WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST.
It was a dreadful day, when late I passed
O'er thy dim vastness, SKIDDAW !-Mist and cloud
Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast
To thee made darling music, wild and loud,
Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents played,
As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven,
A watery spire, then on the crew dismayed
Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.
I could have thought that every living form
Had fled, or perished in that savage storm,
So desolate the day. To me were given
Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said,
Can grief, time, chance, or elements control
Man's chartered pride, the Liberty of Soul?
I WANDERED lonely, like a pilgrim sad,
O'er mountains known but to the eagle's gaze;
Yet, my hushed heart, with Nature's beauty glad,
Slept in the shade, or gloried in the blaze.
Romantic vales stole winding to my eye
In gradual loveliness, like rising dreams;
Fair, nameless tarns, that seem to blend with sky
Rocks of wild majesty and elfin streams.
How strange, methought, I should have lived so near,
Nor ever worshipped Nature's altar here!
Strange! say not so-hid from the world and thee, Though in the midst of life their spirits move,
Thousands enjoy in holy liberty
The silent Eden of unenvied Love!
WRITTEN ON THE EVENING I HEARD OF THE DEATH OF MY FRIEND, WILLIAM DUNLOP.
A GOLDEN cloud came floating o'er my head,
With kindred glories round the sun to blend!
Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead;
-Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend.
I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end :
A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed,
The beauty of the crimson west subdued,
And sighs that seemed my very life to rend,
The silent happiness of eve renewed.
Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting brood
Dwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise;
But, oh! what tranquil holiness ensued,
When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice,
-God sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice!
THE Lake lay hid in mist, and to the sand
The little billows hastening silently,
Came sparkling on, in many a gladsome band,
Soon as they touched the shore, all doomed to die!
I gazed upon them with a pensive eye,
For on that dim and melancholy strand,
I saw the image of Man's destiny.
So hurry we, right onwards, thoughtlessly,
Unto the coast of that Eternal Land;
Where, like the worthless billows in their glee,
The first faint touch unable to withstand,
We melt at once into Eternity.
O Thou who weigh'st the waters in thine hand,
My awe-struck Spirit puts her trust in Thee!
THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME,
AUTHOR OF "THE SABBATH," ETC.
WITH tearless eyes and undisturbed heart,
O Bard of sinless life and holiest song!
I muse upon thy deathbed and thy grave;
Though round that grave the trodden grass still lies
Besmeared with clay; for many feet were there,
Fast-rooted to the spot, when slowly sank
Thy coffin, GRAHAME! into the quiet cell.
Yet, well I loved thee, even as one might love
An elder brother, imaged in the soul
With solemn features, half-creating awe,
But smiling still with gentleness and peace.
Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voice
Did tremblingly breathe forth that touching air
By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old,
Amid the silence of his pastoral hills,
Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died.
Wept too have I, when thou didst simply read
From thine own lays so simply beautiful
Some short pathetic tale of human grief,
Or orison or hymn of deeper love,
That might have won the sceptic's sullen heart
To gradual adoration, and belief
Of Him who died for us upon the Cross.
Yea! oft when thou wert well, and in the calm
Of thy most Christian spirit blessing all
Who looked upon thee, with those gentlest smiles
That never lay on human face but thine;
Even when thy serious eyes were lighted up
With kindling mirth, and from thy lips distilled
Words soft as dew, and cheerful as the dawn,
Then too I could have wept, for on thy face,
Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame
By other cause impaired than length of years,
Lay something that still turned the thoughtful heart To melancholy dreams, dreams of decay,
Of death and burial, and the silent tomb.
And of the tomb thou art an inmate now! Methinks I see thy name upon the stone Placed at thy head, and yet my cheeks are dry. Tears could I give thee, when thou wert alive, The mournful tears of deep foreboding love That might not be restrained; but now they seem Most idle all thy worldly course is o'er, And leaves such sweet remembrance in my soul As some delightful music heard in youth, Sad, but not painful, even more spirit-like
Than when it murmured through the shades of earth.
Short time wert thou allowed to guide thy flock Through the green pastures, where in quiet glides The Siloah of the soul! Scarce was thy voice Familiar to their hearts, who felt that heaven Did therein speak, when suddenly it fell Mute, and for ever. Empty now and still The holy house which thou didst meekly grace, When with uplifted hand, and eye devout, Thy soul was breathed to Jesus, or explained The words that lead unto eternal life. From infancy thy heart was vowed to God; And aye the hope that one day thou might'st keep A little fold, from all the storms of sin Safe-sheltered, and by reason of thy prayers Warmed by the sunshine of approving Heaven, Upheld thy spirit, destined for a while.
To walk far other paths, and with the crowd
Of worldly men to mingle. Yet even then,
Thy life was ever such as well became
One whose pure soul was fixed upon the Cross!
And when with simple fervent eloquence,
GRAHAME pled the poor man's cause, the listener oft
Thought how becoming would his visage smile
Across the house of God, how beauteously
That man would teach the saving words of Heaven!
How well he taught them, many a one will feel Unto their dying day; and when they lie
On the grave's brink, unfearing and composed,
Their speechless souls will bless the holy man
Whose voice exhorted, and whose footsteps led
Unto the paths of life; nor sweeter hope,
Next to the gracious look of Christ, have they
Than to behold his face who saved their souls.
But closed on earth thy blessèd ministry!
And while thy native Scotland mourns her son
Untimely reft from her maternal breast,
Weeps the fair Sister-Land, with whom erewhile
The stranger sojourned, stranger but in birth,
For well she loved thee, as thou wert her own.
On a most clear and noiseless Sabbath-night
I heard that thou wert gone, from the soft voice
Of one who knew thee not, but deeply loved
Thy spirit meekly shining in thy song.
At such an hour the death of one like thee
Gave no rude shock, nor by a sudden grief
Destroyed the visions from the starry sky
Then settling in my soul. The moonlight slept
With a diviner sadness on the air;
The tender dimness of the night appeared
Darkening to deeper sorrow, and the voice
Of the far torrent from the silent hills
Flowed, as I listened, like a funeral strain
Breathed by some mourning solitary thing.
Yet Nature in her pensiveness still wore
A blissful smile, as if she sympathised
With those who grieved that her own Bard was dead
And yet was happy that his spirit dwelt
At last within her holiest sanctuary,
'Mid long-expecting angels.
Faith, fearless faith in the eternal bliss
Of a departed brother, may be held
By beings blind as we, that faith should dry
All eyes that weep for GRAHAME; or through their tears
Show where he sits august and beautiful
On the right hand of Jesus, 'mid the saints
Whose glory he on earth so sweetly sang.
No fears have we when some delightful child
Falls from its innocence into the grave!
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