Heartbreak

Tune - "There art few gude fellows when Willie's awa."


I.

    By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
    I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
    And as he was singing the tears down came,
    There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
    The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;
    Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars:
    We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,
    There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!

II.

    My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
    And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd.
    It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame,
    There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
    Now life is a burthen that bows me down,
    Since I tint...

I met Hosea Job on Randolph Street
Who said to me: "I'm going for the train,
I want you with me."

    And it happened then
My mind was hard, as muscles of the back
Grow hard resisting cold or shock or strain
And need the osteopath to be made supple,
To give the nerves and streams of life a chance.
Hosea Job was just the osteopath
To loose, relax my mood. And so I said
"All right" - and went.

        Hosea was a man
Whom nothing touched of danger, or of harm.
His life was just a rare-bit dream, where some one
Seems like to fall before a truck or train -
Instead he walks across them. Or you see
Shadows of falling things, great buildings topple,
Pianos skid like bulls from hellish corners
And chase the oblivious fool who stands and smiles.

Some day in Spring,
When earth is fair and glad,
And sweet birds sing,
And fewest hearts are sad --
    Shall I die then?
    Ah! me, no matter when;
I know it will be sweet
    To leave the homes of men
And rest beneath the sod,
To kneel and kiss Thy feet
In Thy home, O my God!

Some Summer morn
Of splendors and of songs,
When roses hide the thorn
And smile -- the spirit's wrongs --
    Shall I die then?
    Ah! me, no matter when;
I know I will rejoice
    To leave the haunts of men
And lie beneath the sod,
To hear Thy tender voice
In Thy home, O my God!

Some Autumn eve,
When chill clouds drape the sky,
When bright things grieve
Because all fair things die --
    Shall I die then?
    Ah! me, ...

The Rev Mr Young was one stormy day visiting one of his people, an old man, who lived in great poverty in a lonely cottage a few miles from Jedsburg. He found him sitting with his Bible open upon his knees, but in outward circumstances of great discomfort, the snow drifting in through the roof and under the door, and scarcely any fire in the hearth. "What are you about to day, John?" asked Mr Young on entering "Ah, sir," said John, "I am sitting under His shadow with great delight."


They only see the snow heaped on the moor,
    The bare trees shivering in the winter's breath,
The icy drift that sifteth through the door,
    Me, old and poor, waiting the call of death.

They think my cot is bare and comfortless,
    With broken roof and paper-mended pane,
They see but poverty and lonelin...

A stranger, schooled to gentle arts,
He stept before the curious throng;
His path into our waiting hearts
Already paved by song.

Full well we knew his choristers,
Whose plaintive voices haunt our rest,
Those sable-vested harbingers
Of melancholy guest.

We smiled on him for love of these,
With eyes that swift grew dim to scan
Beneath the veil of courteous ease
The faith-forsaken man.

To his wan gaze the weary shows
And fashions of our vain estate,
Our shallow pain and false repose,
Our barren love and hate,

Are shadows in a land of graves,
Where creeds, the bubbles of a dream,
Flash each and fade, like melting waves
Upon a moonlight stream.

Yet loyal to his own despair,
Erect beneath a darkened sky,
He...

In days that long have glided by,
Beneath keen Scotia's weeping sky,
On many a hill of purple heath,
In many a gloomy glen beneath,
The wand'ring Lyrist once was known
To pour his harp's entrancing tone.
Then, when the castle's rocky form
Rose 'mid the dark surrounding storm,
The Harper had a sacred seat,
Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet.
Oh! then, when many a twinkling star
Shone in the azure vault afar,
And mute was ev'ry mountain-bird,
Soft music from the harp was heard;
And when the morning's blushes shed
On hill, or tow'r, their varying red,
Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer,
With earliest sound, th' enraptur'd ear;
Then many a lady fair was known,
With snowy hand, to wake its tone;
And infant fingers press'd the string,...

Small is the theme of the following Chant, yet the greatest - namely,
One's-Self - that wondrous thing a simple, separate person.
That, for the use of the New World, I sing.
Man's physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing. Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse; - I say the Form complete is worthier far. The female equal with the male, I sing,
Nor cease at the theme of One's-Self. I speak the word of the modern, the word En-Masse:
My Days I sing, and the Lands - with interstice I knew of hapless War.

O friend whoe'er you are, at last arriving hither to commence, I feel through every leaf the pressure of your hand, which I return.
And thus upon our journey link'd together let us go.

Some find work where some find rest,
And so the weary world goes on:
I sometimes wonder which is best;
The answer comes when life is gone.

Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake,
And so the dreary night-hours go;
Some hearts beat where some hearts break;
I often wonder why 'tis so.

Some wills faint where some wills fight,
Some love the tent, and some the field;
I often wonder who are right --
The ones who strive, or those who yield?

Some hands fold where other hands
Are lifted bravely in the strife;
And so thro' ages and thro' lands
Move on the two extremes of life.

Some feet halt where some feet tread,
In tireless march, a thorny way;
Some struggle on where some have fled;
Some seek when others shun the fray.

Som...

Sweet resting place! that long hath been
A boon Elysian 'mid the din
    Of city life, 'mid city smoke;
Where weary ones who toil and spin
Have turned aside as to an inn
    Whose swinging sign a welcome spoke;
Where misanthropes find medicine
In peals of laughter that begin
    With ancient, resurrected joke,
Or ready wit of harlequin;
Where children, free from discipline,
    Take on Diversion's easy yoke.

Fair oasis! to view aright
Its charming paths, its sloping height,
    Its beautiful and broad expanse,
Must one approach in witching night
When, like abodes of airy sprite
    Revealed unto the wondering glance,
O'erflooded with electric light
Than Luna's beams more dazzling bright,
    Illumined nooks the scene enhance;
Whi...

To my quick ear the leaves conferred;
The bushes they were bells;
I could not find a privacy
From Nature's sentinels.

In cave if I presumed to hide,
The walls began to tell;
Creation seemed a mighty crack
To make me visible.

I saw a Mother's eye intensely bent
Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt;
In and for whom the pious Mother felt
Things that we judge of by a light too faint:
Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned Muse, or Saint!
Tell what rushed in, from what she was relieved
Then, when her Child the hallowing touch received,
And such vibration through the Mother went
That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear?
Opened a vision of that blissful place
Where dwells a Sister-child? And was power given
Part of her lost One's glory back to trace
Even to this Rite? For thus 'She' knelt, and, ere
The summer-leaf had faded, passed to Heaven.

Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men's groans,
The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!

Stranger! a while beneath this aged tree
Rest thee, the hills beyond, and flowery meads,
Surveying; and if Nature's charms may wake
A sweet and silent transport at thine heart,
In spring-time, whilst the bee hums heedless nigh,
Rejoice! for thee the verdant spot is dressed,
Circled with laurels green, and sprinkled o'er
With many a budding rose: the shrubs all ring
To the birds' warblings, and by fits the air
Whispers amid the foliage o'er thine head!
Rejoice, and oh! if life's sweet spring be thine,
So gather its brief rose-buds, and deceive
The cares and crosses of humanity.

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall,
    The fairies' palace beside the stream;
Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall
    Through their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.

I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn,
    When the young moon hangs on the brow of night,
Nor see the morning, at early dawn,
    Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.

I shall fly no more on my fiery steed,
    O'er the springing sward, - through the twilight wood;
Nor reign my courser, and check my speed,
    By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.

At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more
    'Neath the oak's broad shade, in the leafy dell:
The sun is set, - the day is o'er, -
    The summer is past; - farewell! - farewell!

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are lov’d of more and less:
Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem’d,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated, and for true things deem’d.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

Give me one kiss,
And no more:
If so be, this
Makes you poor
To enrich you,
I'll restore
For that one, two-
Thousand score.

The half-moon westers low, my love,
And the wind brings up the rain;
And wide apart lie we, my love,
And seas between the twain.

I know not if it rains, my love,
In the land where you do lie;
And oh, so sound you sleep, my love,
You know no more than I.

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told.
His mercy fills the Khyber hills, his grace is manifold;
He has taken toll of the North and the South, his glory reacheth far,
And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar.

Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet,
The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street,
And that was strait as running noose and swift as plunging knife,
Tho' he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life.

There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Yusufzai,
Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die.
It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife;
The Kafir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life.

Then said the King: "Have hope, O frien...