Classic Poem

LXI.

So thou may'st dream, and, dreaming, may'st forego
All that gives balm to life's expanding bloom;
But when thou wak'st, thou wak'st to deeper woe,
And heavier toil shall surely be thy doom!
Immured amid the overwhelming gloom
Of boundless woods, to heaven outstretching drear,
Where sobbing winds, the river's ceaseless boom,
Which thy lone axe but little helps to cheer,
Unbroke, for ever soothes dark Solitude's dull ear.

LXII.

Or if 'tis broke, 'tis by the condor's wing,
Who stoops to make thy household fowls his prey,
Or jaguar's growl, as with unerring spring,
Of thy small flock the best he bears away —
Or huge snake's hiss, as hollow rustling, grey,
Through the rank weeds, he bursts upon the sight,
And thou stand'st petrified a lump of clay —
Or the red savage, who at dead of night
Strikes up the war whoop wild, the death fire's dismal light.

LXIII.

Nor is this all — from stagnant waters vast,
And putrid marshes steaming on the day,
Miasma, viewless, creeps across the waste,
And steals resistless on thy secret way.
The breathing morn, no longer beaming gay,
With joy and health invigorates thy frame,
The gloom of death hangs dim on twilight grey,
Recedes the sun blank with the blush of shame,
Or, fired to fury, burns a life-consuming flame.

LXIV.

But should the God whose presence thou hast fled,
Thy father's God, with love pursue thee still,
The balm of health around thy dwelling shed,
And make thee blest almost against thy will
Should he forbid the bloated snake to kill,
The wolf, the bear, and jaguar to devour,
Rein the wild winds, avert the blighting chill
Of the cold North, and, in the lonely hour,
The savage bosom melt, or blast his arm of power,

LXV.

Will joy for aye light up thy beaming eye,
And Gratitude thy glowing breast inspire?
Will cheerless silence, or the lonely sigh,
Still keep awake Devotion's holy fire?
The bread of life thy soul may strong desire,
Unfed while plenty flows on every hand!
Of sympathy and faith thou may'st require
The soothing prayer; but vain is the demand,
Nor prayer nor praise is heard, thro' all that dismal land

LXVI

No cheerful hum of city, ether borne,
No village pipe is heard melodious there,
No silver-sounding bell, no Sabbath morn,
Announces sweet the coming hour of prayer.
No neighbours meeting kind, for church prepare,
With converse to beguile the tedious way;
No man of God is waiting to declare
Heaven's peace to man the sinful child of clay —
The rich rewards laid up for glory's coming day.

LXVII.

No angel forms, descending from on high,
Gave there the pattern of the world to come,
No prophet's voice, with Heaven's dread energy,
Burst the thick cloud that overhangs the tomb.
But underneath the sinner's fearful doom,
From day to day, the sinking savage pined,
Still deepening round him superstition's gloom;
Failing each power, each nobler sense refined,
Till huge the growing brute absorb'd th' immortal mind.

LXVIII.

No fields of fame, no stones of triumph there,
Awake the flame of glory's slumbering fire!
Quench'd in the ever deepening clouds of care,
Fine feelings fail, and nobler thoughts expire.
That hapless land Jehovah, in his ire,
For many an age kept secret as the grave;
What light, 'tis vain for history to inquire,
Tradition old, or infant science gave,
O'er all alike hath roll'd oblivion's darkest wave.

LXIX.

There the poor outcast, from his native land
By desperate fortune driven, or secret guile
Seduced, looks wistfully on every hand,
For images to soothe his lonely toil.
And though nor mountain swell, nor valley smile,
Nor river rolling like his own be found;
Names grateful to his ear imposed, the while,
On sluggish streams, and sullen flats around,
Reluctant lend, but lend in vain, their magic sound.

LXX.

These wretched huts, Saint Johnston he may name,
That ocean stream surrounding them, the Tay,
But all th' associations dear to Fame,
And to his heart, alas! are far away.
On Grampian hills 'tis other winds that stray,
Soft whispering through Dunkelden's birken bowers;
In Gowrie's vale far other echoes play,
What time with dewy feet the Evening hours,
With rural pastimes gay trip o'er the breathing flowers