all such rain. Or maybe of that other time, When youth uprising boldly said, " I will sow seed in noble prime," Alas ! and tears have grown instead. But still, as here I lie to-day, Seeing the new life quicken all, The old hard feeling slips away, And I am under softer thrall, iS4 SUMMER INVOCATION. I look, and from the slightest thing That Clod has fashion'd with His hand ; New thoughts and meanings upward spring That arc not hard to understand. \nd as I think and slowly slip Backward to all that early time, I feel a prayer upon my lip, And in my heart a holier rhyme, Until all freshen'd, as with dews That fall not from the sky above, But from some angel's eyes, I lose The old self in a nobler love. And I can look, as now I view The buds and grass, and singing birds, On men, and know their purpose too, And wed my thoughts to nobler words. I leave the wocd all linn and bold. And whisper as through fields I pass— •' Dear Heaven, that heart is never old That takes an interest in the grass— SUMMER INVOCATION. 155 That hears in every lowly thing That spring has waken'd with her call A God-taught melody, that sings, And gives a key-note unto all." READING THE BOOK. T SAT by night and rend the Book, Till doubt was mingled with m) ' \vd dimness lay before my eyes, As mists in hollows form and rise, "So dark, so very dark," I said. And shut the book and bow'd my head : Then lo ! I felt a wondrous light Behind me. making all things bright ; While a clear voice, like some refrain. Said— "Ope the book, and read again." I open'd up its leaves, and lo ! loach page was living with the glow READING THE BOOK. 157 Of some great Presence undefin'd, Yet standing in its place behind. Methought that as I read the Word Each leaf turn'd of its own accord, And all the meaning fair and clear, As pebbles through the stream appear, Lay to my eyes, that saw beneath Each sentence lie without its sheath. 1 raised my head, and spoke in fear— "This is God's Book, and very clear." Then, lo ! the light behind me fled, But left a clear, sweet voice that said — " Read thou not like to him who sees Evolving mists of mysteries, But like to him whose heart perceives God's finger turning o'er the leaves !" SONNETS TO A PICTURE. " Satan watching the Sleep of Christ."— Sir Noel Paton. I. TJ E sleeps ; the inner agony hath pass'd With the sure dawn that slowly climbs the east; The night wherein man saw Him not hath ceas'd. And sleep is on that glorious face at last. But pain still lingers there, though faint and worn. Upon the grandest of all brows, whereon It makes its latest stand to be o'erthrown, By the sunrise of Love's eternal morn. It is no painter's touch ! beneath those eyes The mission and the Cross rise slowly up ; Death with them with the dregs that He must sup, And sorrow with her choruses of sighs. And over all a halo from above, God's Signet on His Masterpiece of Love. SONNETS TO A PICTURE. 159 II. The splendid demon with the lurid eyes, Wherein, as when a serpent bites its coil Nearing its death — hate having felt its foil, Turns back upon itself before it dies. He sits ; one massive evil, huge of limb, With hand still clench' d as with the wish to slay ; While those dark brows for ever waste away With their own anger as they glare at Him. That beauty which repels nor draws us nigher Clothes him as with a raiment. We draw near, Drawn, yet held back as by instinctive fear — As if a tongue from that dread crown of fire Could leap to meet us, like a stroke from fate. And blast us with the poison of its hate. in. A Faust in colours with the good and ill For ever at their conflict, dumb of speech, Nor drawing gladiator-like to each, But armour'd in the panoply of will. The ages with their trailing shadows wait, And Time, the white field-marshal with keen eyes. Surveys the struggle, while the passive skies SONNETS TO A PICTURE. Bend and come nearer as if drawn by fate. Thou thinkest God has hid himself, but, lo ! His awful shadow, or a part, at least, Of that which is His shadow, dawns to view In the young day, that, with its plumes aglow, All silently behind the silent Two Climbs the blue stair-way of the one-starr'd east. SONNETS TO A PICTURE. " Man with the Muck-rake."— Sir Noel Paton. T T E kneels, his knee drawn down to kindred dust. For all is earth within him, from those eyes Wherein a noble nature fallen lies, To the lean hands that clutch, as clutch they must, The muck-rake of this world, for unto him His heaven is on a level with his soul, That, blind, can see no higher, purer goal Than in the gold that glitters but to dim. Jewels that tarnish, honours that take wing A moment after, luring shapes that sink To leave the grinning skull whose sockets blink Derision sharper than the viper's sting, And Vanity, by hollow whispers nursed, Blowing her bubbles, which ere caught have burst. M 162 SONNETS TO A PICTURE. ii. Above him, yet he sees him not, there bends Compassion and Divinity in one, The Christ of time, earth, heaven, and the sun, Of the soul's soul, and all that upward tends. In His right hand he holds a crown of thorns. Sorrow's own symbol, and the other lies Almost upon him, while behind him mourns His better angel with entreating eyes. Thou toiler after things that will not live ! Look but once upward, that thy soul may see The sadden'd splendour of that glorious face, Then lift thyself against that hand, and give Thy better angel one sweet tear to place Within the very sight of God from thee. in. Thou gazest and the picture fades away Like visions after sleep. But unto thee One thing remaineth which thou still canst see, Like midnight meteors when they flash astray. It is the woven crown of thorns, and lo, Behind it, on thy dim and awe-struck sight There rises up a cross of pale sad light SONNETS TO A PICTURE. 16 That slowly deepens till its very glow- Reaches thy inmost soul that, kneeling down Beneath a sorrow which all speech but mars, Sees, as a glory rises in the night, Through the rough circlet of the thorny crown Another issue forth that to the sight Becomes a blinding splendour thick with stars. M 2 THE RED LEAF. T J AVE you so forgot the time, clear love, When we sat by the stream in the wood With our hearts as bright as the sky above, Talking as lovers should ? And we whisper'd to each of that happy day- Looking forward is so sweet — But still as the moments- sped away The red leaf fell at our feet. The birds were out on the leafy boughs, Strong in their voice and youth. And between their songs we made our vows With a kiss to seal their truth : And I turn'd to you as I said, "This stream" The stream was then so sweet — " Has music fit for our coming dream," Ami the red leaf fell at our feet. THE RED LEAF. 165 The blushes lay warm on your gentle cheek, As I took your hand in mine, While your eyes they could not, would not speak Aught but that love of thine; And you smiled as I clasp'd and kiss'd you still — Your smile was then so sweet — But ever between the joy and thrill The red leaf fell at our feet. I took the curls of your long, rich hair, And nursed them in my hand, As we laid in the future clear and fair, The dreams we both had plann'd; We had nothing to do with life's alloy — O the heart will rise and beat — But still as we spoke of our coming joy The read leaf fell at our feet. We stood by the gate as the virgin night Set her footsteps on the hill, Yet so sweet were your eyes with their dark rich light That I fondly linger'd still; But hours wait not whatever we. do — And lovers' hours are sweet — 166 11 IK RKD 1.1 :\V. So 1 kiss'd you again and said, "Be true," And the red leaf lay at our feet. Now 1 walk this life with a solemn brow, For the sweetest of hopes is fled, And the blossoms that once would burst and blow Are now for ever dead. Yet I smile as they question " Why is this ? " — O the pain of the inward heat ! — And seem to be gay as I laugh and say, The red leaf fell at our feet. HE CAME FROM A LAND. T T E came from a land whose shadows Were brighter than our day ; And he sang of the streams and meadows, And then he went away. Now I turn from the heart that ever Will moan for the clay behind ; When the soul is such glorious liver In the boundless realms of mind. So at night when the shadows grow dreary, And a sorrow is in my breast, And the wings of life grow weary, And flutter as if for rest : Then I open my little book-case, When the quiet is breathing low, [68 III CAME FROM A I AND. And I take from the shelf in silence A volume of long ago. And I read and read by the firelight, Till quick and clear as chimes The man himself is with me, And is talking to me in rhymes : Talking of waving meadows And cunningly-hidden brooks. With the quietest gush of eddies That the flowers may see their looks: Babbling of summer and sunshine, And hills that reach the cloud ; And this — all this in whispers, For he never speaks aloud. Then betimes when I shut the volume To walk in the quiet street. When the stars, which are shadows of angels. Have made the silence sweet : He follows me still like a presence That none but spirits see ; HE CAME FROM A LAND. 169 And at every pause of my footstep His music is speaking to me : Whispers and speaks till the night-time So trembles with all its tone That I cannot but let my being Move into the clasp of his own. So whenever I lift the volume, Like summer-beams that glow. That spirit comes out from the silence And babbles of long ago. A PARTING. First appeared in CasselFs Magazine, and taken from that Magazine by kind permission of Messrs. Cassell, Tetter, and Galpin. T HE sunlight fell through the shadowy trees In smiles all soft and sweet, While the incense breath of an early breeze Stirr'd the primrose at our feet. And you stoop' d to pluck its round bright eye That peep'd up to the day. Then turn'd from its golden bloom with a sigh, For your thoughts were far away. Ay, far away with some dearer one, And hearing within your ear, Breath'd out in love's low undertone The vows that you loved to hear. A PARTING. 171 I knew I had no share in your heart, And yet I could but speak, While my life's sweet thoughts began to start With the blush upon your cheek. But you whisper'd as light as a leaf when turn'd By the breath of the wooing wind, A low sweet whisper, as if it mourn' d For the pain it left behind. And your eyes for a moment met my own With the love that might have been, Then slowly sank, and their light was gone, And the sunlight fell between. Ah me! through that sunlight I see thee now. With the old-love-bloom on your cheek, And within your eyes the same sweet glow Of the thoughts you would not speak. Then my heart, like a pilgrim, makes its choice, And flings all thoughts away, And listens again to thy low sweet voice, As thine own did to his that day. WHERE I AM LYING NOW 'THE first sweet wind of the summer Is breathing upon my cheek, \n *t in their ranks. Glasgow Herald.— His efforts in Scotch arc almost uniformly K' the sonnets arc capital ; and the volume, as a whole, may I >«_- taken as a pruuf thai Uthor will yet produce something of higher mark. Glas£ analyse with anything like justice the genius of our auth V that the book is the product! US is perb. i fjr our readers— especially in those days when genius is such a rare commodity. Haddingtonshire Courier. — If the missi n of the poet i> to inculcate the principles of goodness and truth, and to cheer men in this world, then we > that Mr. And.. not come far short of this mission. Hispoetrj of the drawing room I r the tinge of the midnight lamp. It has the real ring of nai poetry in it. Hamilton Advertiser.— We cordially recommend the book itself to our readers. It will repay perusal, and is sure to afford much intellectual pleasure and enjoyment. Dumfriesshire and Galloway Hera Id. —Many will be proud that the mine of poetry' is still unexhausted within her (Dumfries) bounds, and the sons of labour t to hon ur one who has done so mtn iify their calling. 'I hey will find much in these poems to raise them in the scale of being. Chicago Tribune. — There is a hearty earnestness about "Surfacem which at once i n the readers attention, and keeps him spell-bound till he reaches the end of the p .< in. "THE TWO ANGELS, AND OTHER POEMS." George Gil/Wan, Dundee. — " The Railway King." Scotsman. — The most daring and lofty flight the " Surfaceman " has yet attempted is in the series of Sonnets entitled "In Rome," wherein he measures himself against some of the greatest writers, and when we consider who he is and who they were, it is surprising how he holds his ground. Daily Review. — In some of the author's more ambitious efforts we find a 'manly simplicity, with a statuesque kind of classic stateliness which slowly and stealthily, but in the end powerfully appeals to sympathies that would not respond at all to the touch of the mere poetaster or the vagabi nd troubadour. Glasgow He> aid. — A vigorous earnestness runs through the poems, and almost every one beats with a pulse of reality. People's Friend. — This new volume is one that will endear the poet still more to all who take an interest in his career, and lift him to a higher niche among the glorious company of Scotia's bards. League Journal. — We heartily recommend the volume as the work of a true and genuine man. Kilmarnock Standard.— Every household in Ayrshire should get the poems of the Railway Surfaceman. Ardrossan and Saltcoats Herald. — The volume is a remarkable one. Haddingtonshire Courier. — In the sonnets Mr. Anderson attains at once his finest melody, his happiest thoughts, and his most sustained and artistic expression. Young Men's Christian Magazine.— -Those who appreciate genuine poetry will find in this volume a rich treat. Weekly Review, London. — This is a remarkable production, whether we consider its sterling excellence, evincing as it does true and genuine genius, or the social cir- cumstances in the midst of which it has struggled into existence. Hamilton Advertiser. — These are compositions that will bear to be read and re- read, and read again. Cumnock Express. — Not a little he has written is as worthy to live as much that has flowed from the pen of the greater sleepers in our national Pantheon. Raihuay Fly-Sheet— We offer to the railway world Mr. Anderson's most excellent work as something of which the service ought to be proud, and to the author we pre- sent our warmest congratulations. Christian News.— Apart from his poetic genius, Alexander Anderson is a very remarkable man. Kelso Chronicle. — If " Surfaceman " will only be true to his powers and work slowly and carefully as Smith did, there can be no doubt that he will yet make for himself a name of no little renown. Dumfries and Galloway Standard and Register. — No one can devote half-an- hour or -so to this volume without perceiving that its author is a man of talent and culture, who possesses besides a considerable amount of poetic genius. Dumfries and Galloway Courier. — Altogether we regard Mr. Anderson's poems as a credit to our literature, and we are proud to claim a man of so well cultivated and so pure and sound a mind as a native of the north of Scotland. Tlie Orkney Herald. — " In Rome " is a production of great genius. It evinces a power of conception and delineation which have seldom been surpassed. Opinions of the Pi Dunfermline Press. — We icnd the book to our readers as one I full f what is at once interesting, ]ir. ifitabl . ti >n. but "f treasures the like of which I A: vrier. — The auth ir] I iculty, but more remark- able the marks of culture and scholarship which his The Courant. — We heartily rec immend Mr. An.', the success of his resolute self-cultui rtiser. — The volume as a nuine poetry in it than ally an hi ■ i him i If, an honour to I ■ -. and an hon i h has the li' to the taste to thus l g and inspiriting one who is at once a gcnuii t il and a genuine s ii i f Ming. Stirlii: r. — The latent power this poem (" In Rome ") reveals bespeaks a future forAndersi.il of n > uncertain kind. Labour News. — Tf there is a p >< t living wh i car I > ■ throbbing itn|niN. .nd who is likely t j chant is displayed in ience in t .il era of the world's history, that poet i " Surf ii." Afercmy. — It i : not surprising t r thai ^ rit of purity and refine- ment pervades all the writings or such a man. but it is somewhat startling to find a self-educated "Sun grappling, and that by no means unsuccessfully, with subjects which have furnished themes for poets like Byron, Madam I and Goethe. .' Weekly Albion. — We regret that we have not space for furthercomments or additional extracts fr.nn this volume, which is certain!) I charming and interesting collection of verse which has c jinc under our notice for some time. Bradford Observer. — We could e i by extracts that Mr. Anderson has the distinctive qualities of the poet in no slight degree — insight or intuition, earnest! pathos, sympathy, and humour. Westminster Review. — We advise all our readers to judge for themselv. trkable book in which we feel no common inter Dublin i University Magazine. — In the front ranks of the modern singers of Scotland we would place Alexander Anderson. Literary World. — They(th far removed from the jingle-jingle of many poetisers of humble rank that 01 tin and again h can produce such astound The Evangelical Magazine. — 'Talk of learning and culture in the presence ol genius ! Why, here is a " Surfaceman " as he used to call himself— that is a worker on railways, a " navvy " as he would be named in England, who has written i that would do hon ur to the finest scholar that e\ ic halls ofOxfoi Ca:i i The Christian World. — We heartily recommend this charming volume. Pall Mall Gazette. — Our Author's sonnets "In Rome" form unquestionably his T/ii- Examiner. — Mr. Anderson has sung the engine and related incidents line, not, indeed with all I our of 1 urn. r*S " Mist. Rain, and Steam." hut with tloveforh iect, and much insight into its capability Saturday j is defecth rery-day em Ii. .ii v and refinement in some of the piece . v. riur has evidently, tli ugh not uniformly, an accurate ear for me] UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 369 378 5 3 1158 01102 0517