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2. _THE SOLITARY REAPER_.


  Behold her, single in the field,
  Yon solitary Highland Lass!
  Reaping and singing by herself;
  Stop here, or gently pass!
  Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
  And sings a melancholy strain;
  O listen! for the Vale profound
  Is overflowing with the sound.

  No Nightingale did ever chaunt
  So sweetly to reposing bands
  Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
  Among Arabian Sands:
  No sweeter voice was ever heard
  In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
  Breaking the silence of the seas
  Among the farthest Hebrides.

  Will no one tell me what she sings?
  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
  For old, unhappy, far-off things,
  And battles long ago:
  Or is it some more humble lay,
  Familiar matter of today?
  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
  That has been, and may be again!

  Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
  As if her song could have no ending;
  I saw her singing at her work,
  And o'er the sickle bending;
  I listen'd till I had my fill;
  And, as I mounted up the hill,
  The music in my heart I bore,
  Long after it was heard no more.



3. _STEPPING WESTWARD_.

  While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of
    Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our
    road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had
    been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met,
    in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region,
    two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by
    way of greeting, "What you are stepping westward?"


  _"What you are stepping westward?"--"Yea_."
  --'Twould be a wildish destiny,
  If we, who thus together roam
  In a strange Land, and far from home,
  Were in this place the guests of Chance:
  Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
  Though home or shelter he had none,
  With such a Sky to lead him on?

  The dewy ground was dark and cold;
  Behind, all gloomy to behold;
  And stepping westward seem'd to be
  A kind of _heavenly_ destiny;
  I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
  Of something without place or bound;
  And seem'd to give me spiritual right
  To travel through that region bright.

  The voice was soft, and she who spake
  Was walking by her native Lake:
  The salutation had to me
  The very sound of courtesy:
  It's power was felt; and while my eye
  Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
  The echo of the voice enwrought
  A human sweetness with the thought
  Of travelling through the world that lay
  Before me in my endless way.



4. _GLEN-ALMAIN_,
       or the NARROW GLEN


  In this still place, remote from men,
  Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
  In this still place, where murmurs on
  But one meek Streamlet, only one:
  He sang of battles, and the breath
  Of stormy war, and violent death;
  And should, methinks, when all was past,
  Have rightfully been laid at last
  Where rocks were sudely heap'd, and rent
  As by a spirit turbulent;
  Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
  And every thing unreconciled;
  In some complaining, dim retreat,
  For fear and melancholy meet;
  But this is calm; there cannot be
  A more entire tranquillity.

  Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
  Or is it but a groundless creed?
  What matters it? I blame them not
  Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot
  Was moved; and in this way express'd
  Their notion of its perfect rest.
  A Convent, even a hermit's Cell
  Would break the silence of this Dell:
  It is not quiet, is not ease;
  But something deeper far than these:
  The separation that is here
  Is of the grave; and of austere
  And happy feelings of the dead:
  And, therefore, was it rightly said
  That Ossian, last of all his race!
  Lies buried in this lonely place.



5. _THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND_.


  At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few
    days; and the following Verses were called forth by
    the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess.


  Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers!
  And call a train of laughing Hours;
  And bid them dance, and bid them sing;
  And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring!
  Take to thy heart a new delight;
  If not, make merry in despite!
  For there is one who scorns thy power.
  --But dance! for under Jedborough Tower
  There liveth in the prime of glee,
  A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,
  And She will dance and sing with thee!

  Nay! start not at that Figure--there!
  Him who is rooted to his chair!
  Look at him--look again! for He
  Hath long been of thy Family.
  With legs that move not, if they can,
  And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,
  He sits, and with a vacant eye;
  A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!
  Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:
  His world is in this single room:
  Is this a place for mirth and cheer?
  Can merry-making enter here?

  The joyous Woman is the Mate
  Of Him in that forlorn estate!
  He breathes a subterraneous damp,
  But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:
  He is as mute as Jedborough Tower;
  She jocund as it was of yore,
  With all its bravery on; in times,
  When, all alive with merry chimes,
  Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
  It rouz'd the Vale to Holiday.

  I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
  Is praise; heroic praise, and true!
  With admiration I behold
  Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:
  Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
  The picture of a life well-spent:
  This do I see; and something more;
  A strength unthought of heretofore!
  Delighted am I for thy sake;
  And yet a higher joy partake.
  Our Human-nature throws away
  It's second Twilight, and looks gay:
  A Land of promise and of pride
  Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

  Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclos'd
  Within himself, as seems; compos'd;
  To fear of loss, and hope of gain,
  The strife of happiness and pain,
  Utterly dead! yet, in the guise
  Of little Infants, when their eyes
  Begin to follow to and fro
  The persons that before them go,
  He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
  Her buoyant Spirit can prevail
  Where common cheerfulness would fail:
  She strikes upon him with the heat
  Of July Suns; he feels it sweet;
  An animal delight though dim!
  'Tis all that now remains for him!

  I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;
  The more I look'd I wonder'd more:
  When suddenly I seem'd to espy
  A trouble in her strong black eye;
  A remnant of uneasy light,
  A flash of something over-bright!
  And soon she made this matter plain;
  And told me, in a thoughtful strain,
  That she had borne a heavy yoke,
  Been stricken by a twofold stroke;
  Ill health of body; and had pin'd
  Beneath worse ailments of the mind.

  So be it! but let praise ascend
  To Him who is our Lord and Friend!
  Who from disease and suffering
  Hath call'd for thee a second Spring;
  Repaid thee for that sore distress
  By no untimely joyousness;
  Which makes of thine a blissful state;
  And cheers thy melancholy Mate!



6. _TO A HIGHLAND GIRL_.

(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.)


  Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
  Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
  Twice seven consenting years have shed
  Their utmost bounty on thy head:
  And these gray Rocks; this household Lawn;
  These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
  This fall of water, that doth make
  A murmur near the silent Lake;
  This little Bay, a quiet Road
  That holds in shelter thy Abode;
  In truth together ye do seem
  Like something fashion'd in a dream;

  Such Forms as from their covert peep
  When earthly cares are laid asleep!
  Yet, dream and vision as thou art,
  I bless thee with a human heart:
  God shield thee to thy latest years!
  I neither know thee nor thy peers;
  And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.

  With earnest feeling I shall pray
  For thee when I am far away:
  For never saw I mien, or face,
  In which more plainly I could trace
  Benignity and home-bred sense
  Ripening in perfect innocence.
  Here, scatter'd like a random seed,
  Remote from men, Thou dost not need
  The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
  And maidenly shamefacedness:

  Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
  The freedom of a Mountaineer.
  A face with gladness overspread!
  Sweet looks, by human kindness bred!
  And seemliness complete, that sways
  Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
  With no restraint, but such as springs
  From quick and eager visitings
  Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach
  Of thy few words of English speech:
  A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
  That gives thy gestures grace and life!
  So have I, not unmov'd in mind,
  Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
  Thus beating up against the wind.

  What hand but would a garland cull
  For thee who art so beautiful?
  O happy pleasure! here to dwell
  Beside thee in some heathy dell;
  Adopt your homely ways and dress,
  A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!
  But I could frame a wish for thee
  More like a grave reality:
  Thou art to me but as a wave
  Of the wild sea; and I would have
  Some claim upon thee, if I could,
  Though but of common neighbourhood.
  What joy to hear thee, and to see!
  Thy elder Brother I would be,
  Thy Father, any thing to thee!

  Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
  Hath led me to this lonely place.
  Joy have I had; and going hence
  I bear away my recompence.
  In spots like these it is we prize
  Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
  Then, why should I be loth to stir?
  I feel this place was made for her;
  To give new pleasure like the past,
  Continued long as life shall last.
  Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
  Sweet Highland Girl! from Thee to part;
  For I, methinks, till I grow old,
  As fair before me shall behold,
  As I do now, the Cabin small,
  The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall;
  And Thee, the Spirit of them all!



7. _SONNET_.
      (Composed at ---- Castle.)


  Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
  Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
  And love of havoc (for with such disease
  Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
  To level with the dust a noble horde,
  A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
  Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these,
  Beggared and outraged!--Many hearts deplor'd
  The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
  The Traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
  On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
  For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks and bays,
  And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
  And the green silent pastures, yet remain.



8. ADDRESS _TO THE SONS OF BURNS_
    after visiting their Father's Grave (August 14th, 1803.)


  Ye now are panting up life's hill!
  'Tis twilight time of good and ill,
  And more than common strength and skill
            Must ye display
  If ye would give the better will
            Its lawful sway.

  Strong bodied if ye be to bear
  Intemperance with less harm, beware!
  But if your Father's wit ye share,
            Then, then indeed,
  Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care
            There will be need.

  For honest men delight will take
  To shew you favor for his sake,
  Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake
            Your steps pursue:
  And of your Father's name will make
            A snare for you.

  Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
  Be independent, generous, brave!
  Your Father such example gave,
            And such revere!
  But be admonish'd by his Grave,
            And think, and fear!



9. _YARROW UNVISITED_.

  (See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the
    Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad
    of Hamilton, beginning:
       "Busk ye, busk ye my bonny, bonny Bride,
       Busk ye, busk ye my winsome Marrow!"--)


  From Stirling Castle we had seen
  The mazy Forth unravell'd;
  Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
  And with the Tweed had travell'd;
  And, when we came to Clovenford,
  Then said my '_winsome Marrow_',
  "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
  And see the Braes of Yarrow."

  "Let Yarrow Folk, _frae_ Selkirk Town,
  Who have been buying, selling,
  Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
  Each Maiden to her Dwelling!
  On Yarrow's Banks let herons feed,
  Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
  But we will downwards with the Tweed,
  Nor turn aside to Yarrow."

  "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
  Both lying right before us;
  And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
  The Lintwhites sing in chorus;
  There's pleasant Tiviot Dale, a land
  Made blithe with plough and harrow;
  Why throw away a needful day
  To go in search of Yarrow?"

  "What's Yarrow but a River bare
  That glides the dark hills under?
  There are a thousand such elsewhere
  As worthy of your wonder."
  --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
  My True-love sigh'd for sorrow;
  And look'd me in the face, to think
  I thus could speak of Yarrow!

  "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's Holms,
  And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
  Fair hangs the apple frae the rock [1],
  But we will leave it growing.
  O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
  We'll wander Scotland thorough;
  But, though so near, we will not turn
  Into the Dale of Yarrow."

       [Footnote 1: See Hamilton's Ballad as above.]

  "Let Beeves and home-bred Kine partake
  The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
  The Swan on still St. Mary's Lake
  Float double, Swan and Shadow!
  We will not see them; will not go,
  Today, nor yet tomorrow;
  Enough if in our hearts we know,
  There's such a place as Yarrow."

  "Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown!
  It must, or we shall rue it:
  We have a vision of our own;
  Ah! why should we undo it?
  The treasured dreams of times long past
  We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
  For when we're there although 'tis fair
  'Twill be another Yarrow!"

  "If Care with freezing years should come,
  And wandering seem but folly,
  Should we be loth to stir from home,
  And yet be melancholy;
  Should life be dull, and spirits low,
  'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
  That earth has something yet to show,
  The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"



MOODS OF MY OWN MIND.



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