Death

I.

    The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
        By fits the sun's departing beam
    Look'd on the fading yellow woods
        That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:
    Beneath a craggy steep, a bard,
        Laden with years and meikle pain,
    In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
        Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

II.

    He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
        Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;
    His locks were bleached white with time,
        His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears;
    And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
        And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
    The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
        To echo bore the notes alang.

III.

    "Ye scattered birds that faintly sing,<...

    When chill November's surly blast
        Made fields and forests bare,
    One ev'ning as I wandered forth
        Along the banks of Ayr,
    I spy'd a man whose aged step
        Seem'd weary, worn with care;
    His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
        And hoary was his hair.

    "Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"
        Began the rev'rend sage;
    "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
        Or youthful pleasure's rage?
    Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
        Too soon thou hast began
    To wander forth, with me to mourn
        The miseries of man.

    "The sun that overhangs yon moors,
        Out-spreading far and wide,
    Where hundreds labour to support
        A haughty lordling's pride:<...

Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunte.

THE UNION OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE IS DISSOLVED BY HER DEATH.


    Two mortal foes in one fair breast combined,
Beauty and Virtue, in such peace allied
That ne'er rebellion ruffled that pure mind,
But in rare union dwelt they side by side;
By Death they now are shatter'd and disjoin'd;
One is in heaven, its glory and its pride,
One under earth, her brilliant eyes now blind,
Whence stings of love once issued far and wide.
That winning air, that rare discourse and meek,
Surely from heaven inspired, that gentle glance
Which wounded my poor heart, and wins it still,
Are gone; if I am slow her road to seek,
I hope her fair and graceful name perchance
To consecrate with this worn weary quill.

MACGREG...

This is an evil night to go, my sister,
        To the fairy-tree across the fairy rath,
Will you not wait till Hallow Eve is over?
        For many are the dangers in your path!

I may not wait till Hallow Eve is over,
        I shall be there before the night is fled,
For, brother, I am weary for my lover,
        And I must see him once, alive or dead.

I’ve prayed to heaven, but it would not listen,
        I’ll call thrice in the devil’s name to-night,
Be it a live man that shall come to hear me,
        Or but a corpse, all clad in snowy white.

* * * * *

She had drawn on her silken hose and garter,
        Her crimson petticoat was kilted high,
She trod her way amid the bog and brambles,
        Until the fairy-tree she stood near-b...

Out of the depths of darkling life where sin
Laughs piteously that sorrow should not know
Her own ill name, nor woe be counted woe;
Where hate and craft and lust make drearier din
Than sounds through dreams that grief holds revel in;
What charm of joy-bells ringing, streams that flow,
Winds that blow healing in each note they blow,
Is this that the outer darkness hears begin?
O sweetest heart of all thy time save one,
Star seen for love’s sake nearest to the sun,
Hung lamplike o’er a dense and doleful city,
Not Shakespeare’s very spirit, howe’er more great,
Than thine toward man was more compassionate,
Nor gave Christ praise from lips more sweet with pity.

Clouds of the autumn night,
Under the hunter's moon,--
Ghostly and windy white,--
Whither, like leaves wild strewn,
Take ye your stormy flight?

Out of the west, where dusk,
From her rich windowsill,
Leaned with a wand of tusk,
Witch-like, and wood and hill
Phantomed with mist and musk.

Into the east, where morn
Sleeps in a shadowy close,
Shut with a gate of horn,
'Round which the dreams she knows
Flutter with rose and thorn.

Blow from the west, oh, blow,
Clouds that the tempest steers!
And with your rain and snow
Bear of my heart the tears,
And of my soul the woe.

Into the east then pass,
Clouds that the night winds sweep!
And on her grave's sear grass,
There where she lies asleep.
There let them ...

We used to fear the lonely road
That twisted round the hill;
It dipped down to the river-way,
And passed the haunted mill,
And then crept on, until it reached
The churchyard, green and still.

No pipers ever took that road,
No gipsies, brown and gay;
No shepherds with their gentle flocks,
No loads of scented hay;
No market-waggons jingled by
On any Saturday.

The dog-wood there flung wide its stars,
In April, silvery sweet;
The squirrels crossed that path all day
On tiny flying feet;
The wild, brown rabbits knew each turn,
Each shadowy safe retreat.

And there the golden-belted bee
Sang his sweet summer song,
The crickets chirped there to the moon
With steady note and strong;
Till cold and silence wrapped them round...

        Not long the living weep above their dead,
        And you will grieve, Admetus, but not long.
        The winter's silence in these desolate halls
        Will break with April's laughter on your lips;
        The bees among the flowers, the birds that mate,
        The widowed year, grown gaunt with memory
        And yearning toward the summer's fruits, will come
        With lotus comfort, feeding all your veins.
        The vining brier will crawl across my grave,
        And you will woo another in my stead.
        Those tender, foolish names you called me by,
        Your passionate kiss that clung unsatisfied,
        The pressure of your hand, when dark night hushed
        Life's busy stir, and left us two alone,
        Will you remember? or, when da...

"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful,
Beyond all dreams to restore,
I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither.
And knock on the door."

"Who speaks?" "I - once was my speech
Sweet as the bird's on the air,
When echo lurks by the waters to heed;
'Tis I speak thee fair."

"Dark is the hour!" "Ay, and cold."
"Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?"
"Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearned in vain."
"Long dead these to thine ..."

Silence. Still faint on the porch
Brake the flames of the stars.
In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand
Over keys, bolts, and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night
In chaos of vacancy shone;
Nought but vast sorrow was there -
The sweet cheat gone.

    Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl,
    Was driving to the tither warl'
    A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
    And mony a guilt-bespotted lad;
    Black gowns of each denomination,
    And thieves of every rank and station,
    From him that wears the star and garter,
    To him that wintles in a halter:
    Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches,
    He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches,
    "By G--d, I'll not be seen behint them,
    Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
    Without, at least, ae honest man,
    To grace this d--d infernal clan."
    By Adamhill a glance he threw,
    "L--d G--d!" quoth he, "I have it now,
    There's just the man I want, i' faith!"
    And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

The shepherd calls,
How these great niountain walls
Re-echo! See his dog
Come limping from the bog!
How far he holds him
With that thin clamour! Scolds him?
Or cheers him, which?
Say both, most like. The pitch
Is steep, poor fellow!
And still that bellow;
Ya, ya!
Whoop ‘ tittivat
And Echo from her niche
Shrieks challenged. Shout,
O shepherd! flout
The irritable Echo till she raves
As man behaves,
So God apportions, doing what is best
For you, and for the rest.
As man behaves! You do not help me much,
Nay, sir, nor touch
The central point at all,
Retributive, mechanical,
I see it. But outside all this
I miss . . . I miss . . .
Sir, know you Death?
Permit me introduce
No? What’s the use?
The use! . . . ...

The Muse said, Let us sing a little song
    Wherein no hint of wrong,
No echo of the great world need, or pain,
    Shall mar the strain.
Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart;
    Keep sympathy apart.
Sing of the sunset, of the dawn, the sea;
    Of any thing or nothing, so there be
No purpose to thy art.
    Yea, let us make, art for Art's sake.
And sing no more unto the hearts of men,
    But for the critic's pen.
With songs that are but words, sweet sounding words,
    Like joyous jargon of the birds.
Tune now thy lyre, O Poet, and sing on.
    Sing of

The Dawn

The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams
    Of her beloved Darkness, rose in fear,
    Feeling the presence of another near.
Outside her curtained casement...

Fools may pine, and sots may swill,
Cynics gibe, and prophets rail,
Moralists may scourge and drill,
Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail.
Let them whine, or threat, or wail!
Till the touch of Circumstance
Down to darkness sink the scale,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

What if skies be wan and chill?
What if winds be harsh and stale?
Presently the east will thrill,
And the sad and shrunken sail,
Bellying with a kindly gale,
Bear you sunwards, while your chance
Sends you back the hopeful hail:-
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'

Idle shot or coming bill,
Hapless love or broken bail,
Gulp it (never chew your pill!),
And, if Burgundy should fail,
Try the humbler pot of ale!
Over all is heaven's expanse.
Gold's to fi...

My song is of that city which
Has men too poor and men too rich;
Where some are sick, too richly fed,
While others take the sparrows' bread:
Where some have beds to warm their bones,
While others sleep on hard, cold stones
That suck away their bodies' heat.
Where men are drunk in every street;
Men full of poison, like those flies
That still attack the horses' eyes.
Where some men freeze for want of cloth,
While others show their jewels' worth
And dress in satin, fur or silk;
Where fine rich ladies wash in milk,
While starving mothers have no food
To make them fit in flesh and blood;
So that their watery breasts can give
Their babies milk and make them live.
Where one man does the work of four,
And dies worn out before his hour;
While some s...

I.

Moonlight silvers the tops of trees,
Moonlight whitens the lilac shadowed wall
And through the evening fall,
Clearly, as if through enchanted seas,
Footsteps passing, an infinite distance away,
In another world and another day.
Moonlight turns the purple lilacs blue,
Moonlight leaves the fountain hoar and old,
And the boughs of elms grow green and cold,
Our footsteps echo on gleaming stones,
The leaves are stirred to a jargon of muted tones.
This is the night we have kept, you say:
This is the moonlit night that will never die.
Through the grey streets our memories retain
Let us go back again.

II.

Mist goes up from the river to dim the stars,
The river is black and cold; so let us dance
To flare of horns, and clang of cymbal...

POET.

Enchanting spirit! at thy votive shrine
I lowly bend one simple wreath to twine;
O come from thy ideal world and fling
Thy airy fingers o'er my rugged string;
Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earth
The wild sweet song that tells thy heavenly birth--


FANCY.

Happiness, when from earth she fled,
    I passed on her heaven-ward flight,--
"Take this wreath," the spirit said,
    "And bathe it in floods of light;
To the sons of sorrow this token give,
And bid them follow my steps and live!"

I took the wreath from her radiant hand,
    Each flower was a silver star;
I turned this dark earth to a fairy land,
    When I hither drove my car;
But I wove the wreath round my tresses bright,
And man only saw its...

    Now when wan winter sunsets be
        Canary-colored down the sky;
    When nights are starless utterly,
        And sleeted winds cut moaning by,
    One's memory keeps one company,
        And conscience puts his "when" and "why."

    Such inquisition, when alone,
        Wakes superstition in the head,
    A Gorgon face of hueless stone
        With staring eyes to terror wed,
    Stamped on her brow God's words, "Unknown!
        Behind the dead, behind the dead."

    And, oh! that weariness of soul
        That leans upon our dead, the clod
    And air have taken as a whole
        Through some mysterious period:--
    Life! with thy questions of control:
        Death! with thy unguessed laws of God.

Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church.

At night, in visions, when my soul drew near
    The shadowy confines of the spirit land,
Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear,
    Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand;
And forms of light, too, more divinely fair
    Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn,
On wings that made sweet music in the air,
    Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne,
And, filled with joy unutterable, I
Have deemed myself a born child of the sky.

And often, too, at sunset's magic hour,
    When musing by some solitary stream,
While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r,
    And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream:
Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth,
    Have whispere...