WRITTEN IN BURNS' COTTAGE. HIS mortal body of a thousand days Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room, Where thou didst dream budded bays, alone on Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom! MEG MERRILIES. LD MEG she was a gipsy, Her bed it was the brown heath turf, Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants, pods o' broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her brothers were the craggy hills Alone with her great family She lived as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, And, 'stead of supper, she would stare But every morn, of woodbine fresh And, every night, the dark glen yew Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, An old red blanket cloak she wore, God rest her aged bones somewhere! SONNET ON AILSA ROCK. EARKEN, thou craggy ocean-pyramid, Give answer by thy voice-the seafowls' screams! When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams? When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid? How long is't since the mighty Power bid Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreamsSleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeamsOr when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid! Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead asleep. The last in air, the former in the deep! First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies! Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep, Another cannot wake thy giant-size! WALKING IN SCOTLAND. HERE is a charm in footing slow across da silent plain, Where patriot battle had been fought, wowhere glory had the gain; There is a pleasure on the heath, where Druids old have been, Where mantles grey have rustled by, and swept the nettled green; There is a joy in every spot made known in times of old, New to the feet although each tale a hundred times be told; There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart. More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart, When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf, Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron surf, Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn. Light heather-bells may tremble then,--but they are far away; Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,—the Sun may hear his lay; Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear, But their low voices are not heard, tho' come on travels drear; Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks, Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy creeks, Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air, Ring-doves may fly convulsed across to some high cedared lair, But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground, As palmer's that with weariness mid-desert shrine hath found. At such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain, Forgotten is the worldly heart,—alone it beats in vain! Aye, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day, To tell his forehead's swoon and faint, when first began decay, He might make tremble many a one, whose spirit had gone forth To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent north! Scanty the hour, and few the steps, beyond the bourn of care! Beyond the sweet and bitter world,-beyond it unaware' Scanty the hour, and few the steps,-because a longer stay Would bar return and make a man forget his mortal way! O horrible! to lose the sight of well-remember'd face, Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow,-constant to every place, Filling the air as on we move with portraiture intense, More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's sense, When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old, Locks shining black, hair scanty grey, and passions manifold! No, no,-that horror cannot be ! for at the cable's length Man feels the gentle anchor pull, and gladdens in its strength : One hour, half idiot, he stands by mossy water fall, But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial; He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down, Upon rough marble diadem, that hill's eternal crown. Yet be his anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer, That man may never lose his mind in mountains black and bare; That he may stray, league after league, sɔme great birthplace to find, And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind. |