THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore: Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane; a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially-beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked With unrejoicing berries-ghostly Shapes
May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow ;-there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH
I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold: As vapours breathed from dungeons cold Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould Where Burns is laid.
And have I then thy bones so near. And thou forbidden to appear ? As if it were thyself that's here I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear Alike are vain.
Off weight-nor press on weight!—away Dark thoughts!-they came, but not to stay ; With chastened feelings would I pay
To him, and aught that hides his clay From mortal view.
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth He sang, his genius glinted' forth, Rose like a star that touching earth, For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, The struggling heart, where be they now? Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low And silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, but as one More deeply grieved, for He was gone Whose light I hailed when first it shone, And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne On humble truth.
where'er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends,- Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends By Skiddaw seen,
Neighbours we were, and loving friends We might have been;
True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind, Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined More closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow; poor Inhabitant below,'
At this dread moment-even so
Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
What treasures would have then been placed Within my reach; of knowledge graced By fancy what a rich repast!
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, His grave grass-grown.
There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) Lies gathered to his Father's side,
Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied Some sad delight.
For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead, Harboured where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace Checked oft-times in a devious race, May He, who halloweth the place Where Man is laid,
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace For which it prayed!
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, Music that sorrow comes not near,
Chanted in love that casts out fear By Seraphim.
SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET'S
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed-' The Vision
With holly spray,
He faltered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.
Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief—
Indulged as if it were a wrong To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair,
Let us beside the limpid Stream Breathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; Think rather of those moments bright When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,
When Wisdom prospered in his sight And virtue grew.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand, Freely as in youth's season bland, When side by side, his Book in hand, We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command Of each sweet Lay.
How oft inspired must he have trod
These pathways, yon far-stretching road!
There lurks his home; in that Abode,
With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood, The Rustic sate.
Proud thoughts that Image overawes, Before it humbly let us pause, And ask of Nature from what cause And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause That shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen Are felt the flashes of his pen;
He rules 'mid winter snows, and when Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, Effaced for ever.
But why to Him confine the prayer, When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear On the frail heart the purest share With all that live ?-
The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT
OH! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood Upon our side, we who were strong in love! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven!-Oh! times, In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways Of custom, law, and statute, took at once The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights, When most intent on making of herself
A prime Enchantress-to assist the work Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth, The beauty wore of promise, that which sets (As at some moment might not be unfelt Among the bowers of paradise itself) The budding rose above the rose full blown. What temper at the prospect did not wake To happiness unthought of? The inert Were roused, and lively natures rapt away! They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, The playfellows of fancy, who had made All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength Their ministers, who in lordly wise had stirred Among the grandest objects of the sense, And dealt with whatsoever they found there As if they had within some lurking right To wield it;-they, too, who, of gentle mood, Had watched all gentle motions, and to these Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
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