« FöregåendeFortsätt »
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Where'er thy path invite thee, At parent Nature's grateful call,
With gladness must requite thee. A gracious welcome shall be thine,
Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her;
Unwilling to surrender
The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all
That mortals do or suffer,
Memorial tribute offer?
Her features, could they win us,
That hourly speaks within us? Nor deem that localised romance
Plays false with our affections ;
For fanciful dejections:
Sustain the heart in feeling
With friends and kindred dealing.
In Yarrow's groves were centered Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark entered,
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted,
Ere he his tale recounted !
Flow on for ever,
For simple hearts thy beauty,
Dear to the common sunshine,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.
TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE, AFTER RETURNING TO
Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
This corner is your own.
A poor blind Highland boy.
He from his birth had lived.
He ne'er had seen one earthly sight:
Or woman, man, or child,
And yet he neither drooped nor pined,
Of which we nothing know,
His mother, too, no doubt above
And more than mother's love,
And proud she was of heart, when clad
Went hand in hand with her.
A dog, too, had he; not for need,
Without a better guide.
And then the bagpipes he could blow; And thus from house to house would go, And all were pleased to hear and see; For none made sweeter melody
Than did the poor blind boy.
Yet he had many a restless dream;
Near which their cottage stood.
Beside a lake their cottage stood,
And stirring in its bed.
For to this lake by night and day,
And rivers large and strong:
Then hurries back the road it came
As long as earth shall last.
And with the coming of the tide,
Bring tales of distant lands.
And of those tales, whate'er they were, The blind boy always had his share; Whether of mighty towns, or vales With warmer suns and softer gales,
Or wonders of the deep.
Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,
In stillness or in storm.
But what do his desires avail?
Upon the rocking waves.
His mother often thought, and said,
The danger is so great."
Thus lived he by Loch Leven's side, Still sounding with the sounding tide, And heard the billows leap and dance, Without a shadow of mischance,
Till he was ten years old.
When one day (and now mark me well,
Towards the mighty sea.
In such a vessel never more
For death will be his doom.