ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{London Poems 1866}

                                                                                                                                                                 247

THE GLAMOUR.

The hills close round her—everywhere
Strange voices deepen in the air;
The pain, the hope, the agony,
Flash to a sense of mystery;
The shapes of earth and air and skies
Catch glamour in her weary eyes;
Worn with the pain, worn with the pain,
She would lie down, and sleep again!

O LORD my God, draw not Thy hand away—
The sleep-stoure fills my eyes—I feel my grave—
And I would reach a painless end, like those
Thy glamour ne’er hath troubled. I have been
O’er long a shadow on the paths of men,
O’er long a screeching bird in happy bields,
O’er long a haunted wanderer day and night.
Lord, let me die! Lord, let me die! Lord God,
Pity and spare me! Draw Thy hand away!                                           248
Thy breath is on me in the mirk, and ah!
I sicken sore, while yonder through the pane
Corpse-candles, blowing blue against the wind,
Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn.

     What had I done, that Thou should pick me out,                            [2:1]
To breathe thy glamour on? I was a lass
Happy and heartsome, till that dreesome day
I walk’d from kirk by moonlight down the glen,
And saw Maccaskill of Craig-Dhonil pass,
Sewn to the middle in his winding-sheet,
And waving hairy arms until I swoon’d;—
And ere a year was run Maccaskill died;
And then I kenn’d I had the bitter gift
My father and my father's father had.
Yet I was young, and felt a kind o’ pride,
To see so far into Thy mysteries,—
To ken when man or wife was doom’d to die;
To see the young life in a lassie’s wame,
Although her snood was whole; to prophesy
Tempests and human losses. Many a man
Then turn’d away; but Kenneth married me—
Kenneth Macdonald, sheep-herd on the hills,
A holy man and kind; and for a time                                                    249
The glamour came no more, and I was gay,
Feeling the young bairn underneath my breast
Breathe softly with the rocking o’ my heart.                                         [2:22]
But in the winter gloaming, when the drift
Was thick around the door, and winds were blowing,
And I was lying on the jizzen-bed,
And Jean the howdie wash’d my paps with salt,
I saw a strange thing lying on her knee—
A span-long body in a blood-stain’d sowe—
And scream’d and cried, “Jean, Jean, the bairn will die!”
And so it was. For while old mother slipt
Out to the kitchen lowe, where Kenneth sat,
To drop a cinder through the wee white sark,
The bairn came dead into the chilly mirk;
And in the snowy dawing I beheld                                                       [2:34]
The span-long body of my sweet first-born,
Wrapt in its sowe, upon the howdie’s knee.

     But Angus lived—my white-faced sickly bairn,
The last I bore; for, ere I rose from bed,
I heard, one gloaming dark, from but the house,
A sound of sawing, hewing with an adze,
Mix’d with a sound of weeping, clapping hands;                                 250
And all the bield was empty,—and I knew
A shell was being made for some one near;
And ah! before the moon was full again,
Just as the season of the lambing came,
My bonnie man was sheeted in the house,
And stiff, and cold; and I was left alone,
Shadow’d and sad, with hot tears dropping down
On Angus, pulling feebly at my breast.

     I never bedded with another man,
Never bare wean again; but I could earn
Both food and drink, and all my pride and joy
Was Angus. Lord, he was the bonniest bairn
The sweetest, gentlest, ever wrought in flesh,
To gladden mother’s eyes. The very day
That he was born, I call’d the minister,
Who gave him baptism, that the glamour ne’er
Might come on him or his; and ah! he grew,
Pale like a lily—for this solemn world
O’er gentle; and the glamour brought no fear
To mirk our dwelling. Nay, for many a year,
The eerie light seem’d gone away from me,
For never ghaist or burial cross’d my path,
Corpse-light or wraith. Then Angus on the hills                                    251
Grew sheep-herd, like his father, though he lack’d
His father’s fearless heart; and, as he grew,
Turn’d weaker, whiter—bonnie still, but thin
And bloodless; and he lack’d the heart to face
Darkness and danger: ringing of a bell
At midnight, sudden footsteps in the dark,
A hand placed on his shoulder suddenly,
Would strike him down into a swooning fit,
Dreesome to see; and when his eighteenth year
Was o’er, he sometimes sicken’d at my face,
And shiver’d though he knew me. All at once
The glamour came across my Soul again.
One night, while we were seated in the bield,
I heard a wailing come from but the house,
And horror gript me. “Mother!” Angus cried,
Glow’ring full fear’d into my burning eyes,
“What ails thee?” “Wheesht!” I whisper’d; “hear ye nought?”
“Nought!” Angus said. And then I heard a sound
Of groans, and clapping hands; and suddenly
I saw my Angus shrink until he grew
As small as any babe new-born, and turn,
Swift as the fireflaught, to himself again;—                                           [4:37]
And while I scream’d, and fell upon his neck,                                      252
Weeping, and kissing him, and moaning low,
He sicken’d at my face, and swoon’d away.

     For, though I hid the trouble from my bairn,
Long had he known his mother was a seer,
Whose eyes were troubled by mysterious things;
And every shade he saw upon my face
Distraught him, lest I saw before his path
Mishap or death. My white-faced, fearful bairn!
My drooping Angus, with his soft, wide eyes,
And fluttering mouth! Alone upon the hills,
He trembled—fear’d the lightning and the storm—
Tholed not to lie within the dark alone—
And would have wither’d in his bairndom’s time,
Had I not cheer’d him with a smiling face.

     Lord, thou wert sore upon me! I was lone,
And Angus was my pleasure. I was haunted,
And Angus was my help. Yet, once again,
Thy glamour struck me, and I knew, I knew,
Angus must die. Hard, hard, both day and night,
I tried to cheat myself and hope, and smiled
On Angus, till his heart grew still once more.
But it was all in vain. Thrice Angus shrunk,                                         253
Three several gloamings, seated in his chair.
And I kept down my fear, and did not scream;
And oft I heard the wailing in the house,
And sounding of the kirk-bells down Glen-Earn
At midnight. Then I sicken’d and grew thin,
And hunger’d o’er my bairn, and pray’d, and pray’d,—
And what to me was light of sun or star
If Angus went away?

                               . . . It was a night
Quiet and cold. The moon and stars were out,
The moon-dew glittering on the hills. Alone,
I sat, awaiting Angus. It grew late,
And Angus came not; and the low winds blew,
And the clock tick’d, and ah! my heart was dark.
Then, last, I took my cloak, and wander’d forth,
To see if he was coming down the Glen,
And took the cold wet pathway in the moon
Until I reach’d the foot of Cawmock Craig,
And saw the straight rock rise into the lift,
Its side all dark, but on its top the Moon
Shining full bright and chilly. As I stood,
I heard a shout, and saw, far, far above,
A figure dark between me and the lift,                                                 254
Threading the narrow paths around the Craig
Whence many a man hath fallen and been slain;
And even then—Lord, Lord!—thy glamour dropt
Upon me, and I saw before my face
The wraith of Angus wrapt in bloody sowe
Gliding before me in the ghaistly light.
Shrill as an owl, I screech’d!—and up above
My Angus heard, and sicken’d, and swam round,
And, swooning on the sharp edge of the Craig,
Dash’d downward to his death!—

                                           . . . O bonnie, bonnie
Look’d Angus, lying in his sowe asleep,
Quiet like moonlight on his face, his hair
Kaim’d back and shining round his cold white ears.
And yonder in the cold kirkyard he lies;
And, Lord, I want to slumber at his side,
And cheer him in the darkness of the grave,—
For he was ever fearful, weak, and pale—
A young man with a white bairn’s timorous soul.
And, Lord, I think that Thou at last art kind,
For oft the white wraith, glimmering at my side,
Hath waved its arms, and moan’d, and look’d like me:
And I have watch’d it ever, not afraid,                                                255
But sad and smiling; and what dress I wore,
The wraith hath worn; and when I turn’d my gown,
And let the grey hairs hang all down my neck,
The wraith, too, turn’d its gown, and loosed its hair;
And yonder, yonder, yonder, through the pane,
The blue corpse-candles, blowing in the wind,
Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn.

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
‘The Glamour’ is included in the ‘North Coast, and other Poems. (1867-68)’ section:
v. 2, l. 1: What had I done, that Thou shouldst pick me out,
v. 2, l. 22: Breathe softly with the rocking of my heart.
v. 2, l. 34: And in the snowy dawning I beheld
v. 4, l. 37: Swift as the fireflaught, to himself again?— ]

                                                                                                                                                                 256

THE GIFT OF EOS.

Not in a mist of loveless eyes dies he,
     Who loveth truly nobler light than theirs;
To him, nor weariness nor agony,
     Purblind appeals, nor prayers;
To him, the priceless boon
     To watch from heights divine till all be done;
Calm in each dreamy rising of the Moon,
     Glad in each glorious coming of the Sun.

CHORUS OF HOURS.

1.

LO! here at the portal, awaiting new light,
We linger with pinions dripping dew-light,
Our faces shadow’d, our heads inclining,
The bright star-frost on our tresses shining;
Our eyes turn’d earthward in vigil holy,                                               257
Sinking our voices and singing slowly.

2.

The dark Earth sleepeth to our intoning,
The Ocean only is gleaming and moaning;
Our eyelids droop in a still devotion,
Yet we see the skies in the glass of Ocean,—
The void, star-lighted, is mirror’d faintly,
Slow slides the shade of Selene saintly.

3.

Eos! Eos! thou canst not hear us,
Yet we feel thee breathing in slumber near us:
Dark is thy cloud-roof’d temple solemn,
Shadows deepen round arch and column;
But a quiet light streams around thee, lying                                           [3:5]
In the feeble arms of thy love undying.

4.

Eos! Eos! thy cheek faint-gleaming
Sendeth a joy through the old man’s dreaming;
His white hair poureth in frosty showers
Round a wreath fresh-woven of lily flowers,
And the flowers are fading and earthward snowing,                            258
Save those thou breathest against unknowing.

TITHONOS.

What low, strange music throbs about my brain?
     I hear a motion as of robes—a moaning.

EOS.

’Tis the three sisters and their shadowy train,
     Beating the right foot solemnly, and intoning.
Ah! weary one, and have thy dreams been ill,
     That thou upheavest thus a face so pale?

TITHONOS.

Methought that I was dead, and cold, and still,
     Deep in the navel of a charmëd dale!
Ah, love, thy gift doth heavy burthen bring,
     Now I grow old, grow old,
And these weird songs the sisters nightly sing
     Haunt me with memories strange and manifold;
For every eve, when Phoibos fades away
     Yonder across Parnassos snow-tipt height,                                   [7:8]
These halls feel empty, and the courts grow gray,
The sisters lose the radiance of the day;
     And thy bright hair fades to a silvern light,                                       259
And nothing seems that is not sad though sweet!
     But Heaven, this East, yea, and the earth below
Are silenced to the ditties these repeat,
     Sinking their voices sad, and singing slow:
Yea, Ocean moans with many waters! sleep
Is troublous even upon eyes that weep!
The monsters of the earth are in their lairs
Moonlit and cold; the owl sits still and stares
Through woody nooks with round white eye; the wind
     Breatheth and gropeth blind;
The burthen and the mystery and the dream,
     The sense of things that are and yet may be,
The strife between what is and what doth seem,
     Is weary then on all, and most on me!

EOS.

It is enough to know thou canst not die,
     Like those of whom thou ’plainest, drowsy one!

TITHONOS.

The seasons come and go, the moments fly
     Like snow-flakes, falling, melting in the sun.
Nothing abideth—all must change—the earth                                      260
     Puts on fresh raiment every dawn of day—
What seems most precious turns to little worth—
Our love, whose face was an auroral birth,
     Steps in the shade an instant,—and is clay.
Is it enough to know I cannot die?
     Further than deathless life, can I implore?
Ah, but to know, as the slow years sweep by,
     That life is worthy to be lived, is more.
Wherefore the burthen and the dream below?
Wherefore the happiness, the hope, the woe?
Wherefore the slimy sense of evil things
     That draws the adder round the young man’s eyes?
Wherefore the yearnings and imaginings,
     The songs of bards, the broodings of the wise?
Have the gods written only on their scroll:
     “Man striveth merely for a little space,—
Then there is slumber, and the death-bells toll,
     The children cry, the widow hides her face,
The foolish dream is o’er,
And all is done for ever evermore?”
Oh, wherefore life at all, if life be such,—
     A joy, a weariness, a growing gray!
If life be more, how may man live too much?

                                                                                                         261

EOS.

     Nothing, be sure, can wholly pass away.

HOURS.

Crow’s-nest on a yew-tree, swing slow in sad weather,
There’s a lock o’ wet hair pastes thy brown sides together!—             [11:2]
Blood-red were her lips, till she paled and grew thin,
As the pink under-eyelid of snakes was her skin.
Crow’s-nest on a yew-tree that grows on a tomb,
The little black fledglings croak low in the gloom;
O maiden below, canst thou hear how they cry?
Dost thou stir in thy sleep as the adder goes by?
A worm crawl’d away with the little gold ring
He placed on thy finger that summer mornìng;
Then thy hand became bone, then was turn’d into clay,
While thy heart wither’d slowly; but cheerly, to-day
Thy fingers are leaves on the tree, in whose shade
He sits with as tender a maid!

TITHONOS.

Of death, corruption, change, and mystery,
     They chant their chime to which the old world sleeps!
Why not for ever stand they bright and free,                                       262
Flinging a glad song over dales and deeps,
As morn by morn they do, when from my breast
With rosy footsteps thou dost bright’ning go,
Blue-wingëd, to Parnassos?

EOS.

                                               Be at rest!
     The sense of things is dark on these also;
And e’en immortal gods grow pale at times
To hear their world-old rhymes.
Yea, Zeus the Sire himself beholds and hears,
     Stares vacantly into the blue profound,
What time a rainbow drawn from all earth’s tears
     Fades on Olumpos with a weeping sound!

TITHONOS.

What then remains, my soul, if this be so?

EOS.

     Around my neck I wind thy beard of gray,
And kiss thy quivering eyelids till they glow,
     And thy face lightens on me, and I say,
“Look in mine eyes and know!”

                                                                                                         263

HOURS.

O clod of green mould, that wast lately a man,
Time was, thou wert footsore and weary and wan,
When thy brain was as fire, when thine eyes were as lead,
When thy hair was as white as the bones of the dead!
Dust in the urn, on a shelf, in a shrine,
Hast thou ears, hast thou eyes, canst thou feel, or divine?
Bones in the ground, can ye guess what ye be?
Brain, in the midst of the bones, canst thou see?
Corse, in a clod-gown clammy with dew,
Skull, with a hole where the arrow went through,
Do ye dream, are ye troubled, remember ye there
The life and the light that ye were?

TITHONOS.

Thine eyes are lit with passion strong enew
To melt a mortal’s heart to fiery dew!
The burthen and the wonder and the dream,
Yea, all I am or was, and all I seem,
Are dwarf’d within these liquid orbs of thine
To the blue shadow of a love divine!
Yea, sweetest, love is surest, truest, best!                                           264
     And dearest, knowing it must last for long!

EOS.

Now, close thine eyes, lean heavy on my breast,
     And let my lips rain over thee in song!—
Thou wert a mortal who with fearless eyes
     Dared seek the love of an immortal thing;
Plead low thou didst, and strive and agonise,
     Yet time ebb’d on, and little peace did bring;
And the immortal joy seem’d far away,
     Lessening and lessening to a speck of gold
Against the gates of sunrise,—till that day
I came upon thee where thou sleeping lay,
     Breathed smoothness on thy wrinkled forehead old,
And woke thee to these wondrous halls, from whence
     Thou seest the glimmering tract of earth below,
And trancëd thee to nuptials so intense
     Thy flesh and blood seem’d melting off like snow,
Leaving thy soul in its eternal hues
     Clear, strong, and pale, as yonder crystal sphere
That swings above my threshold, sprinkling dews
     Immortal over all who enter here!—
And still thy corporal semblance ages on,                                            265
     Thy hair dries up, thy bones grow chill and bare.
A little while, my love, and all is gone,
     Drunk by the lips of a diviner air!

TITHONOS.

Ah woe! ah woe!—and I am lost for aye!

EOS.

Nothing, be sure, can wholly pass away!
     And nothing suffers loss if love remains!
The motion of mine air consumes thy clay,
My breath dries up the moisture of thy veins;
Yet have I given thee immortal being,
     Thereto immortal love, immortal power,
Consuming thy base substance till thy seeing
     Grows clearer, brighter, purer, hour by hour;—
Immortal honour, too, is thine, for thou
     Hast sought the highest meed the gods can give—
Immortal Love hath stoop’d to kiss thy brow!
     Immortal Love hath smiled, and bade thee live!
Wherefore the gods have given thee mighty meed,
     And snatch’d thee from the death-pyres of thy race,
To wear away these weary mortal weeds                                            266
     In a serener and a purer place,—
Not amid warriors on a battle plain,
     Not by the breath of pestilence or woe,
But here, at the far edge of earth and main,
     Whence light and love and resurrection flow,—
And I upon thy breast, to soothe the pain!
Immortal life assured, what mattereth
That it be not the old fond life of breath!
Immortal life assured, the soul is free—
It is enough to be!
For lo! the love, the dream, to which is given
     Divine assurance by a mortal peace,
Mix with the wonders of supremest heaven,
     Become a part of that which cannot cease,
And being eternal must be beauteous too,
     And being beauteous, surely must be glad!
O love, my love, thy wildest dreams were true,
     Though thou wert footsore in thy quest, and sad!                          [20:33]
Not in a mist of hungry eyes dies he
     Who loveth purely nobler light than theirs;
For him nor weariness nor agony,
     Purblind appeals, nor prayers;
But circled by the peace serene and holy                                             267
     Of that divinest thought he loved so long
Pensive, not melancholy,
     He mingles with those airs that made him strong,—
A little loath to quit
     The old familiar dwelling-house of clay,
Yet calm, as the warm wind dissolveth it,
     And leaf by leaf it droppeth quite away.
To him the priceless boon
     To watch from heights serene till all be done;
Calm in each dreamy rising of the Moon,
     Glad in each glorious coming of the Sun!

HOURS.

The stars are fading away in wonder,
Small sounds are stirring around and under,
Far away, from beneath the ocean,
We hear a murmur of wheels in motion,
And the wind that brings it along rejoices,—
Our hearts beat quicker, we lift our voices!

EOS.

It is Apollo! Hitherward he urges
     His four steeds, steaming odorous fumes of day;
Along his chariot-wheels the white sea surges,                                     268
     As up he drives his fiery-footed way.

TITHONOS.

Ye brighten, O ye columns round about!
     Ye melt in purple shades, arches and towers!
Cloud-roof, thou partest, and white hands slip out,
     Scattering pearls and flowers!
Brighter and brighter, blazing red and gold,
     Purple and amethyst, that float and fly!—
While, creeping in, a dawn-wind fresh and cold
     Pours silver o’er the couch whereon I lie!
Afar the coming of Apollo grows!
     His breath lifts up my hair! my pulses beat!
     My beard is moist with dews divinely sweet,
My lap is fill’d with sparkling leaves of rose,
Wherein my fingers, witherëd and sere,
Grope palsiedly in joy!—Afar I hear
The low, quick breathing that the earth is making—
Eastward she turns her dewy side, awaking.
But thou! but thou!
     Insufferably brightening!
Thy feet yet bathed in moist still shade, thy brow
     Glistening and lightening,
Thy luminous eyes enlarging, ring on ring                                      269 [23:21]
     Of liquid azure, and thy golden hair
Unfolding downward, curl on curl, to cling
     Around thy silken feet rose-tipt and bare!                                      [23:24]
Thy hands stretch’d out to catch the flowers down-flowing,
     Thy blushing look on mine, thy light green vest
In balmy airs of morning backward blowing
     From one divine white breast!
The last star melts above thee in the blue,
     The cold moon shrinks her horn, as thou dost go
Parnassos-ward, flower-laden, dripping dew,
     Heralding him who cometh from below!

HOURS.

1.

Our hearts beat quicker, we lift our voices,
The east grows golden, the earth rejoices,
White clouds part with a radiant motion,
Moist sails glimmer beneath on Ocean,
And downward tripping, the sweet Immortal
Blushingly pauses without the portal!

                                                                                                         270

2.

Eos! Eos! the sound from under
Deepens in music and might and wonder:
Thou standest now on Parnassos’ mountain,
Thy feet drip pearls from the sacred fountain,
And the sisters nine, to thy bright skirt clinging,
Greet thee with smiling and mystic singing!

3.

Eos! Eos! all earth beholds thee,
The light of the sunrise there infolds thee,
A cry comes up from the earth below thee,
Mountains and forests and waters know thee,
Fresh airs thy robe are backward blowing,
Under thy footprints flowers are growing!

4.

Eos! Eos! the sound is louder!
Behind streams radiance fiercer and prouder!
A moment thou blushest, and glad we view thee,
Then Apollo the Fire-God speeds unto thee,
Speeding by with a smile he hails thee,—
And the golden cloud of his breathing veils thee!

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
‘The Gift Of Eos’ is included in the ‘Miscellaneous Poems. (1866-70)’ section.
v. 3, l. 5: But a quiet light streams round thee, lying
v. 7, l. 8: Yonder across Parnassos’ snow-tipt height,
v. 11, l. 2: A lock o’ wet hair pastes thy brown sides together!—
v. 20, l. 33: Though thou were footsore in thy quest, and sad!
v. 23, l. 21: Thy luminous eyes enlarging, ring in ring
v. 23, l. 24: Around thy naked feet rose-tipt and bare! ]

                                                                                                                                                                   271

GLOSSARY

OF A FEW SCOTTICISMS USED IN “THE SCAITH O’ BARTLE.”

To avoid errors, (such as were not uncommon among readers of the “Idyls of Inverburn,”) let it be understood that the English equivalents given below merely express the meanings the Scotch words bear in the text, and which they are in all instances capable of bearing.

Bickering, quarrelling.
Bield, house.
Birn, burthen.
Braxie, a distempered sheep.
Caird, wild strapping fellow.
Clachan, small village.
Corsy-belly, infant’s first shirt.
Cowrie, stoop down.
Cushlingmushling, constantly muttering.
Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance, occupied in kirk by girls who have slipt.
Daft, silly.
Dawtie, darling.
Dree, bear sadly.
Fireflaught, sheet lightning.
Flyte, scold.
Gizzen, to dry up through drought.
Glamour, second-sight.
Greet, cry.
Howdie, midwife.
Jizzen-bed, bed of labour.                                                                                     272
Keek, peep.
Kibble, strong.
Kimmer, neighbour.
Lift, air; sky.
Lowe, firelight.
Mid-eild, middle-age.
Mirk, dark.
Naip, ridge of a roof.
Pout, a plump girl.
Ran-tree, mountain ash.
Sark, shirt; chemise.
Scaith, scourge, or plague.
Scunner, to shrink shudderingly.
Shieling, hut.
Siller, money.
Soopit, exhausted.
Sowe, shroud.
Speel, climb.
Stanchgrass, yarrow, used to stanch bleeding.
Stoure, dust.
Swaver, walk exhaustedly.
Thole, endure.
Toom, empty.
Wanrest, uneasiness.
Whin, dwarf gorse.
Widdershins, something growing in a direction contrary to the sun-course.

THE END.

__________

Ballantyne, Roberts, & Company, Printers, Edinburgh.

London Poems continued

(The additional ‘London Poems’ from the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan.)

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