How sad a welcome! To each voyager
Some ragged child holds up for sale a store Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir, Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer.
Yet is yon neat trim church a grateful speck Of novelty amid the sacred wreck
Strewn far and wide. Think, proud Philosopher! Fallen though she be, this Glory of the west, Still on her sons, the beams of mercy shine; And hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright than thine,
A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, A faith more fixed, a rapture more divine Shall gild their passage to eternal rest.'
THE BLACK STONES OF IONA.
[See Martin's Voyage among the Western Isles.]
HERE on their knees men swore: the stones were black, Black in the people's minds and words, yet they Were at that time, as now, in colour grey. But what is colour, if upon the rack
Of conscience souls are placed by deeds that lack Concord with oaths? What differ night and day Then, when before the Perjured on his way Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance crack Above his head uplifted in vain prayer To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead whom He had insulted-Peasant, King, or Thane? Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a doom; And, from invisible worlds at need laid bare, Come links for social order's awful chain.
HOMEWARD We turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark (Kindled from Heaven between the light and dark Of time) shone like the morning-star, farewell!- And fare thee well, to Fancy visible,
Remote St. Kilda, lone and loved sea-mark For many a voyage made in her swift bark, When with more hues than in the rainbow dwell Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold;
Extracting from clear skies and air serene,
And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil,
That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold with fold, Makes known, when thou no longer canst be seen,
Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching sail.
Per me si va nella Città dolente.
WE have not passed into a doleful City, We who were led to-day down a grim dell, By some too boldly named 'the Jaws of Hell:' Where be the wretched ones, the sights for pity? These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty :- As from the hive where bees in summer dwell, Sorrow seems here excluded; and that knell,
It neither damps the gay, nor checks the witty.
Alas! too busy Rival of old Tyre,
Whose merchants Princes were, whose decks were thrones;
Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire
To serve thy need, in union with that Clyde Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy stones,
The poor, the lonely, herdsman's joy and pride.
"THERE!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed,
"Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy."
A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. Beneath the random bield of clod or stone' Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |