For maid and mother, when despair
Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer, One small possession lacked not power, Provided in a calmer hour,
To meet such need as might befal- Roof, raiment, bread, or burial: For women, even of tears bereft,
The hidden silver Broach was left.
As generations come and go
Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay; What poor abodes the heir-loom hide, In which the castle once took pride! Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, If saved at all, are saved by stealth. Lo ships, from seas by nature barred, Mount along ways by man prepared; And in far-stretching vales, whose streams Seek other seas, their canvas gleams.
Lo busy towns spring up, on coasts Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts; Soon, like a lingering star forlorn Among the novelties of morn, While young delights on old encroach, Will vanish the last Highland Broach.
But when, from out their viewless bed, Like vapours, years have rolled and spread, And this poor verse, and worthier lays, Shall yield no light of love or praise;
Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough, Or torrent from the mountain's brow, Or whirlwind, reckless what his might Entombs, or forces into light; Blind Chance, a volunteer ally, That oft befriends Antiquity,
And clears Oblivion from reproach,
May render back the Highland Broach.*
The Poems written in 1832 were few. They include Devotional Incitements, an Evening Voluntary, Rural Illusions, and three Sonnets.
WHERE will they stop, those breathing Powers, The Spirits of the new-born flowers?
They wander with the breeze, they wind Where'er the streams a passage find;
Up from their native ground they rise In mute aërial harmonies;
From humble violet-modest thyme- Exhaled, the essential odours climb,
* How much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble stations may be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female friend. She had had an opportunity of benefiting a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter, in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, "I would give anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for my Broach!" and, uttering these words, she put her hand upon the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she imagined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress.-W. W., 1835.
As if no space below the sky
Their subtle flight could satisfy:
Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride If like ambition be their guide.
Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, The spirit-quickener of the flowers, That with moist virtue softly cleaves The buds, and freshens the young leaves, The birds pour forth their souls in notes Of rapture from a thousand throats- Here checked by too impetuous haste, While there the music runs to waste, With bounty more and more enlarged, Till the whole air is overcharged; Give ear, O Man! to their appeal And thirst for no inferior zeal, Thou, who canst think, as well as feel.
Mount from the earth; aspire ! aspire! So pleads the town's cathedral quire, In strains that from their solemn height Sink, to attain a loftier flight; While incense from the altar breathes Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths; Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds The taper-lights, and curls in clouds Around angelic Forms, the still Creation of the painter's skill, That on the service wait concealed One moment, and the next revealed. -Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, And for no transient ecstasies!
What else can mean the visual plea Of still or moving imagery- The iterated summons loud,
Not wasted on the attendant crowd, Nor wholly lost upon the throng Hurrying the busy streets along?
Alas! the sanctities combined By art to unsensualise the mind Decay and languish; or, as creeds
And humours change, are spurned like weeds: The priests are from their altars thrust; Temples are levelled with the dust;
And solemn rites and awful forms Founder amid fanatic storms.1
Yet evermore, through years renewed In undisturbed vicissitude
Of seasons balancing their flight On the swift wings of day and night,
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door Wide open for the scattered Poor.
Where flower-breathed incense to the skies
Is wafted in mute harmonies;
And ground fresh-cloven by the plough
Is fragrant with a humbler vow; Where birds and brooks from leafy dells Chime forth unwearied canticles,
And vapours magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head—
The solemn rites, the awful forms, Founder amid fanatic storms;
The priests are from their altars thrust, The temples levelled with the dust:
CALM IS THE FRAGRANT AIR, AND LOTH TO LOSE. 305
Still constant in her worship, still Conforming to the eternal Will,1 Whether men sow or reap the fields, Divine monition 2 Nature yields, That not by bread alone we live, Or what a hand of flesh can give; That every day should leave some part Free for a sabbath of the heart: So shall the seventh be truly blest, From morn to eve, with hallowed rest.
CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; Look up a second time, and, one by one, You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, And wonder how they could elude the sight! The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers: Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone The time's and season's influence disown: Nine beats distinctly to each other bound In drowsy sequence-how unlike the sound That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!
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