ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{Poems and Love Lyrics 1857}

                                                                                                                                                           69

KATRINE.*

_____

Ever with slight for me,
                   Cruel Katrine;
Frowns black as night for me,
                   Cruel Katrine.
         Mercy thou’st none for me,
         Smiles never one for me;
         All still I shun for thee,
                   Cruel Katrine.

Eyes like the light above,
                   Cruel Katrine;
But never bright with love,
                   Cruel Katrine.

—    * I must again entreat the reader’s lenience for the four following poems, penned early in my fourteenth year. —

         Beauty’s own face in thee,                                     70
         Virtues’s own grace in thee,
         Pure woman we trace in thee,
                   Cruel Katrine.

But the snows of thy bosoms cold,
                   Cruel Katrine,
In death Venus’ blossoms fold,
                   Cruel Katrine.
         Ah! thus to sigh for thee,
         Having no eye for me—
         I, who could die for thee,
                   Cruel Katrine.

Joy hangs reproving me,
                   Cruel Katrine,
Ever for loving thee,
                   Cruel Katrine.
         Love madly guideth me—
         A grim spectre glideth he;
         Whatever betideth me,
                   I’ll on, Katrine.

If I never depart from thee,                                               71
                   Cruel Katrine,
Ever probing thy heart for thee,
                   Cruel Katrine.
         Mayhap evermore for me,
         Warm to the core for me,
         Thou’lt, open its door for me,
                   Cruel Katrine!

’Tis a vain hope unfurled to me,
                   Cruel Katrine;
But thou’rt all the world to me,
                   Cruel Katrine.
         O! wert granted above to me,
         For the years I have clove to thee,
         To thaw thee in love to me!
                   Thee! ah! Katrine!

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                                                                                                                                                           72

HAPPY LOVE.

_____

Merry Blossom on the hours,
                             Mary mine;
I am culling all their flowers,
                             Mary mine—
         All to deck the tender breast,
         Where the doves of beauty rest,
         And the gay god Love sits blest,
                             Mary mine.

Hark! the lay of Love’s soft sea,
                             Mary mine,
On whose bosom bright and free,
                             Mary mine,
         Mid mellifluous calm we glide—                                       73
         Seldom, seldom tempest tried,
         In our fondness side by side,
                             Mary mine.

See! fond smiles envelope heaven,
                             Mary mine;
In Affection are we shriven,
                             Mary mine,—
         As we drain the cups of light,
         Where our soul’s warm streams unite,
         Mingling, soaring pure and bright,
                             Mary mine.

How I listen to thy song,
                             Mary mine,
As our lives flow calm along,
                             Mary mine;
         How I read the lily soul,
         Where the waves of pure Love roll,
         Kissing aye their golden goal,
                             Mary mine.

There is lustre up above,                                                            74
                             Mary mine,
God in Nature gifts our love,
                             Mary mine;
         Conscience whispers, all approving,
         Strewing flowers where we are roving:
         Close, closer glide we, loving,
                             Mary mine.

[Note:
An earlier version of this poem was published in The Glasgow Sentinel on 27th December, 1856:

SONG: MARY MINE.
AIR.—KELVIN GROVE.

MERRY blossom on the hours,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
I am culling all their flowers,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
         To embalm thy snowy breast,
         Where the doves of beauty rest,
         And the gay god Love sits blest,
               Mary mine, Mary mine!

Hark! the voices of the sea!
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
On whose bosom bright and free,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
         Full of smiles we loving glide,
         Seldom, seldom tempest-tried,
         In our gladness side by side,
               Mary mine, Mary mine!

See! the sun that sits in Heaven!
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
By whose love our souls are shriven,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
         As we quaff his cups of light,
         Where our soul’s warm streams unite,
         Mingling, soaring pure and bright,
               Mary mine, Mary mine!

Bliss is written on thine eye,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
In thy breast its blossoms lie,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
         And the sparkling pearls of Heaven
         To thy soft word-love is given,
         In a glow of beauty riven,
               Mary mine, Mary mine!

Fond I listen to thy song,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
As our lives flow calm along,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
         And I read thy lily soul—
         Where love’s gentle billows roll,
         Kissing aye their sunny goal,
               Mary mine, Mary mine!

There is lustre up above,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
Angels smile upon our love,
     Mary mine, Mary mine!
         Heaven whispereth approving,
         Strewing flowers where we are roving;
         Closer, closer glide we loving,
               Mary mine, Mary mine!                                             ]

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                                                                                                                                                               75

THE LAMENT.

Air—“LOCHABER NO MORE.”

_____

Where the river pours vocal thro’ Leven’s green grove,
A-mocking with mirth the lone lay of her love;
Where the violet and primrose in unison blow,
Young Jessie sat breathing the tale of her woe.

O, the babe to her heart in soft slumber was prest,
Nor noted the tempest that raged in her breast;
And the Summer wind sang, and the Summer sun shone,
As she breathed out her sorrow, bereft and alone.

“Ah! our morn it was fair—ah! my Jamie was true;                           76
The lealest that, toil-free, in tenderness flew,
To clasp on fond bosom the lass of his plight;—
But the pibroch of war called the clans to the fight.

“His name on the pinions of honour flew far—
He, the gentlest in peace; he, the fiercest in war;
The foremost to follow the right through the field;
The foremost to conquer—the latest to yield.

“Our maidens they eyed him, a flame in each breast,
And yearned to his bosom in love to be prest;
But my Jamie was fond, and my Jamie was leal—
No chill did his vow or his tenderness feel.

“The babe it lay sleeping; he sang by my side;
Now smiled on the wee one, now smiled on his bride,
And sealed his fond love on the cheeks of the twain,
And breathed out his sorrow again and again.

“But the Summer’s sun sank, and afar o’er the hill,
In the arms of the wind shrieked the war-pibroch shrill!
Then hey for my braidsword, my bonnet of blue—                           77
To honour, as thee, must thy Jamie be true.

“‘Oh! the steel of the brave it is flashing in fight,
For freedom, for Charlie, for God and the right;
Then buckle, wife darling, the sword to my side,
Scotia, with thee, is my love, is my bride.’

“I buckled the brand on, and sank on the knee,
With a prayer for my Jamie, my baby, and me.
He flew o’er the heather as fleet as the roe,
And left me to weep the salt tears of my woe.

“O’er the field of Culloden hung shadows of night,
And the steel of the gallant struck home in the fight
But the demon of war shrieked a requiem in glee,
And he waded thro’ blood from my baby and me.

“Sleep softly, my babe; ere the stars shall awake,
Our morning Elysian with Jamie shall break!”
The river rolled on to the main of the west,
And bore mother and babe up to God on its breast.

[Notes:
Sheet music for ‘Lochaber No More’.
Youtube versions: Strings, Bagpipes (a bit American over-the-top military) or Violin.]

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                                                                                                                                               78

BEREFT.

_____

IN the sunset of beauty sweet Spring has departed,
     All faded the hopes that evolved ’mid her bloom;
In the frost of her own icy tears, broken hearted,
     Nude Nature lies shiv’ring in sadness and gloom.
Yet light, light her load to the woe of this bosom—
     To which nought a joy or a comfort may bring—
’Neath the canker of Sorrow has perished the blossom,
     And my Mary has gone with the voice of the Spring.

When, raimented brightly in majesty vernal,
     Smiled Nature ’neath Flora’s munificent load;
In beauty exhaled to the kingdom eternal,
     Her chariot the sunbeam, my Mary up-rode.
Still Sol fed with radiance the leaf and the blossom
     Nor zephyr to wanton, nor bird ceased to sing—
But Pain’s iron heel crushed this desolate bosom,                              79
     Despair smote Affection and blighted her Spring.

Oh! radiant in loveliness, gentle in duty,
     Imperial she smiled o’er my garden of love;
Love multiplied proudly her dower of beauty,
     Deified her, ere crowned all immortal above.
Oh! her heart was the lealest that e’er throbbed in bosom,
     Chaste bliss to the soul of Affection to bring—
’Neath the canker of Sorrow has perished the blossom,
     And my Mary is gone with the voice of the Spring.

Reposing in bliss on thy bosom congenial,
     No more I on viands of beauty shall sup;
Nor, monarch of Love, summon Gladness, my menial,
     To fill to o’erbrimming the passionate cup.
Ah! soaring in Love’s hyperbolical heaven,
     No more I the song of enchantment may sing;
But stunned by the Past, in the Present’s dull leaven,
     Hymn I sadly of Mary, lost flower of my Spring.

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                                                                                                                                                               80

INFANT SLUMBER.

_____

STREWN with white linen, cosily tucked in,
Beneath the fond maternal eye it stands—
The dainty little sleeping place beside
The marriage bed, the holy bed of love;—
And, see! upon its bosom baby rests:
The lashes fringe the peeping eyes of blue,
And cast a scarce-seen shadow o’er the veins
That well beneath the lids; a smile is dimpled
On the soft cheek, flushed hot in happy dreams;
And, as to let the beauty of her being
Like fragrance out, the lips are just apart.
Here from the tight frilled cap a curl escapes
O’er the blue temples calm; the coverlit
In glowing warmth is to the waist thrust down                                    81
(Wee waist! where the white night-gown girdles meet,
Tied careful round by fond Affection’s fingers).
And on it lies one tiny dimpled hand,
Clasped tight—as tho’ to miser up the pearls
Washed on Sleep’s shore by the soft side of dreams;
While its dear mate supports the little head,
And peeps through ringlets golden as the day.
List! ye may hear the heart a-hymning gaily—~
Wild as the lark! Sleep soundly, little one,
And, if thy sister Summer ope her eyes
In unborn years upon thee, may her smiles
Be radiant as the visions of thy Spring.

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                                                                                                                                                               82

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN KIRKSTALL ABBEY, NEAR LEEDS (THE SCENE OF
SOUTHEY’S “MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN”), BY MOONLIGHT.

_____

Time-honoured Kirkstall! ’neath the midnight eye
Of Summer’s moon, whose soft maternal hand
Garlands thine ivied brow with radiance, I,
Clasped tight to Contemplation’s bosom, stand.
Lo! Fancy, as Reality ere while,
Hears from deep hearts swim out the pious strain;
And flutt’ring o’er the dim and fretted aisle,
Conjures up vaguely from the clammy pile
The monks of old, a melancholy train;
Beholds the hapless Mary glide along,
Mary wept o’er, immortalised in song,
And with quick ear devours her sad complain.
With hushed heart, bare brow I low incline,
Kneeling at hapless Love’s, at Southey’s shrine.

[Note:
As well as his Glasgow newspapers, Robert Buchanan Snr. also owned one in Leeds, which he began in partnership with Lloyd Jones in November 1857. A later poem, published in The Glasgow Sentinel in September 1858, concerning the visit of Queen Victoria to Leeds, indicates that Robert Jnr. had witnessed that occasion, so the above sonnet could indicate an earlier visit accompanying his father.]

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                                                                                                                                                               83

MARY.

_____

PRETTY, pretty maiden Mary,
     Empress of the eye so blue—
Like a lucid sunbeam, glancing
Through the merry ringlets dancing
     O’er the cheek of rosiest hue;

Ruby lips all full and tempting,
     As the dewy rose-bud’s red;
Velvet arms and tiny fingers—
Where the merry dimple lingers,
     Happy elf—in such a bed!

And thy tender heart of hearts, sweet,                                     84
     Flowing o’er with cadence ever,
Thrilling out a flood of gladness,
Quenching Care and quenching Sadness,
     Silent, songless—never, never,

Skipping blythely in the meadow,
     Where the envious zephyr runs,
Beauty’s richest smiles caress thee,
Rocked in Nature’s cradle. Bless Thee!
     Bless all sinless little ones!

Splashing in the crystal streamlet—
     Wood-nymph tiny, fresh, and fair;
Flowers their heads imperial humble,
Rival beauties seem to crumble
     All to nought, when thou art there.

Maiden Mary, maiden Mary!
     Blest thy happy advent here:
Cups of cankered Care did sadden—
Came thy natal notes to gladden,
     Balm of mercy, Mary dear.

Eyes immortal watch thee, Mary,                                            85
     Roaming thing from God above,
Gently guard her—conscious blossom,
Wear her closely in thy bosom,
     Mother, lest she flee thy love;

Winging homeward—Godward—wanton
     Were the straying flower re-given—
(Fondly clasp her, tiny, lovely,)
Double beauty smiled above thee—
     ’Twere a jubilee in Heaven.

How I love thee, maiden Mary,
     Gazing on thy beauty now,
In thine early April gladness,
When no stain of Mirth or Sadness
     Mars the marble of thy brow;

As, within the presence o’er thee,
     Cast by beauty from above,
Thou so pure, so holy glowest,
And evermore, sweet bud! o’erflowest,
     Like a brimful cup, with love.

Bless thee, bless thee, maiden Mary!—                                  86
     Haply doomed through clouds to rove,
Mayest thou pass untainted, holy,
May thy life be virtue’s solely,
     In the light of Truth and Love.

And when mother Earth’s last vision,
     At the mortal end is o’er,
May this purity be given,
Mayst thou be as meet for Heaven—
     Bright to tread the sinless shore.

Maiden Mary, maiden Mary,
     Merry maid of summers seven,
Ever art thou Joy’s, and only:
Yet my heart could half bemoan thee,
Musing on thee could be lonely—
     Thou hast all too much of Heaven.

__________

                                                                                                                                                               87

SONG:

BEHOLD! THE FIELDS OF SUMMER GREEN.

_____

BEHOLD! the fields of Summer green,
     Freshly wave before us;
Hymns the lark in Heaven high—
     Cupid joins in chorus.
Hark! the streamlet through the bowers,
     Vocal spirit flowing,
Prattling passion to the flowers
     In the Summer glowing.
’Mid the sunshine, ’mid the flowers,
     Where Summer brooks meander,
Through the woodland banks and bowers,
     Mary, let us wander.

Wander with me, Mary dear—                                                         88
     Life’s most lovely treasure!
Carol Nature’s children bright,
     Cupid’s join the measure.
Merry smiling, rapt divine,
     Where the streams run roving,
Heart in heart, O Mary mine,
     Let us wander loving.
’Mid the sunshine, ’mid the flowers,
     Where Summer brooks meander,
Through the woodland banks and bowers,
     Mary, let us wander.

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                                                                                                                                                               89

A CHRISTMAS LAY.

_____

O LOUD thro’ the welkin the wild wind is singing,
     Drunk with the kisses from merry lips ta’en;
All the gay air with his gladness is ringing—
     Ushers he in genial Christmas again.
Pile high the log! let it brighten each spirit,
     Tell each warm heart that the merry hour’s here—
To each, one and all (would the absent could hear it!)
     A right merry Christmas, a happy New Year.

Hark! how the laugh trembles out from each bosom,
     See! how the feet twinkle, tireless and gay;
Each heart is smiling—a sun-laden blossom!—
     Ha! now old age flings its sorrows away;
Lovers, their hearts in each kiss brightly blending,                             90
     Seal lives of love ’mid the merriment dear;
Children up loud their gay carols are sending—
     “A right merry Christmas, a happy New Year!”

Cupid trips round, thrilling each with emotion,
     Happiness writ on his passionate eye;
Friendship awakens in nascent devotion—
     Say! may the flowers with the Summer then die?
Welcome, old Winter! for these thou hast given
     Countless lips hymn their hot thanks in thine ear;
Smile each to each, in a joy born of Heaven,
     A right merry Christmas, a happy New Year.

__________

                                                                                                                                                               91

SEA STORM.

_____

THE wrinkled sea lies foaming at the mouth,
In a fierce fit of agonizing wrath,
’Gainst the pale partner of his bed, the land,
Whose locks, the tufted forests, stand on end,
Or, damp with mangled flesh, uprooted are
Beneath his tyrant hand, the clutching wind.
From his huge vitals, black and horrible,
The porpoise rank and shark are vomited;
The while his gaping jaws suck madly in
Sweet hearts of oak, life-pulsing—richer food!
Earth’s teeth, the rugged rocks, now gnash in rage,
And spit in scorn his foaming insult back,
Back on his cheek. ’Tis Death’s wild harvest-time—
Sharp is his sickle, fair the field he reaps!

__________

                                                                                                                                                               92

RURAL COURTSHIP.

_____

THE old, yet never old, tale o’er again.
A pretty little cot beside a rill:
Walls white as sunshine, where the lady-rose,
With lips half oped to let the fragrance out,
Smiles in the genial vine’s sweet verdant lap;
The gay geraniums at the breeze-stirred casement,
Perfuming Dick within his jaunty home;
And honest Tray, in satiated joy,
Basking upon the threshold with closed eyes;
With the green gate that opes into the lane,
A-shaded by the wall that bounds the orchard
Of the good Squire. The throstle in the bush
Is trilling out a long delicious strain;
And blushing May, down-gazing at the foot                                      93
That fidgets on the border, with poor me,
Twiddling my thumbs and gnawing at my lip,
Without the threshold stands.
                                               She’s sweet eighteen,
Queen of the violet-eye and locks of gold—
“Too fair!” intone the disappointed swains!—
The russet gown around the pretty form,
And the white cap thrust back upon the comb;
Held by the fingers at the corners up,
The apron, where the pruning scissors lie
Amid the wet rose leaves; and the white kerchief
Laid neatly on the bosom. In Fancy’s tints
Paint these, and you see May.
                                               And now, behold!
(Eternal Venus, gaze benignant down!)
My hand is laid on hers, and trembles so!
Now do our eyes for one warm moment meet!
And now I murmur, with a trembling tongue,
The words whose answer is my bane or joy.
Involuntarily the fingers slack,
And fall a-sudden, glowing, to the side;
While all unnoticed skip the leaves away                                           94
Upon the zephyr, and the scissors sound
Upon the pebbly path unheeded! Now
The rose lip quivers, and a word is born
To nestle in my heart till Love be mute—
A ceaseless lapse of sunshine ’mid the showers.
I grasp it as a miser might a hoard,
All overwhelmed with bliss, salute her lip,
And a space listen to her heart. Then comes
The good dame from within the cot. Adieu!
I breathe; then, vaulting o’er the stile, skip I,
Blithe as the blackbird, o’er the merry mead.
Humming a tune as joyous as the May,
Happy I homeward trip, and pitying gaze
On Lubin, as he sneaks with doleful looks
Along the sheltering hedge from Peggy’s door.

[Note:
‘Rural Courtship’ was published in The Glasgow Sentinel on 6th June, 1857.]

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                                                                                                                                                                 95

BENEATH BEN CRUACHAN BY DAWN.

_____

SHRILL chanticleer salutes the lazy Morn;
The stock-dove in the matin quiet broods;
The merle he twitters in the moisty woods;
The bee it carols o’er the mellow corn.
Wrapt in the cadence of a thousand rills,
Far o’er his beard of mist, amid the clouds,
Ben Cruachan his brow coeval shrouds—
King Cruachan, bleak monarch among hills.
Now, stripping, in the azure lake below,
His co-eternal mirror, he surveys
His limbs gigantic; and a crimson glow
Of regal pride illumes his features old.
Lo! Fancy lifts us upward as we gaze—
High on his brow pure speech, with Beauty—God!
       we hold.

__________

                                                                                                                                                               96

POVERTY AND DEATH.

_____

THE midnight stifles the busy hum,
     The stingful crowd flock to sleep like wasps;
The city-tide ceases to go and come,
     And a life the ledge of existence grasps.
         High in a garret, ’tis cold, cold, cold,
               Who the sad tumult of rains may quell?
         But high in a garret two arms enfold
         A tiny image in mortal mould,
         And Poverty’s face seems no longer old—
               “Heaven is Heaven, and Hell is Hell.”

“Christ! how I gloat o’er the crystal pane,
     Where the food of the offspring of Wealth is spread.
Oh! for a morsel!” in vain, in vain;
     And the new-born babe must perish for bread.
         With a scream and a laugh do the rain-drops pat
               On the shivering ledge of the window sill—
         “Not a drain!” and it screams on the soaken mat—               97
         Screams for existence, the beggar’s brat!
         Christ! ’twill shriek its life out! Well, what of that?—
               “Hell it is Earth, and Earth ’tis Hell!”

High in a garret the morn it breaks,
     High in a garret a balsam is given;
Fond from a garret the spirit takes
     The beggar’s brat to be suckled in Heaven.
         For the beggar’s brat ’tis a joyous day,
               But who may the tears of the mother quell?
         High in a garret the dawn-beams play,
         But sadly ebb with the life away.
         “A grave!” but a tear can Affection pay—
               “Heaven is Heaven, and Earth is Hell!”

High in a garret the spiders spin;
     High in a garret the rafters rot.
“Wat’ry without and wat’ry within!”—
     Tear-drops the page of Affection blot.
         The death-watch croaks till the heart it leaps—                      98
               “Ashes to ashes!” ah! well; ah! well—
         High in a garret the death-shade creeps;
         Cold in a garret an infant sleeps—
         Cold in a garret a woman weeps—
               “Hell it is Earth, and Earth ’tis Hell.”

The mortal retainers of Death they grin;
     “’Tis naked as winter?” “Well, what of that?
Cram it, and jam it, and stuff it in—
     It stinks of the dunghill, the beggar’s brat.”
         Oh! for the fields and a grassy spot;
               Oh! for a nook where the flowers might dwell.”
         A foot of dirt is its bitter lot.
         “The brat of the beggar we welcome not.”
         The churchyard shrieks, “Let it rot, let it rot.”
               “Heaven is Heaven, and Earth is Hell.”

“Poverty, Sorrow, eternal storm—
     Christ! to be rent like a rag in twain!
Steals from the garret a shivering form,                                             99
     Jostled and hugged by the wind and the rain.
         Panting the door of the tomb to win,
               Like thieves her tremulous bosoms swell.
         Christ! how the fiends of the sepulchre grin,
         “Sweet tide!”—my God, ’tis a gentle sin.
         Thousands go out and thousands come in—
               “Earth hath its Heaven and Earth its Hell.”

__________

                                                                                                                                                               100

SONG.

_____

UP the meadow, through the grove,
     Far o’er the verdant valley,
Her kine through dimpling dewdrops drove
     The rose’s sister, Sally.
O’er many a brook, past many a stile,
     That dot the verdant valley,
Half posed betwixt a frown and smile,
     Steps she so slyly, Sally.
         From left to right
         Blithe skips her sight,
     With tender visions thronging!
         Impatient girl!
         Behold a pearl
     Peeps o’er a rose—she’s longing.

The kine amazed, with lagging pace,                                      101
     Drive up and down the valley—
This plainly stamped upon each face:
     “The plague has seized on Sally.”
Sure something honied shall to-day
     Bedeck the verdant valley—
Heart shall a tune far blither play
     Within the breast of Sally.
         Her anxious eyes
         Outshine the skies—
     Impatience beams so throng in;
         O’er poppy lips
         The dew-drop drips—
     Begat by fervid longing.

Up the meadow, through the grove,
     Far o’er the verdant valley,
Her kine through dimpling dewdrops drove
     The rose’s sister, Sally.
But flashes up a fervid face,
     Up in the verdant valley,
And in her Lubin’s hot embrace
     Lie scores of smiles for Sally.
         Yet not surprise                                                           102
         Bedims those eyes—
     The brightest of the valley!
         Sly doings now,
         I warrant you—
     For Cupid smiles on Sally.

__________

                                                                                                                                                               103

SONNET:

OVER THE GRAVE OF WORDSWORTH IN GRASMERE CHURCHYARD.

_____

A WEARY pilgrim stand I, with wet eyes,
Stand I amid the omnipresent gloom,
Stand I beneath the sad and tearful skies—
Thus Earth and Heaven weep their poet’s doom.
Thus let me muse, thus, by thy grey head-stone,
Thus let my heart the hour’s emotion feel,
Thus let me kneel, in silence and alone,
With rev’rent head and heart thus let me kneel.
Oh! Bard of Nature, sweet the flowers to cull
Thy benign hand has fondly left behind—
To feed with fragrance man’s poetic mind.
How have I revelled ’mid the beautiful
In thee, immortal, through each fleeting year.
Alas! and I can give thee but a tear.

__________

                                                                                                                                                               104

THE MOTHER.

_____

THE musty drawers stand in the vacant chamber
Nearest to Heaven, and from their hiding-place
The tender relics of the dead are drawn.
Beneath the dim and flickering candle-light,
Stolen in sorrow from her sleepless pillow,
Bends the pale mourner o’er the cherished store—
While tearful blisters blind her. One by one,
She looks them over as a miser might
His hoard. Here lies the tiny half-worn frock,
Sprinkled with tears as violets with sad dew;
And there two wee red shoes, one buttonless,
But else unworn—no wonder either—Ah!
Those tiny feet so lightly pressed the sod.
There is the linen that enwrapt her limbs—
Less stainless than her soul; and here the cap
That bound her sunny locks in rest—the strings                               105
In a tight knot, as when, with sorrow blind,
They slipt them o’er the cold chin of the corse.
Even the pictured book, so sweetly soiled,
Each several page by infant fingers rent,
Hath found a quiet corner with the rest.

Cold tears and kisses sadly sigh together,
And frantic’lly the relics meet her heart.

An hour’s delirium of pain and prayer!—
Each treasured thing is carefully put by,
And through the portals of the Night she glides
Back to her couch, where Pain’s sad lullaby
Soothes her to broken slumbers, fev’rish dreams.

__________

                                                                                                                                                             106

SONNET

ON BEING PASSED BY A YOUNG LADY WHO HAD BEEN IN HER
CHILDHOOD A PRECOCIOUS DULCINEA OF THE AUTHOR’S.

_____

A TINY maid, with eyes full blue as Night’s,
Noon’s orient locks to gild her marbly brow,
Her cheek as rosy, flushed with young delights,
As the new May:—methinks I see her now.
A little fellow I, too, at the time,
I to her did precocious love rehearse—
Ere yet I’d learnt to heal my heart in rhyme,
Or sent maid’s eyes a-dimpling over verse.
Methinks I see thee now!—Beside the brook
In my mind’s eyes thou tak’st reluctant stand,
Dreading to cross ere I extend mine hand;
And, o’er, rewarding Love with such a look!—
I see thee, maid of sweet eighteen, trip by,
Nor ever dream there views so fond a thing as I.

__________

                                                                                                                                                             107

SONNET.

_____

YE called me cold; ye chided my despair
Who knew it now: the frown upon my cheek
In your mind’s eyes the offspring was of Sin,
Not, hearts of granite, the cold cloud of Care.
Oh! had one thought of mercy but shone in!
Had ye perused the myst’ry of the night,
Heard the drear tale the moaning wind could speak,
Had ye been gentler?—Ah! the keen moonlight
Preserved in rigid silence that it knew,
Spoke not the flowers of footsteps soft as dew,
Softened by love: the sad, the silent sky
Wore not the glances of the straining heart,
Cast up in prayers of voiceless agony.
Hearts may be broken. It was sore to part.

__________

                                                                                                                                                               108

COLIN: A PASTORAL.

_____

“CLOUDLESS yon heaven resplendently glows,
     The bosom of Nature heaves bright:—
’Neath the sunbeams of Summer life’s goblet o’erflows
     With the nectarine draughts of Delight.
On the path of the shepherd infinitely throng,
     Ecstatic with perfume, the flowers;
O’er his bosom a ravishing rapture of song
     In delicious bewilderment showers.

“Oh! Love, who propitious thus hymns to my soul,
     Thus yield I a thankful refrain,
As I smiling gaze on the affectionate goal
     Thy sceptre hath led me to gain.
Embodied in Chloe thine image I kiss,                                            109
     My Chloe, the pearl of the plain,
The kindest that ever in moment of bliss
     Thrilled Heaven to the soul of her swain.

“Happy the hour when the dawn brightly breaks,
     And Phœbus bespangles the lea,
When love with Aurora ecstatic awakes
     In the hearts of my Chloe and me.
Happy the hour when the Monarch of day
     Resigns the regalia of light,
When alone ’mid the moonlight we am’rously stray,
     And jubilee hold in the night.

“Thus Morning and Night she reclines in mine arms,
     Thus Morning and Night am I blest,
Sweet, sweet smiles the maiden whose loveliness warms
     So kindly the languishing breast.
On the path of the shepherd infinitely throng,
     Ecstatic with perfume, the flowers,
O’er his bosom a ravishing rapture of song
     In delicious bewilderment showers.”

Thus Colin his happiness languidly sighed—                                     110
     Love’s prompting did hotly obey—
As thro’ the gay woodlands’ green windings he hied
     On the noon of a hot Summer’s day.
Alas! luckless wight, brief thy morning of grace,
     From pangs of keen Anguish free;
Thy Chloe reposes in Strephon’s embrace,
     Where late she lay smiling on thee.

Unseen and unheard from the false one he fled,
     Nor gazed on the bliss of the twain;
And far up the valley he humbled his head,
     And sobbed in a transport of pain.
The birds ’mid the sunbeams careering above,
     The flowers ’neath the glances that blow,
As he murmurs the precept evoked by his love,
     Mock the shepherd’s disconsolate woe.

“Young Phillis in modesty tenderly smiled,
     And Virtue admonished her love;
But the lures of the perjured my passion beguiled,
     And weary with woe must I rove.
“Oh! all ye fond shepherds,” he mournfully said,                               111
     “With folly no longer be blind;
Deceitful and guilty the smiles of the maid,
     Whose loving is but too kind!”

[Note:
An earlier version of this poem was published in The Glasgow Sentinel on 18th April, 1857:

COLIN.
A PASTORAL.

“CLOUDLESS yon heaven resplendently glows,
     The bosom of nature heaves bright,
’Neath the sunbeams of summer, life’s goblet o’erflows
     With the nectarine draughts of delight.
On the path of the shepherd infinitely throng—
     Ecstatic with perfume—the flowers;
O’er his bosom a ravishing rapture of song
     In delicious bewilderment showers.

“Oh, love—who propitious thus hymns to my soul—
     Thus yields I a thankful refrain,
As I smilingly gaze on the affectionate goal
     Thy sceptre has led me to gain.
Embodied in Chloe thine image I kiss—
     My Chloe, the pearl of the plain,
The kindest that ever in moment of bliss
     Thrilled Heaven to the soul of her swain.

“Happy the hour when the dawn brightly breaks
     And Phœbus first spangles the lea,
When our love with Aurora ecstatic awakes
     To the hearts of my Chloe and me.
Happy the hour when the monarch of day
     Resigneth the sceptre of light;
When alone in the moonlight we lovingly stray,
     And Paradise hold in the night!

“Thus morning and night she reclines in my arms—
     Thus morning and night am I blest!
Sweet, sweet smiles the maiden, whose loveliness warms
     So kindly the languishing breast!
On the path of the shepherd infinitely throng—
     Ecstatic with perfume—the flowers;
O’er his bosom a ravishing rapture of song
     In delicious bewilderment showers.”

Thus Colin his happiness languidly sighed—
     Love’s promptings did warmly obey—
As through the gay woodlands’ green windings he hied,
     On the noon of a hot summer’s day.
And he gazed on the flowers by the wood-nymphs worn,
     And the bird on the forest tree;
Whose fragrance and song thro’ his being were borne,
     While gay as the gayest was he.

Why trembles the moon of delight on the wane?
     Why lieth Trust’s nightingale low?
Why freezes the smile on the cheek of the swain,
     And paleth the blood in his brow?
Alas! luckless wight, brief thy morning of grace
     From pangs of keen anguish free;
Thy Chloe reposes in Strephon’s embrace,
     Where late she was smiling on thee!

Unseen and unheard from the false one he fled,
     Nor gazed on the bliss of the twain;
And far up the valley he bowed down his head,
     And wept in a transport of pain.
The birds in the bush, and the sunbeams above,
     And the flowers ’neath his glances that blow,
As he murmurs the precept evoked by his love,
     Mock the shepherd’s disconsolate woe!

“Young Phillis in modesty tenderly smiled,
     And Virtue admonished her love;
But the lures of the perjured my passion beguiled,
     And weary with woe must I rove.
Oh! all ye fond shepherds,” he mournfully said,
     “No longer with folly be blind;
Deceitful and guilty the smiles of the maid,
     Whose loving is but too too kind!”

                               Thursday, April 16, 1857.                                                         ROBT. W. BUCHANAN. ]

__________

                                                                                                                                                               112

ALONE.

_____

I AM sitting ’neath the yew
Where I parted, love, from you,
And I multiply the dew
         With my tears—
As the spirit of the Past
O’er my tearful heart is cast,
And the voice comes like a blast
         Of the years.

Oh! the world may fume and fret
O’er the eyelids that are wet,
O’er the heart can ne’er forget,
         Sad and lone;
But by the world is given                                                        113
No pang, as I sit shriven,
Holding speech with thee and Heaven,
         Thee, my own!

When the world would don the frown,
And my lesser man sink down,
In the soul through thee, my own,
         Morn re-broke;
And thy cheering influence spread
Like a halo o’er my head—
From Care’s dream as from the dead
         I awoke.

Ah! the praise I found in you,
In mute eloquence beamed through
The life—to dare and do
         I aspired;
And when the world saw nought
Of the inner strife I fought,
Thy flashing eye I caught,
         Was fresh fired.

A thousand mem’ries bloom,                                                 114
’Mid the monumental gloom,
In each crevice of thy tomb,
         Each a flower;
The lad’s emotion blest
Still re-animates this breast,
As again thou close art prest
         In Love’s hour.

In the bloom of early pride,
Still I view thee by my side,
Still my heart is deified
         In thy love;
But the silent tear must flow
Thro’ the brimful heart of woe—
Ah! Affection sits below,
         Thou above.

Still I see the pallid cheek,
And the loving eyes that speak
What the tongue is all too weak
         To unfold!
Ah! I see the last breath given,                                               115
Ah! I feel my spirit riven—
As among the saints of Heaven
         Thou’rt enrolled.

Ah! mine eyes are on the sky,
On the violets that lie
Above thee, and I die
         Into them!—
Even now, love, o’er thy tomb
Do its blossoms fondly bloom,
As my soul peers through the gloom,
         Like a gem.

__________

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