For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead, Harboured where none can be misled, Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace Checked oft-times in a devious race, May He, who halloweth the place Where Man is laid,
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace For which it prayed!
Sighing I turned away; but ere Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, Music that sorrow comes not near, A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear By Seraphim.
SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE
[Finished 1839.-Published: vol. of 1842.]
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed-"The Vision" tells us how-
With holly spray,
He faltered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.
Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief
Indulged as if it were a wrong To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair,
Let us beside the limpid Stream Breathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; Think rather of those moments bright When to the consciousness of right His course was true,
When Wisdom prospered in his sight And virtue grew.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand, Freely as in youth's season bland, When side by side, his Book in hand, We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command Of each sweet Lay.
How oft inspired must he have trod These pathways, yon far-stretching road! There lurks his home; in that Abode,
With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood, The Rustic sate.
Proud thoughts that Image overawes, Before it humbly let us pause, And ask of Nature from what cause And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause That shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen Are felt the flashes of his pen; He rules 'mid winter snows, and when Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, And all that fetched the flowing rhyme From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time Folds up his wings?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, Effaced for ever.
But why to Him confine the prayer, When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear On the frail heart the purest share
With all that live?
The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
[Composed probably 1803.-Published 1807.]
In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN; In this still place, where murmurs on But one meek streamlet, only one: He sang of battles, and the breath Of stormy war, and violent death; And should, methinks, when all was past, Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And everything unreconciled;
In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? Or is it but a groundless creed? What matters it?-I blame them not Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot Was moved; and in such way expressed Their notion of its perfect rest. A convent, even a hermit's cell, Would break the silence of this Dell: It is not quiet, is not ease;
But something deeper far than these: The separation that is here Is of the grave; and of austere Yet happy feelings of the dead: And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race! Lies buried in this lonely place.
[Composed between 1803-1805.-Published 1807.]
While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Lock Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward?"
"What, you are stepping westward?”— "Yea."
-"Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of Chance: Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on?
The dewy ground was dark and cold; Behind, all gloomy to behold; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny:
I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound Of something without place or bound; And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright.
The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake: The salutation had to me
The very sound of courtesy:
Its power was felt; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way.
AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND [Composed 1803.-Published 1807.]
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; that household lawn; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode- In truth together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep!
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