Glen Eila
Cradled in loneliness, splendor and clouds,
Where the grim mountains lift up their headlands,
Hushed in its rain-mists, walled from the world,
Dreams the glad vale of Glen Eila.
Lone are its hills to the edge of the world,
With their brows flame-tipped with the heather,
Till down the hushed noonday are heard the dead feet
Of the clansmen who once trod the heather.
But it's far, far the day, and it's long the long weeks,
Looking back down the years with their sorrow,
Since love lingered here and gleamed on the cheeks
Of Mahri, the dream of Glen Eila.
The touch of the morning, the sound of the brook,
In her face and her voice set me dreaming;
Till it seemed the wild grandeur of glenside and peak
But existed to frame her eyes' gleaming.
She comes once again when the night winds sob in
Round the sad, wintry curve of the mountains.
And I know her sweet ghost like a dream from the past,
Welling up from out the heart's fountains.
Two little clasped hands, two pleading soft eyes
Looking up to me, true, in the twilight,
And the stir of a leaf, where the shy, watchful wind
Went past—God help and forgive me.
O the evil of youth and the madness of youth,
And the curse of this world with its dragon
Of callous grim form and its mock of a heart,
That crushed my sweet flower of Glen Eila!
I saw my proud mother, my father so grim,
With his twenty grim lord-lines behind him:—
And I put by her hand, and lost what this world
Hath sweetest of gift in its giving.
I could not tell all, how could I explain
To so pure and so trusting a spirit?
But I put her love by with a poor shifty lie,
And fled from my heart and Glen Eila.
O she dreamed on the slopes, and she gazed far to sea,
And she looked long to mountainward waiting,
Till the wistful eyes dimmed, and the trusting heart broke
In the tryst of the years in Glen Eila!
Till a slumber more kind than the heart of a man
Took her peaceful at last to its keeping:
And the stars peep at night, and the mountains look down
On the grave where my dead love is sleeping.
My henchmen are many, my castle walls old,
And my station the pride of my people;—
But I put it all by, with this world and its lie,
And I long for the slopes of Glen Eila.
I long for the brachen, the blue slopes of heather.
The purpling peaks in the twilight;
And a far away voice, and a long vanished face,
That gleams from the slopes of Glen Eila.
And oft when I weary of statecraft and rout,
And the simper of dame and court-lady;
I wander, in dreams, to the heatherhill gleams,
And the glen that I trod with my Mahri.
And I see her sweet face, and I touch her soft hand,
And the years roll back with their shadow
Of dim dreary days to those God-given hours
When I wandered the slopes of Glen Eila.
O the grim, heavy years, O the sad, thievish years,
That steal all our youth and our gladness!
Would they but bring to me, through their dream and their dree
Nepenthe to life and its madness:—
Till I stand once again, 'mid the sun and the rain,
Where the mountains slope down with their heather;—
While the long years they pass, like the wind in the grass,
With Mahri and love in Glen Eila.
Soft as the voice of an angel,
Breathing a lesson unheard
Hope with a gentle persuasion,
Whispers her comforting word;
Wait, till the darkness is over,
Wait, till the tempest is done,
Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,
After the shower is gone
Whispering hope,
Oh, how welcome thy voice
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice
Whispering hope,
Oh, how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice
Soft as the voice of an angel,
Breathing a lesson unheard,
Hope with a gentle persuasion,
Whispers her comforting word;
Wait, till the darkness is over,
Wait, till the tempest is done,
Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,
After the shower is gone
Whispering hope, Whispering hope
Welcome thy voice, oh, how welcome thy voice.
Making my heart,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice
Whispering hope,
Whispering hope,
Welcome thy voice, oh, how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice
If in the dusk of the twilight,
Dim be the region afar,
Will not the deepening darkness
Brighten the glimmering star?
Then when the night is upon us,
Why should the heart sink away?
When the dark midnight is over,
Watch for the breaking of day.
Where the grim mountains lift up their headlands,
Hushed in its rain-mists, walled from the world,
Dreams the glad vale of Glen Eila.
Lone are its hills to the edge of the world,
With their brows flame-tipped with the heather,
Till down the hushed noonday are heard the dead feet
Of the clansmen who once trod the heather.
But it's far, far the day, and it's long the long weeks,
Looking back down the years with their sorrow,
Since love lingered here and gleamed on the cheeks
Of Mahri, the dream of Glen Eila.
The touch of the morning, the sound of the brook,
In her face and her voice set me dreaming;
Till it seemed the wild grandeur of glenside and peak
But existed to frame her eyes' gleaming.
She comes once again when the night winds sob in
Round the sad, wintry curve of the mountains.
And I know her sweet ghost like a dream from the past,
Welling up from out the heart's fountains.
Two little clasped hands, two pleading soft eyes
Looking up to me, true, in the twilight,
And the stir of a leaf, where the shy, watchful wind
Went past—God help and forgive me.
O the evil of youth and the madness of youth,
And the curse of this world with its dragon
Of callous grim form and its mock of a heart,
That crushed my sweet flower of Glen Eila!
I saw my proud mother, my father so grim,
With his twenty grim lord-lines behind him:—
And I put by her hand, and lost what this world
Hath sweetest of gift in its giving.
I could not tell all, how could I explain
To so pure and so trusting a spirit?
But I put her love by with a poor shifty lie,
And fled from my heart and Glen Eila.
O she dreamed on the slopes, and she gazed far to sea,
And she looked long to mountainward waiting,
Till the wistful eyes dimmed, and the trusting heart broke
In the tryst of the years in Glen Eila!
Till a slumber more kind than the heart of a man
Took her peaceful at last to its keeping:
And the stars peep at night, and the mountains look down
On the grave where my dead love is sleeping.
My henchmen are many, my castle walls old,
And my station the pride of my people;—
But I put it all by, with this world and its lie,
And I long for the slopes of Glen Eila.
I long for the brachen, the blue slopes of heather.
The purpling peaks in the twilight;
And a far away voice, and a long vanished face,
That gleams from the slopes of Glen Eila.
And oft when I weary of statecraft and rout,
And the simper of dame and court-lady;
I wander, in dreams, to the heatherhill gleams,
And the glen that I trod with my Mahri.
And I see her sweet face, and I touch her soft hand,
And the years roll back with their shadow
Of dim dreary days to those God-given hours
When I wandered the slopes of Glen Eila.
O the grim, heavy years, O the sad, thievish years,
That steal all our youth and our gladness!
Would they but bring to me, through their dream and their dree
Nepenthe to life and its madness:—
Till I stand once again, 'mid the sun and the rain,
Where the mountains slope down with their heather;—
While the long years they pass, like the wind in the grass,
With Mahri and love in Glen Eila.
Soft as the voice of an angel,
Breathing a lesson unheard
Hope with a gentle persuasion,
Whispers her comforting word;
Wait, till the darkness is over,
Wait, till the tempest is done,
Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,
After the shower is gone
Whispering hope,
Oh, how welcome thy voice
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice
Whispering hope,
Oh, how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice
Soft as the voice of an angel,
Breathing a lesson unheard,
Hope with a gentle persuasion,
Whispers her comforting word;
Wait, till the darkness is over,
Wait, till the tempest is done,
Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,
After the shower is gone
Whispering hope, Whispering hope
Welcome thy voice, oh, how welcome thy voice.
Making my heart,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice
Whispering hope,
Whispering hope,
Welcome thy voice, oh, how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice
If in the dusk of the twilight,
Dim be the region afar,
Will not the deepening darkness
Brighten the glimmering star?
Then when the night is upon us,
Why should the heart sink away?
When the dark midnight is over,
Watch for the breaking of day.
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