Classic Poem

O THAT my soul might breathe one touching strain,
By the gracious Muses destined not to die,
But murmuring oft, o'er valley, hill, and plain,
Enrolled 'mid Scotia's native minstrelsy!
O more than blest the spirit of thy sky,
Its stormy clouds, its depth of slumb'rous blue,
And gladly would I close my filial eye
In the calm fondness of a last adieu,
Could I but frame one Lay to Thee and Nature true

In olden time, thy glens were heard to roll
The voice of song—deep, solemn, and divine,
That claimed dominion o'er the happy soul,
Most spirit-like, as from a secret shrine.
Oft as the dewy Evening Star 'gan shine,
Th' inspired Shepherd sought some lonely cave,
Nor, singing there, beheld its dim decline,
Nor heard, entranced, the Piny Forest rave,
Nor saw the glorious Sun descending to the wave.

The solitary soul, in such recess,
An air-swept lyre, the breath of heaven obey'd;
And, still his hymns were hymns of tenderness,
Of blissful loves, or earthly bliss decayed.
The Poet died; and in the dust was laid!
The green Earth hides him in its smiling rest!
For, haply now, the Church-yard is a glade,
Where by the feet of wandering wild-deer prest,
The flowers in morning-dew are glistening o'er his breast.

Yet Wisdom weeps not o'er such Poets' fate,
Though seeming robb'd of his eternal fame!
The soul whom heaven and genius consecrate,
In Nature's Memory lives without a name
The beauty of the Wild Flower is the same
To him who loves it for that beauty's sake,
And for that sake alone! fair is the flame
Of nameles stars that suddenly awake,
And the Earth laughs with light of many a nameless Lake.
Yet looking now o'er this delightful Earth,
A clinging spirit of immortal love
Is blending with the sweet land of my birth!
As if on field, lake, mountain, glen, and grove,
When I am dead, some part of me might move!
Some faint memorial of my mortal day
Sleeping like moonlight the old woods above!
My soul in sorrow turneth from decay,
O might it live on Earth, embalmed in heavenly Lay!

Have I not e'er since reason's dawning light
Thee Scotland worshipped with praise and prayer!
Lovely by day, magnificent by night!
Where is the cloud-wrapt hill, the valley fair,
If mortal feet might climb or wander there,
Whose Echo ne'er hath answer'd to my voice?
The unsunn'd-Glen, the breathless Forest, where
That hath not heard my raptur'd soul rejoice
In Nature's hush divine, her spirit-humbling noise?

I, like an Eagle, o'er the mountain cliff,
Have soared in dreams as lofty and as lone;
On air-woven Lakes, I from my fairy skiff
The anchor of my solitude have thrown.
Methinks, that but to me some spots are known!
—Give answer from afar, thou once-seen Glen,
Thou shadowy, silent world of mist and stone,
Thy desert shapes like Images of Men,
In mockery of Man's voice, the small pipe of the Wren!

Or answer Thou! with music and with light,
Thou Vale of Vales! that to the Evening Star
My soul did consecrate one summer night,
When loth that such sweet darkness should debar
My soul from loveliness it could not mar,
I ask'd that gentle Orb to be the guide
Of one, who from his way had wander'd far,
And soon she led me where my heart espied
Valley and Lakelet bright, by midnight glorified!

Yet to the impulse of such lifeless things
I ne'er so far surrender'd up my dreams,
As not to feel my spirit's folded wings,
Like a bird basking in Life's sunny gleams.
Yea! whether musing by the moorland streams,
Or in the arms of mountain-silence bound,
From human eyes far off the loveliest gleams
Came smiling o'er the loveliness around,
Yea! even the trickling dew was like a human sound.

For other friendships have I learn'd to cherish,
Than with the Sky, the Ocean, and the Earth;
Lovely they are and pure—but they must perish,
For perishing the fount that gave them birth.
But on the human face immortal mirth,
Or calm than mirth far lovelier may endure;
Nor shall that heart e'er ache in spiritual dearth,
Nor ever pine for pleasures, high and pure,
Linked to its brother-man, in brotherhood secure.

Among the hills a hundred homes have I;
My Table in the wilderness is spread;
In those lone spots, a human smile can buy
Plain fare, kind welcome, and a rushy bed.
O dead to Christian Love! to nature dead,
Who, when some cottage at the close of day
Hath o'er his soul its cheerful dimness shed,
Feels not that God was with him on his way,
Nor with these simple folks devoutly kneels to pray

What means the silent Lake, the Cataract's roar,
The snow-like moonshine on the summer-hill,
Old Ocean thundering o'er his solemn shore,
Or the faint hymning of the infant rill?
Say, can such things th' immortal Spirit fill
With perfect voice or silence like their own?
No, in its trance the soul is longing still
For other music; by one breath o'erthrown,
The Fancy's pageant sinks with its aërial throne.

Where is the radiance, touching as the hue,
Breathed by delight o'er childhood's laughing cheek?
What glimpse of ether, beauteous as the dew
In eyes whose gazing silence seems to speak
Of something in our souls more hush'd and meek
Than aught that sleeps on sky, earth, sea, or air!
Then turn from such vain images—and seek
True Beauty shrined amid yon golden hair,
Behold yon snow-white brow—her throne, her heaven is there.

Then, as thou wanderest through thy native vales,
Like wild-flowers spread to cheer thee on thy way,
(Wild-flowers all dancing in the sunny gales,)
Sweet sinless children, smiling in their play,
Will chain thy footsteps oft with fond delay!
Thou see'st, as in some Mere's unclouded glow,
The pure bright morn of being's vernal day,
And, gazing on the heaven that lies below,
Feel'st not to draw thy breath amid this world of woe.

If such the temper of thy heart, what joy
Is rising there, when on some radiant steep
Thou see'st the solitary Shepherd-boy,
(While his white flock amid the sunshine sleep,)
Through all the long day's stillness, lone and deep,
Sitting, unwearied as the gladsome brook
That sings along with many a frolic leap,
While earnestly his unuplifted look
Lives on the yellow page of some old fairy book.

Alone thou need'st not be, though all around
Thy dreaming soul a mountainous region lie
Spread like a sea that heaves without a sound,
Chained in tumultuous silence 'mid the sky.
Cloud-like ascends before thine inward eye
The wreathed smoke, from many a palm-tree grove,
'Mid the still desert mounting silently,
Straight up to heaven! and, as it fades above,
Looks like some guardian Power that eyes the earth with love.

Blessings be on yon hill-side cottages!
A starry groupe rejoicing in the mist!
Blest be the leaves, fruit, branches of the trees,
And the thatched roof they shelter ever blest.
Long hath the light of knowledge and of rest
Thence banished sin, and suffering there beguiled;
That loving angel, Innocence, hath kissed
Frequent the cheek of every rosy child,
And leads them dancing on along the pathless wild.

Ah me! when wandering at sweet eventide,
'Mid the fair vales of England, as they lay,
Of their own beauty touched with stately pride,
Encircled with the diadem of May!
Here Palace-domes, there dwellings light and gay,
In groves embosomed, or with rosy showers,
Bride-like adorned in beautiful array,
Where, charmed by fragrance, the delighted Hours,
Seemed, as the sun went down, still lingering 'mid the flowers.

How hath that gorgeous vision in the air,
(Light, music, fragrance, cottage, tower, and dome,)
Melted to nothing! Thou art smiling there,
Most sweetly smiling through the dewy gloom,
Just as Eve's star and crescent-moon illume
Heaven's arch, that folds thee in the hush of night,
Wild Hamlet! In thy quiet's inner room
The wanderer sits, and wonders in delight
On what kind angel's wing hath been his homeward flight.