Classic Poem

I LOVE to look upon thy face,
And dote on ev'ry feature,
Thou humble, unassuming soul,
Thou simple child of Nature!
Thou lover of all lovely things,
With thee 'tis always May;
For love has kept thy spirit young,
Altho' thy locks are grey.

Thou wert not made for cities vast,
Nor for the strife of gain;
For thee 'twas joy to steal away
To Nature's green domain;
To hie thee to the harebell haunts,
And to the glades of green,
Where wildwood roses hang their heads,
And hoary hawthorns lean;

To hear the cuckoo's joyous shout
Come welcome o'er the lea;
And listen 'mong the heather blooms
The bumble o' the bee;
To hide thee in the hazel howes
Of some lone cushat glen,
Or scale the Alpine summits hoar
Of some old Highland Ben.

We love thee for the love thou bor'st
The flow'rets of the wild;
Thou lov'dst them with the artless love,
The rapture, of a child.
Thou lov'dst them as the lover loves,
And from no sense of duty;
Thou lov'dst them as the poet loves,
And only for their beauty.

Thy “flow'ring fern” shall never die,
Thy gowan's aye in bloom;
The lark is always in thy sky,
The linnet in thy broom.
For Poesy hath touch'd thy heart,
As with a living coal,
And Nature's voices evermore
Keep singing thro' thy soul.

The wail of winds among the rocks,
The laughter of the rills,
The silence of the dreary moors,
The thunder of the hills—
Thy spirit was a cell wherein
They lov'd to linger long,
And, baptized in its living font,
They started into song.

The bridegroom on his bridal day
Dotes not upon his bride
With look of deeper love than thou
On our romantic Clyde.
Her Highland and her Lowland haunts
Are dear unto thy breast,
But dearer far than each, than all,
Our green glens of the West.

And led by thee once more we see
The green haunts of the gowan;
Again we dream beside the stream,
Beneath the haw and rowan.
And lov'd ones that are now no more
From out their graves will start,
And wander with me as of yore
Upon the banks of Cart.

And how thou lov'dst to linger round
The ruins old and hoar,
Where mighty chiefs and warriors dwelt,
And minstrels sang of yore.
Old Crookston Castle's mould'ring walls,
And Stanley's turrets grey,
And hoary Garnock, telling tales
Of glories passed away.

And how thou lov'dst the ruin'd shrines
Where sits grey Melancholy,
Still calling to the passer-by,
“Pause! for the place is holy.”
Is not our Paisley's Abbey hoar
An old-world, weary moan,
A solemn chant, a holy hymn,
A prayer that's breath'd in stone?

Ah! with what joy thou'dst linger round
Our fields renown'd in story!
And how thine eye burn'd in the light
Of Scotland's ancient glory,
As with unwearied feet thou'dst trace
Her scenes renown'd in song;
The streams that gush and leap and rush
In deathless strains along.

And how thou lov'dst to treasure up
The snatches of old rimes,
Quaint epitaphs and legends old,
The tales of other times.
And many a pilgrimage thou'st made,
As if thou fain wouldst number
The moss-grown, the forgotten graves,
Where Scotia's martyrs slumber.

Thy feet shall tread those haunts no more,
And Spring with all her train
Shall miss her pilgrim of the moor,
The mountain and the plain.
Dear heart, farewell! we cannot tell
Where thou art laid to rest;
But may the flow'rs thou lov'dst so well
Aye bloom upon thy breast!