PEATSMOKE
AND
OTHER VERSE
BY
JOAN
RUNDALL
AUTHOR
OF “SONGS OF THE GREY COUNTRY”
LONDON
H.
F. W. DEANE AND SONS
THE
YEAR BOOK PRESS LTD.
31
MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1
1919
Contents
Ill. SONG OF MORAG ALONE IN THE HILLS
IV. THE FARM OF THE SHADOWY CLUMP OF TREES
TO
A. G.
TO
you who love,
As
I, the rolling moors and hidden glades
In
lonely hill, where no man's voice is known,
I
give these songs of sunlight, sweeping shades
And
wind-sped clouds ; the beauty of grey stone
Upon
green grass where mighty boulders lie—
Cast
on the hillside like blest altars set
For
passing saints to pray below the sky
And
leave a thought of God lest man forget.
For love of you
I
sing, and for the sake of each glad hour,
Amid
the purple mountains that we roam
Through
heather and white cotton grass a-flower,
By
sleeping tarns and waterfalls in foam.
There
have we dreamed and, dreaming, ever drew
Nearer
from earth's dear breast to heaven above.
Of
those glad dreams I weave these songs for you
And
set them here as symbols of my love.
WHEN
the mist falls—blue mist of eventide—
Over the fields—like waves of some blue bay
Whose
waters I have loved and dreamed beside
In other lives.
When the winds die away
Along
the rabbit pathways in the fern
And through the tangled undergrowth of pine;
When
the last voice dies down beside the burn,
Then, God, thy world is thine, thy
World is thine.
I
came alone from the dark shadowed wood
Over
the meadows—sweet with clover dew—
That
break upon the purple miles of peace
As
man-made music breaks upon the soul
Of
some calm-minded monk who kneels in prayer,
Until
the chanted rosary breaks through
The
silence of his rapture and his pain.
Hill-top
on hill-top ever led my gaze
Upward
into the deepening blue of Heaven.
Green
slopes before me drew me ever on
Beside
the brawling river and the rock—
The
red, red rocks that fringe the waterfall
And
hold the amber pool in crimson cup—
There
glowed a primrose—pallid as the star
Which
shone beside the scarcely gilded moon,—
And
there the water cried into the void
With
voice of all the water in the world,
Calling
my heart in tongues I cannot know.
Onward! Through miles of bloomless heatherland,
By
walls where tangled honeysuckles yield
A
wild, mad sweetness underneath the stars,
By
grey moon-shadowed boulder, by green bog
Heavy
with myrtle breath, full of low sounds
Of
water, oozing under long soft grass,
And
myriad creatures only named by God.
Onward!
by paths and where no pathways are,
By
ghostly fir trees—stretching arms of prayer
Toward
the skyline where my eyes are set.
Onward
! the river-voices calling me
And
the wild voice of Love in the wild hills.
God,
do I love too well the things you made ?
The
eyes of the stars, the water-song, the wind,
The
sunlight, mist and moonlight in the hills
Or
one man's voice and one man's silences ?
Loving
these so—do I love them more than God ?
What
is the madness throbbing through my veins
When
I lie down upon some windy ridge
To
share the little lives that thrill the grass
Or
yield my spirit to the mountain's soul,
The
crying birds, the singing in the trees ?
God,
is this knowing other gods than Thee ?
I
heard a voice—far off amid the fern,
It
held the sense of sunlight on green leaves,
Or
moonlight on the water and the song
Of
all sweet winds that ever stirred the grass,
All
birds that ever sang in summer dawn.
It
held the brightness of bright eyes that shine
From
little burrows underneath the fern,
The
softness of shy footsteps that draw near
To
trusted hands which seek but to caress,
It
had the ring of one voice—far away—
That
my heart yearns for in the silent hours,
All
perfect Love of all perfected Life.
The Voice
“When
you go through the silence of the hills
By
sunlight or by starlight, when the mist
Folds
you about beside the cold, black tarn
And
you can only hear the waterfall
Crying
far off, the curlews calling you,
When
you lie down and yield your stirring soul
Unto
the soul of the hills, the soul of the sky,
When
the mad passion of the spring awakes
Within
your blood and calls your spirit forth
To
dance along the uplands of the world
And,
at the last, you say—‘I cannot know,
I
cannot know why this and this should be,
I
only know it is ordainèd so
And
thus God made me and the soul in me.'
It
is enough, ask nothing more of Life,
No
more of prayer, ask nothing more of God
And
fear not, wonder not that this should be,
That
such Earth joys—more near than Paradise—
Should
fill your soul and stir the blood in you.
To
some God comes in vigil and wan fast,
They,
kneeling at the Tabernacle, see
The
pale face of the Man Christ at their side.
Some
find him where the little children play
In
a dark street with strings of coloured beads.
Some
find his footprints in the blood-stained fields
And
hear his voice amid the voice of guns.
But
unto you and to the like of heart—
He
comes in the wild things of the Earth you love ;
Then
God in You awakes to meet the God
Whose
eyes are shining in the shining stars,
Whose
voice is calling with the waterfall,
Who
breathes on you in moments of sweet cairn
That
fall upon your soul and your beloved.
Ah
! know no fear—the fair world God has made
Is
God's expression of his highest thought
And
only man has marred it here and there—
Ringing
the perfect bell-notes out of tune.
Here
no man comes and your soul's hands outstretch
To
touch the fingers of Eternity.
It is enough.
WE
wanderers drawn from many a distant shore
Home
to our loved grey land of sunlit tears,
What
fragrance from the days that are no more
Bridges
for us the gulf of vanished years ?
Not
only heather and sense of trodden fern,
Nor
broken blossoms sweetening all the air,
But
peatsmoke from a cottage by a burn—
The
gathered incense of this hour of prayer.
Breathe
it, gather it to yourself, my soul,
How
often have you seen with dreaming eyes,
That
blue haze rising where the green hills roll
Into
the grey mist of the Border skies ?
Peatsmoke—the
life-breath of a happy Earth
And
simple homes where, from the hearth-place deep
Flames
dance with love or life and death or birth
And
warm the darkness of man's last cold sleep.
Peatsmoke—Heart
of the Silent Valley's dream,
Spirit
of hill and heather, glen and wood,
Soul
of the spate that fills the mountain stream
And
wakens with the wind a rover's blood !
Through
the long years below far distant skies—
Dreaming
with never a soul to share his thought—
Ever
the wanderer sees blue peatsmoke rise
O'er
homes where kin of his have loved and wrought.
For
those who far away in slumber lie
To
tread no more the plains they held so dear,
Nor
see the sunset on the valley die,
The
hills so blue, the burns so brown and clear,
For
them we pray, but human hearts will sleep,
Dust
of long years will dim their ardour ; yet
Blue
wreathes of smoke for ever heavenward creep—
Prayers
of the hills that never will forget.
God,
when I see the light of gleaming skies
Fade
for the last, last time on Bodesbeck steep,
Ah
! let one drift of peatsmoke veil my eyes
And
bless me e'er I find a dreamless sleep.
That
when I wake on that dim River's shore,
If
Heaven be not too high nor far above,
My
eyes may rest upon the hills once more
And
I may breathe the peatsmoke that I love.
You
who are ever young as I am young
With
love of woodland, wind and sunlit dew,
E'er
yet I wove this dream my harp has sung,
My
soul was one with the wandering soul in you.
One
with all glad lovers of hill and stream
Who
hear for ever the wind and waters cry,
The
bee in the heather-afar the curlew scream
Over
the mountains, under the blue, blue sky.
Vagabond
souls are we who know no rest
So
sweet as sunlit sleep amid the fern
When
we lie alone upon Earth's mother breast
Lulled
to dream by the ringing bells of the burn.
We
are of silver dawns when the wan beam breaks
Over
the peat moss miles and the still pale pool,
Of
the blazing noon when the golden wind breath wakes
And
the shadowed paths of the glen are sweetly cool.
Vagabond
souls ! Our Heaven has no bars,
When
twilight falls by some belovèd stream
Ours
is the glory of a myriad stars,
Eternal
youth, the singing and the dream.
ONLY
the cry of a lamb on the hillside,
Only
the splash of the trout as they leap,
Only
the far, faint voice of the water
Falling
over the rocky steep.
Only
the wide, wind-wandered moorland
Broken
and scarred where grey rocks lie—
Passionate
prayers from the soul of the mountain
Breaking
forth to the boundless sky.
Only
a mountain loch wind ruffled,
Lapping
the hills that gave it birth,
Hills
that lean from the arc of Heaven
Telling
God's thoughts to the lonely Earth.
Rough
brown heather and half-curled bracken,
Joy
of youth in the curlew's cry
Ringing
over the rolling moorland
Under
the blue of the boundless sky.
Only
the call of the wind and water,
Only
the thrill of the laughing air,
But
here God stands alone for ever
Where
hills are dreaming a dream of prayer.
I
WILL away, away from the world of men—
Unto
the hills, unto the silent hills—
Into
the mist that fills the lonely glen,
There will I stray—
Treading
alone the dead leaves where they lie,
Crushing
the broken brackens e'er they die,
Wandering
far from the ways and the world of men.
Where
pine boughs yearn to the Heaven I will rest,
Under
the broken wall where scattered stones
Fall
in the heather on the mountain's breast
There
will I lie,
And
I will hear the slow rain falling down,
The
weary cry of the sea-birds—landward blown
On
winds that sweep the storm-clouds from the West.
When
breathless darkness gathers o'er the sky—
Silently,
as love comes into the heart,
When
clouds part and the white moon-barque sails by
There will I sleep-
With
dreaming eyes turned upward to the stars
And
roving spirit beating Heaven's bars,
There
will I sleep where mountains seek the sky.
THIS
I see in the fire, this I see—
A
mountain road, a rough road—far away,
Girded
by purple hills and woods of pine
Framing
the rocky glen whence sparkling spray
From
mountain burns is dashed afar to shine
Whiter
than any snow against the hill.
I
see the bridge that foots the glen I love
More
than all other glens and still, aye still
The
brown, brown water, foaming from above,
Sings
the old song I used to know so well—
“Oh,
I haste to the sea, on to the sea,
But
ah ! my heart is broken in farewell,
Blue
hill that gave me Life, farewell to thee.”
I
hear the young, young voices by the burn,
Calling
across the water. On the breeze
Lingers
the scent of dying flower and fern
And
wind-song born amid the sighing trees.
Nearer
they draw—those voices of the glen,
One
more turn of the road and see, they rise—
Pilgrim
ghosts of pilgrim women and men—
Trooping
into the dusk with shining eyes.
Ah
! they have strayed, as I have strayed, afar
From
yonder hills, yet still their hearts desire
The
twilight of the glen, the first pale star
Shining
athwart the pines, the heather fire
Rolling
across the hills. They weave their
dream,
As
I have woven and with errant soul,
They
wander homeward by the mountain-stream—
By
yonder road that shines amid the coal.
This I see in the fire, this I see.
How
calm the eve ! Scarce on the ruined wall
The
ivy stirs and scarce the grasses wave.
Over
the moor I hear a shepherd call
His
dog, and in the wood one last sweet stave
Of
faint bird-music trembles into rest,
As
die the rose clouds in the faded West.
Grey
ruined walls, arise from Earth once more,
Perfect
the broken shadows that you throw
Across
the grass till, through thine open door,
Dreaming,
I see the blessèd candies glow
Or
dimly hear some heavenly melody
Where
voices chant the Holy Mystery.
Die
out red rays, that o'er the arches shine
For
there the incense clouds arise and fall,
Dim
voices chant thy name—O Rose Divine,
Mother
of Consolation, hear them call—
Who
kneel, black-robed, with white cross on the breast
For
Benediction where their ruins rest.
Like
stars at dawn the altar candles die,
The
kneeling figures fade, the voices fall.
Over
the moor I hear a shepherd cry,
Far
off the sheep-dog answers from the wall.
And
here the ivy whispers as I pass
Of
broken columns hidden in the grass.
So
swiftly flash and yet more swiftly fade
The
errant visions our dim eyes descry
In
hallowed walls or faery haunted glade,
In
flush of dawn or calm of evening sky—
Lighting
the gloom of twilight as they pass,
Perfecting
broken shadows on the grass.
'TIS
on the way to Ericstane that ragged robins blow
Among the windy
grasses by the hedge,
And
far beyond those quiet fields the Annan waters flow
Where ripples rustle
to the reedy sedge.
Oh,
the road is rough and narrow on the way to Ericstane,
And the path's a
weary path to tread alone ;
But
it's there I would be tramping to the purple hills again
In the dusk-hour when
the summer day is gone.
Come
away, then, from the City, for there's not a heart so wise
As the soul that's in
the voices of the stream,
And
there's not a jewel that sparkles like the first star in the skies
When the dusk-dew
wakes the fern from shadowed dream.
Come,
the purple moorlands call you and the windy pine-woods sing,
The musk-bloom
blossoms in the grass again
Where
the waters from the mountain through the mossy channels spring
Beside the rugged
road to Ericstane.
Come,
there the hills are dreaming and the veils of twilight fall,
The weary winds are
dying o'er the fern,
And
there's one who waits to claim you where the river-voices call
Through the dewy dusk
beside the little burn.
A
shade, among the shadows, he comes as long ago ;
He came to greet us
in the eventide,
His
eyes are full of pity, his voice is soft and low
As the wind that
wanders by the waterside.
He
will fold us to the mountains, he has waited while we strayed
Through the mountains
of the world to come again
From
our pilgrimage triumphant and with spirit unafraid
To our Father hills than circle
Ericstane.
You
pass my doorway every night,
Your
lantern casts upon the snow
A
shaft of gold amid the white,
Wild
wilderness—a friendly glow
Across
my window's darkened glass
Where
flickering fire-flames fall and leap.
I
wake to hear you as you pass
And
pray "God bless you," e'er I sleep.
I
know not why you come and go,
So
late across the lonely hill—
A
light amid the darkened snow,
A
moving form where all is still.
I
only know you bless my sleep
With
your clear shaft of golden light
That
shines where my dim fire-flames leap
As
God's eyes shine across the night.
THERE
is a tarn where reeds cry to the wind,
High
in the wintry hills above Loch Skene,
Where
suns of June shine on the slopes to find
Unmelted
snowdrifts in the clefts between
Dark
rock and rock. There where the red
moss creeps,
Where
sweet hill blossoms bloom unseen and die—
High
in the hollow of the mountain sleeps
A
little tarn where reeds and rushes cry.
They
cry, they cry.
There
have I wandered where the red grouse calls
“Come
back, come back,” and curlews cry “Away.”
Where
shorn sheep gather to the grey stone walls-
Fearing
the wind ; where lapping waters sway
The
tall green reeds. There,
wandering, I have found
That
peace of heart which once, with eyes of prayer,
I
sought in vain where cities set me round.
Locked
in the dim eternal hills—
'Tis
there, 'tis there.
DOWN
by the Evan Water
When summer lights are low
The
meadow grasses murmur,
The dusky breezes blow
Across
the Evan Water where we wandered long ago.
Where
ripples fall for ever
From boulders old and grey
We
plucked the golden king-cups
And trod the rocky way,
Down
by the Evan Water on many a summer day.
Ah,
shining ripples glowing
To the glory of the noon ;
Ah.
shadows of the darkness,
You gathered all too soon
Over
the Evan Water at the dawning of the moon.
The
ripples fall for ever
Across the rocky shore,
The
king-cups by the roadway
Are golden as before
Where,
by the Evan Water, we love and laugh no more.
Only
in dreams we wander
And sing when lights are low
Where
meadow grasses murmur
The songs we used to know
Down
by the Evan Water where we wandered long ago.
OH,
golden hills, lit up by sunset fire,
Oh,
roaming wind, you bring your dream to me,
You
bring the song, the love, the wild desire
Of
tinker souls that are for ever free—
The
passions that in still, dark waters sleep
For
those who watch them when the stars are high
You
bring me, till I hear, where forests weep,
The
spent leaves sing of summer e'er they die.
That
I, who greatly love, may weave this dream—
Of
Morag's love and Morag's singing born—
Love
pure as dawn yet fierce as sunset's gleam,
Deep
as the night, eternal as God's morn.
ISLAH
of Skye—sad Islah of the Tears—
Wife
of a year, made widow by the sea—
Sailed
to the mainland that her unborn child
Might
first draw breath in its dead father's home—
The
far, far Border land of wide green plains
And
hills less passionate than her own Ben Mhor.
Here,
Islah, weary-hearted, sought for rest
Far
from the sound and sorrow of grey seas
That
knew her dead joy, pillowed her lost love.
But
evermore the sea-bells called to her,
The
splash of waves for ever tore her heart.
Waking
or dreaming always Islah heard
The
sweep of wings—the crying of white birds
Who
wheeled afar above her sea-girt home.
In
a deep valley under quiet hills
Islah
bore Morag and then smiled on Death.
But
e'er the Smooth Hand stilled her last long pang
She
looked on Morag, named her and prophesied : —
“She
has a wild sea bird within her heart
And
ocean bells for ever calling her.”
So
Islah died and the child, Morag, grew—
A
wanderer of the glens with a bird's soul
In
a maid's body-blend of Highland fire
With
Lowland calm like to some inland lake
That
sleeps amid the passion of the hills
And
mirrors all their glory in its face.
Thus
Morag grew amid the shepherd folk,
Who
succoured Islah in her hour of need,
Until
her spirit outgrew childish play
And
the bird-soul within her stirred her dream.
Then,
when grown maids about her spoke of love,
Touch
of man's lips or whisper of man's voice,
She
only knew the kisses of the breeze,
She
only craved the vast arms of the hills.
Till
in the deep hour of summer dawn
Alone
she wandered forth and came no more—
Bird-souled
and star-souled—wanderer of the glen—
Seeking
the fire from whence her spirit sprang.
(The Farewell of Morag to her
foster-father—the shepherd whom she loved)
DEAR
home in the valley—good-bye, good-bye,
And
you who sleep e'er the sky grows grey,
Farewell—In
the dusk hour far away
I
shall dream your voice. When the
young lambs cry
I
shall see you gather them from the glen
As
the King of the World lifts souls from Earth
To
bless them in their hour of birth—
Great
Herd of my heart, man of all men,
Farewell,—ah my heart's grief
!—Farewell.
Dearer
to me than words will ever tell
Is
your window that shines by night across the moor,
The
wind-bent pine tree by the open door,
The
pathway and the wet stones by the well.
So
dear to me and yet I cannot stay.
Ah,
could you hear them as I hear them caII—
Those
voices in the wind and waterfall,
You
would not grieve when I go far away—
Farewell—ah, my heart's grief
!—Farewell,
“COME
back, come back,” I hear the red grouse calling,
The
strayed sheep lead me and the wheeling tern.
Far
from me now echoes the water falling—
The
wild, wild roaring of the white Tail Burn.
Here
on the hillside great grey rocks surround me,
The
sunlight turns the silent Loch to gold.
With
the vast arms of the White Coombe around me
To-night
my dreams will bring the gods of old—
My joy! My joy !
Only
Morag—the birds and the wind together,
Only
Morag to-night—alone, alone,
The
hillside and the stars above the heather,
The
singing of the water to the stone.
And,
when I wake—white mist on all the water,
In
yon lone thorn—hoarse chirp of waking bird,
Sunbeams
that pierce the mist like High Gods' laughter,
Afar,
the footsteps of some homing herd.
My joy! My
joy!
(Morag
sings, at rest, by a IoneIy shieling fire)
I,
WHO have never seen the sea
Nor heard the breakers roar-
I
have a dream within my heart
Of sun on a Northern shore,
And
white foam tossed on the jagged rocks
For ever, for ever more.
My
mother came of a sea-girt land,
My father sleeps in the sea.
Did
Islah hear the ocean's voice
When she died in bearing me ?
For
she left me a dream of ocean bells
And the soul of a bird at sea.
Ah
! I will hear those ocean bells,
Wild bells of joy and sorrow,
Ring
"Rest" to the roving heart of me
When the night that knows no
morrow
Sweeps
down and the sea-birds' song is blent
With the bells' forgotten
sorrow.
(Morag sings to her bird-souI)
Now
falls the night—the Silent Vale is still,
White
mist fills every pass—your wild wings rest.
Sleep
walks calm-eyed along the quiet hill
And
Sleep is best.
In
sleep the sorrow of your rending cry
Will
ring no more where no lament is heard.
Far,
far where no clouds veil the sun we fly
In sleep, my bird.
Here
red flames dance along the shieling wall
And
fade but when the red dawn-flames grow deep,
As
Dreams, Love, Life and Death blend all with all
In sleep, in sleep,
(Morag
on an autumn day)
THE
bracken curls to gold, the heather fades
From
its rich purple like the blood of kings.
Last
night a wind blew coldly from the East.
The
swallows southward fly. In every
glen
I
hear the step of Winter drawing near,
See
her white fingers toss the scattered leaves
And
menace lingering blossoms. In the
vale
Each
homestead, farm or shieling warmly glows.
Fond
hearts dream tenderly of long, long hours
In
story weaving spent o'er winter fires
And
old, old songs in childish voices sung.
Man's
heart glows kindlier then toward his mate,
Waking
the peat fire in the winter dawn,
Singing
the glad, glad love days of their youth.
Heart
draws to heart when the house door is barred,
When
snow piles on the window-ledge without
And
all the world is centred round one hearth.
I,
only, have no hearth to gather for ;
No
one sweet life that looks to me for warmth,
No
one to ask my love or seek my aid.
A
woman must bestow or her soul dies.
Mine
is a bird's soul. Each bird has
her mate.
I
thought the wind was mine, the stars, the gleam
Of
water sleeping under purple hills'
The
far free spaces of the peat moss miles.
Men
sing that spring-tide brings desire of love,
Yet,
through the spring days I could happy be
Straying
alone along the budding glens,
Answering
here a bird and there a breeze,
Asking
no human comrade for my joy.
Now,
while the Woods draw daily nearer death
And
the fresh crispness of the morning tells
Of
icy dawns to be and bitter nights,
This
wandering heart would fain rest on a heart
More
high, more strong, of steadfast purpose born-
Not
of the wind and waves and crying Woods,
But
of the granite rock and long straight road.
Oh,
Gods of old, who rise beside my path
To
fill my heart and eyes with your red fire,
Oh, Gods of old, send me a mate to-day.
(Michael’s
dream)
IF
in the world I find her—the woman of my dream—
She
has red fire in her eyes at dawn
Like the sunrise
gleam
And
a bird's soul in the heart of her,
A wild, wandering
bird.
In
many a lowly shieling
They speak her name to-day.
I
have seen her on the high braeside-
Far from me—far
away,
And
I love her eyes I have never seen,
Her voice I have never heard.
On
the day of days when I find you,
Woman, with
eyes of flame,
Your
hands will seek my own two hands
And you will
speak my name,
For
you have heard my spirit call
Your spirit of
a bird.
Over
the fading heather,
Into the winter's
cold
I
seek for her, unweary,
Love
grows not Id.
Till
I find those eyes I have never seen
The voice
I have not heard.
(Morag and Michael by the silent loch)
OH,
let me gaze a lifetime in thine eyes.
Even
the hills are nothing now to me.
Even
the loch—mirroring the rnoonrise—
Is
nought—since I have thee, since I have thee.
Michael,
I made the mountains all my love,
The
winds' arms lulled me nightly to my rest.
I
found Love dreaming in the stars above
And
passion burning in the fiery West.
The
coral dawns were once my lovers' lips.
What
are they now ? Blest heralds of the hour
That
brings thee to me e'er the last star slips
Into
oblivion like a faded flower.
The
glens are full of sorrow, and dead leaves
Along
the hill like fleeing hosts are hurled.
Through
all the Woods a weary spirit weaves
Sorrowful
dreamings of an autumn world.
For
thee and me Love thrills along the wind
Through
dying woods a deathless triumph throbs.
We
dream of sunlight when the tempests blind
And
spring birds singing when the black lake sobs.
Ah
! Let me gaze a lifetime in thine eyes.
The
bitter snows are blessed new for me
And
no lone fear beyond the darkness lies,
Michael—since
I have thee, since I have thee.
HERDING
the sheep at dawn,
Lone
shepherds tell our love,
But
none shall bless our mating
Save God
and the stars above,
The
black lake sleeping through the white moon hours
The
incense of a myriad hidden flowers.
Where
many a lofty cairn
Draws
near to Heaven's door
We
two will tell of our love
That the
grey pile evermore
May
pray for us where it stands—on high, alone,
So
near to God—a deathless prayer of stone.
Thine
through a life of love,
Thine for eternity—
Strong
as the hills have made me
I yield
my strength to thee
In
love that knows no roof save God’s deep skies,
No
lamp but starlight and my lover’s eyes.
(A
song of the grey rocks)
OH
! woman, with the sea-bird in your heart,
You
stand before the wind, as we have stood
Through
centuries, where still grey mountains brood—
Watching,
with God, the long slow years depart
In
mists of time, leaving on us no trace.
Oh,
Morag ! Born to dream and born to stray
In
lonely joy through all the sunlit day,
You
feared no shadowing of the mountain's face,
Your
high, proud heart had troubled no man's fate.
'Twixt
Love and you were scattered stars at play
Until
you reached into the vaster day
And
sought eternal sunlight for your mate.
When
mists of Autumn covered all the glen
And
the red leaves wandered the mountain-side
Like
harried children seeking where to hide,
He
came to You—Michael—the singer of men,
Oh,
Morag—mighty in your yielded power !
Oh,
Michael, face to face at last with love,
The
grey rocks bless you and the stars above
Lean
down to share the wonder of this hour.
LITTLE
Red Burn where the brown water ripples
Under
the bridge of green turf and pine bough,
And
a wee foaming waterfall down the rock dashes
Into
the pool that is sleeping below,
Marigolds
blossom like stars in the shadow
Under
your banks that are laden with fern,
Never
were primroses sweeter or paler
Than
yours, in the Spring-time, Little Red Burn.
Blue
marsh forget-me-nots bloom on the moorland
As
though Heaven fell in a cloud at our feet
Where
the red pathway curves down to the water
And
breath of bog-myrtle for ever is sweet.
Birds
never sang as they sing flying over you,
Lonely
sheep call us below the blue skies
Over
the heath to a wind-haunted hollow
Where,
like a blest prayer from the hill's heart, you rise.
Little
Red Burn—If our love were all dreaming
And
Heaven should fade like the dew on the fern
Still,
through the slumber that held us for ever,
Your
singing would call to us, Little Red Burn.
THE
fields are full of sunlight,
The summer skies are blue,
Beside
the Moffat Water,
Morag, I wait for you
'Mid
buttercups and gowans,
Fresh with the morning dew.
I
hear the young lambs bleating,
I see the lazy kine
Troop
slowly through the gateway,
A long unbroken line.
The
wind blows down the Vale—a breath
Of peatsmoke and of pine.
Beyond
the golden meadow,
Above the furrowed loam,
A
little larch wood tosses
Her boughs of green, green foam
In
sunlight to the mountains
Where grey cloud shadows roam.
God
give to me in Heaven
This day eternally,
The
singing of the river,
Sunlight on flower and tree,
My
one love coming o'er the hills
And through the fields to me.
WHAT
have we garnered out of the years—you and I ?
Treading the roads and mountains day by
day,
Sleeping
under the rocks and the jewelled sky,
What have we garnered together—you and
I ?
The
cry of a heron wailing over the sedge,
Sunlight and skylarks for ever
seeking the sun,
Hawthorn
and thrushes singing in every hedge.
Moonlit trees and the grey owl
talking alone.
Others
will come—treading the roads we tread,
But none will know as we each twist and
turn.
None
will follow, as we, to their hidden head,
One by one each wee
wandering burn.
Lovers
will come through the years and see us pass—
Shades who cast no shade on
the waters pale,
Who
shake no moonlit dew from the clover grass
But bless for ever their
love in the Silent Vale.
What
have we won? The stars' unweary
eyes
That see no Winter-only
sleeping Spring
The
gate of Heaven in the Western skies,
On trackless hills the
footprints of the King.
FAREWELL,
Silent Valley, white road, farewell.
Ah
! to stand but once again at the turn
Where
the grey bridge arches and hear once more the burn
Calling
my heart in words no lips can tell.
Oh
! to dream for ever upon your breast,
Grey
Bodesbeck Mountain, and feel the noontide sun
Blessing
the Earth, watch the wee wild things run
Through
the grass in the Valley below me while I rest.
Oh
! to lie again in the little deep pool
Of
Blac’up Glen ; to feel the ripples wash
My
naked body, to watch the water splash
In
burning heat while I am cool—so cool
Only
to lie at last by your shore—Loch Skene,
Though
I could see no stars above White Coombe,
Nor
hear the wild duck stir her reedy home,
Happy,
happy my sleep if this had been.
But
I must go where strange sea voices cry
And
sea-bells ring into my wild bird-soul
From
a far shore where foam-white breakers roll
And
hills I know not loom into the sky.
(Morag
and Michael on the shore at dawn)
THE
waves are calling o'er the sands,
Horo ! Horo !
They
draw me down with pleading hands
"Thig an so."
They
call as through the long, long years
With lover’s lips.
They
sang to me of Earth's old tears
And sunken ships.
The
stars are shining o'er the sands,
Horo ! Horo !
And
Michael's heart still holds my hands,
Yet I must go.
For
I have dreamed of nine grey waves
For evermore,
Sweeping
sea flowers from sailors' graves
Across the
shore.
And
now they call me o'er the sands
“Thig an so,”
“Ma
tha sin an dan” pleading hands,
I can but
go;
My
mother came of islands wild.
Below the
sea
My
father wakes and calls his child
Eternally.
For
in that sweet Vale far away
Muirnean-mò
I
heard them call me night and day
"Thig an
so,"
Luring
me on where sea-bells ring
Far from my
home,
And
shell-crowned mermaids ever sing
Below the foam.
The
stars are fading o'er the sands,
And morning
breaks,
“Seol
dhouh an rathad" pleading hands
My heart
awakes,
Grieve
not, beloved, my soul will rise
Above the sea
And
fly from these red morning skies
To follow
thee.
BELOVÉD, do you hear the bells ? —
Bells of ocean, ringing,
Pealing,
pealing in my heart,
Do you hear the singing
Of
the wild sea voice that calls-
Voice of fatal sorrow ? —
I
must follow where it leads
To the nameless morrow.
Ah
! Beloved, hold my hands
Fast, my strength is failing,
Yet
I would see the wild grey waves
And hear the white gulls wailing;
I
would set my bird-heart free
O'er the ocean flying.
Death
will only dim my eyes,
My soul can know no dying.
Kiss
my eye—one last long kiss;
Claim them, Love, for ever.
Dreaming,
you will see them shine
O'er the Hidden River.
Dreaming,
you will ever hear
Birds about you winging,
Till
you sleep to dream no more
And wake to hear me singing.
OVER
the Silent Vale the light is dying
And
voices call to me across the stream.
Pale
on the loch a spectral mist is lying,
Through
the white veil, afar, some bird is crying
In
sweet, sad accents of a wondered dream—
My dream, My dream.
Michael
and Morag, where are you abiding ?
Heart
of the Hills, sleep you in Heaven above ?
Or
is that white bird, in the grey mist hiding,
The
soul of Morag—still untamed—abiding
For
ever in the mountains of her love ?
Wild love, bird love.
I,
who have dreamed of you amid the heather
So
long, have seen you dimly from afar,
Have
heard your footsteps ring the road together,
Your
voices singing o'er the sunlit heather,
Have
seen you bow before the evening star—
Your star, your star.
Oh
! I have known your joy, the love that blent you
With
all the passion of the hills a part.
Each
song and storm, each dream that Heaven sent you
I
shared and knew the bitterness that rent you
When
Death's cairn hand stilled Morag's wild, bird-heart-
The bird of Michael's heart.
Where
are you now ? Wild bird—set free for ever,
Roaming
eternally the realm of love,
I
cannot know, but from the Hidden River
Your
voices ring—your love dream lives for ever
Here
in the hills—there in the stars above—
Your stars of love.
(For
a soldier of the Grey Country, April, 1916)
DO
you know the blackthorn boughs are bearing
Once
again their snow-white bloom to-day ?
Do
you smell the sweet-briar where you’re faring
O'er
the plains of Flanders—far away ?
Dream
you of the cotton grasses blowing
On
the high bank over Dead Man Burn
And
the early star-pale primrose glowing
In
the hollows underneath the fern ?
Do
you hear the young lambs' voices calling
Far
away upon some windy height,
Splash
of trout or song of water falling,
In
your heart by day and through the night ?
As
you stand where shells of hate are screaming,
Tearing
God's beloved world in twain,
Throbs
your heart less bravely for its dreaming
Of
the hills that shadow Ericstane ?
Nay—to
you who face that gun-wracked fever
As
to us who wait through lonely days—
Comes
dream-born the strength that dwells for ever
Far,
far off amid those windy ways.
Strength
of uplands where the breeze is playing
Over
sun-sweet grasses dashed with dew,
In
the land where faithful hearts are praying
To
the God of Spring for Peace and—you.
SOME
day we two will tread the far free spaces,
The
windy gullies where the brown burns foam,
The
dear grey hills that bend with loving faces
Above
the Vale that used to be our home.
Some
day through twilit meadows we will wander
Where
moon-white gowans blossom and the sweet
Blue
lilac falls or rosy may-blooms squander
Their
scattered beauty all about our feet.
Some
day our eyes will rest on Bodesbeck mountain,
The
spray-dashed boulders over Grey Mare's Tail
Where
the wild waters toss their foaming fountain
Under
the grey sky where the white gulls wail.
On
Birkbill we will see the peatsmoke wreathing
In
heavenward spires and hear the bird-songs fail
When
twilight dies and cooler winds are breathing
Over
the quiet fields of Moffatdale.
Some
day we'll tread the road that's ever calling
My
yearning heart, the road of windy fern
And
gold laburnum blooms of Springtide falling
Amid
the haunted woods of Craigieburn.
Some
day, some day beyond this watch of weeping
When
God stoops down to give the Kiss of Peace,
We
will go home where all our dreams lie sleeping
Until
the Daybreak of the World's release.
THERE
is no road we two have trod together
But
lives within my heart for evermore—
That
little corner of Killiney shore
Where
we went tramping in the sweet May weather—
Grey
stones and seaweed gathering together-
Oh,
I shall see the place for evermore,
The
sunlight and the waves upon the shore.
Always
I will feel the March wind blowing
Over
Hampstead Heath--through groves of pine,
I
will see the red, red sunset shine
As
it shone when you and I were going
Up
the hill with winds of spring a-blowing
Through
the pathway underneath the pine—
Up
the long, long hill—your hand on mine.
I
will see the winter rainstorm falling
On
that high road over Oxford Town
Where
we stood together—looking down
On
grey spires and heard bell-voices calling
While
the starless, rain-filled night was falling.
I
will dream your footsteps coming down
Every
street I know in Oxford Town.
There
is no road we two have trod together
That
lives not in my heart by day and night.
God
grant that when he sets the world aright
We
two may tramp through Oxford Town together
And
see Killiney Bay in sweet May weather,
Or
sunset fading over Hampstead height-
Sunset
that brings no more a lonely night,
FAR
up the valley, below the mountain's shadow,
Where
water foams from the high rocks above
And
sunlight falls upon the buttercup meadow,
Five
beech trees guard the little house I love.
Here
are three green trees and two trees that are red and golden,
A
pathway scored by the wheels of my little cart
That
carries me home to my houseplace grey and olden-
The
home of my heart, the home of my heart.
Sweetly
here, rich with the fragrance gathered
From
lilac blossom and sunlight, sings the breeze,
Cool
is the grass where my old grey goat is tethered
By
the door of my home—the Farm of the Shadowy Trees.
Look
from my window. All around my
garden
Only
the rnoorland's purple miles I see,
Only
the rock-strewn mountain-mighty warden
Of
the Valley that is the gate of Heaven to me.
I
SAW you standing by the gate,
I
heard you call to me
With
the wind cry and the bird cry and the far-off cry of the sea.
Was
there fire in your eyes that they could light
Such
fire in the heart of me,
When
the young moon sailed from amber clouds
O'er
the Farm of the Apple Tree ?
A
light from the window flashed and leapt
Through
the night in a golden stream,
With
the moonfire and the starfire and the fire of a world a-dream ;
But
I only saw your burning eyes
Implore
me silently,
And
felt your hands upon my own
By
the Farm of the Apple Tree.
A
night, a day, a day, a night
You
gave your love to me
With
the wind love, the bird love and the wandering love of the sea ;
You
left me roaming a world of pain
With
a space alone set free
Where
my embered fires for ever sleep
In
the Farm of the Apple Tree.
You
woke the life within my life,
My
soul from her sleep of years.
You
lighted a lamp in the World for me that is blinding my eyes with tears,
But
you left me a dream I cannot lose
Of
fire in the heart of me,
And
the touch of your hands upon my own
In
the Farm of the Apple Tree.
LITTLE
brown room, the flames are glancing
Out
of the dusk to the dusk again ;
Shadow
and light are dancing, dancing
Like
laughter lighting a heart in pain.
Little
brown room where, with speech inspiring,
We
tear the universe into shreds—
Rebuilding
it nearer our hearts' desiring
With
wisdom woven in wiser heads.
Little
brown room, where we're always smoking
From
morning till midnight's come and gone—
Always
talking and always joking
Of
what we will do when the War is done.
What
we will do when our ships come sailing
Home
with their hoard of yellow gold,
Where
we sit and plan while the firelight's failing
And
the shadows are growing grey and old.
Ah,
little brown room, when your shadows darken,
What
faces smile from your flower-sweet gloom ?
What
voices speak while we wait and hearken—
Wait
for the ghosts of the little brown room?
Are
they ghosts with their music and light and laughter
Sweet
as Life in her youngest years ?
Is
that Death that breaks to such dawnlight after,
Such
smiles to lighten a World in tears ?
Little
brown room, they are coming and going—
The
dear dim comrades we cannot see,
With
Love like a wind from Paradise blowing
Over
the hills of Eternity,
To
lift the veil for a precious minute,
Lighting
our eyes till they pierce the gloom,
Meeting
the eyes that shine within it—
Eyes
of the ghosts of the little brown room.
(L. N. H.)
I
DREAMED I stood within a silent room,
And,
in the shadow, saw you lying there.
You
looked at me—not with a dead man's eyes—
But
with your strange grave smile that lit the gloom.
All
my poor sins of love and hate I told
To
you my heart's fear and the hidden pride
That
bound my soul since you could no more hear
My
voice, and no more answer as of old.
For
when I prayed my prayers had rung less true
Lacking
your love, your fire, your hand to guide
And,
most of all, the mercy of your eyes,
Their
still deep calm that was God's speech in you.
Out
of the shade I heard you speak my name,
And,
as of old, my sin, my bitterness
Turned
at your touch to some God-given good,
The
cross to honour that before was shame.
I
knew no passing from that silent place.
For
ever I shall see you lying there
And
hear your voice for ever blessing me.
Always
I read God's love upon your face,
Knowing
that when I err you lay your hand
Only
in blessing on my soul and turn
My
very fault to sacrifice for God
Who,
seeing all, the sin will understand.
(My
dear one, my heart's delight)
(A
Lullaby)
GATHER
the winds to your heart, little dreamer of mine,
As
you sleep where twilight sweetens the hush of the glen
With
homing footfalls, with lowing of milkladen kine
And
far, faint echoing voices of maidens and men,
Mo
graidh, mo chride.
Gather
the winds that wander the lone hillside
Where
the cotton-grass blows and the plover hides her nest,
The
winds that wander afar from the gold-girdled tide
Of
seas that gather the world-weary sun to his rest,
Mo
graidh, mo chride.
Gather
the winds that blow through the steading at dawn,
And
waken your mother to sparkle the ash-dead peat,
The
winds that dance afar on a faery lawn
Where
moon-shadows glide through the grass upon silver feet.
Mo
graidh, mo chride.
Gather
the winds to your breast, little dreamer, my own,
They
will sing in your heart when voices can sing no more
And
when you go forth to the Silence at last and alone
They
will call me to meet you afar on the sundown shore.
Mo
graidh, me chride,
GIVE
me thy hand and bless me in farewell,
I
will not stay my step nor turn again
Where
bends the roadway from the windy fell
Down
to the far green silence of the plain.
Dreaming
alone beside thy dying fire,
Remember
how I came at dawn to thee,
Remember
how I go with heart's desire,
Seeking
afar the silence of the sea.
There
by the grey rocks I will tread the shore
And
watch the white foam from the breakers hurled,
Where
wind and wave impose for evermore,
Their
rule upon the margin of the world.
For
here are dreams to stir my haunted sleep,
Where
stream and starlight work their mystic will,
And
here are voices in the woods that weep
Amid
the lonely hollows of the hill.
But
there is silence 'neath the breakers' roar,
For
there no dreaming voices call to me,
Only
the grey waves thunder to the shore,
And
God's voice rings amid the raging sea.
Give
me thy hands and bless me in farewell,
Remember
how I came at dawn to thee,
Remember
how I go across the fell
Seeking
afar the silence of the sea.
THE
Silver Clarsach or Harp is a symbol of the perfect ideal to which every high
soul yearns—always in vain yet always hoping to succeed where
others fail. No human soul has attained to its complete ideal, its whole
satisfaction ; yet in the ceaseless search for that hidden beauty lies all Life's
delight and many draw so near to the borders of that Land of Ideal that they
hear the Voice of all voices singing the songs which have haunted their dreams
but which no human lips could frame.
This seems to me the
fulfilment of humanity and, as such, can only be found through human love and
human pain.
Ian, the Happy Bard,
thought to set his love beyond humanity.
He dreamed of a Silver Harp and of a woman who should lay it in his
hands, but in his dream he saw her as one who had looked on neither sin nor
pain, not realising that such a woman could know no human love. Agnes of the Secret Orchard, the
guardian of lan's harp, was but as other women. She had loved before Ian came and sinned, and wept the sin
away ; but still the dead hour haunted
her and Ian, blinded by his vision of perfection, renounced the passion she
inspired and sought his harp far from her.
It is the simple of
soul who know loves lore the best, and so it was that an old Herdsman, singing
on the hillside, lifted lan's blindness and sent him to find his Silver Harp in
Agnes' heart and to hear the strings tell of Love that is only greater than sin
or tears because he has known and defeated them.
WHEN
we two sat beside your fire and told
Over
and over the dear names of home,
Red
glens Of Autumn, rocks where torrents foam,
Green
fields that girdle ruins grey and old ;
Out
of my dreaming mist there seemed to rise
A
greater dreamer born in older years
Who
shed, as we have shed, an exile's tears
Yet
came, at last, home below happy skies.
So,
if these fitful songs should bring to you
A
little of that joy we sought to name—
Dreaming
of sunlight by the Winter flame
And
windy uplands drenched with morning dew,
Seek,
through my woof of dream, one golden warp,
Hear
in my faltered song one ringing tone
Of
that dead bard who strayed, afar, alone-
Ian—the
seeker of the Silver Harp.
LONG
have I sung in Southern lands
Of
roses sweet as secret love
And
felt the hearts of women move
Below
the music of my hands.
But evermore at dawn I dream
Of songs that I can never sing,
And of some sweet but hidden thing
Buried beside a nameless stream
That through a secret orchard flows,
Where dwells the woman of my heart—
Guarding from all the world apart,
My harp where apple blossom blows.
Sometimes
in visioned sleep I see
A
silver harp on floating wings,
And
when I wake the silent strings
I
hear my own voice sing to me
Songs greater far than I can sing,
Tales I have sought in vain to tell,
The tears of Heaven, the smiles of Hall-
Dreams of my heart that knew no wing.
It is the Silver Harp that lies
'Neath apple-blossom far away
Where blue hills seek eternal day
Under the arc of sunny skies.
And
ever, though the road is long,
I
seek to find the nameless stream,
The
buried harp that stirs my dream
And
wake the sleeping strings to song.
Then will I look in deeper eyes
Than those of any Southern Rose
That blooms and all too swiftly blows
Before the fire of morning skies.
For evermore in dreams I stray
By that far stream—my spirit sings
To those sweet hidden silver strings
The harp that I am born to play.
(Ian
searching the world for the Silver Harp)
MY
grey horse crops sweet grass on the hillside,
Where the winds croon
Through
the little pine wood. I will rest
Below the moon.
All
around me the blue hills lie
In shadow deep.
Gather
my heart to your heart, O hills
And give me sleep.
Green
and gold the grass in the valley fields,
Fragrant the flowers,
Yet
ever I turn to the mighty hills
And silent hours.
Sometimes
my heart is lonely when winds blow
And curlews cry,
When
broken branches weep and grey rains fall
From a grey sky.
Sometimes
my heart is sad when the moon shines
O'er the black tarn,
Fearful
am I sometimes when shadows fall
From the high cairn.
Yet
I would give you all the emerald vale
For one long night
In
the shadowed hills with the roaming wind
And the moonlight.
For
the lonely song of the little wood
Where winds croon,
For
the sound of my grey horse cropping grass
Below the moon.
(The
song of Agnes, the Woman of the Orchard)
THIS,
my song, was sung to the night
Long, long ago,
When
the moon rode o'er the pine-woods,
And low—ah, low
Sang
the wind through the hills that girt my little home
Long, long ago.
I
awoke from dreams that strayed
In far-off lands,
When
the moon blessed my sleeping eyes
And kissed my hands,
I
heard the voice of waves that sweep to the shore
From far-off lands.
Low
set the moon above the fields
Of golden corn,
The
stars died and the Heavens paled
Unto the morn ;
Yet
still the sea beat on the shore beyond the fields
Of golden corn.
And
mirrored still the moon that shone
For me no more;
Still
of her beauty sang the waves
To the calm shore
So
sing men of their vanished loves that light the heart
For evermore.
(Ian
singing to Agnes)
STAR
eyes amid the apple-bloom,
Voice by the nameless stream,
Oh,
Woman of the Silver Harp,
True love of my life's dream,
I
heard thee singing in the night,
I saw thy shadow pass
Where
trellised branches whisper o'er
The wild thyme in the grass.
Oh,
Silver Clarsach, I have sought
Through all the yearning years
Oh,
silver strings I long to touch,
God's singing and God's tears,
All
Heaven songs my heart has dreamed—
So high, so sweet, so deep
Shall
break from thee when with the dawn
My hands break through thy sleep.
Come
to me 'neath the apple-bloom.
True lover of my dream,
That
I may see thy angel eyes
Like stars above the stream.
Oh
light my eyes that they may gaze
Below the grass-clad Earth
Where
buried lies the Silver Harp
That called me from my birth.
(Agnes)
ONLY
to sleep and dream it all away,
Only to wake and know this hour a dream,
At
every dusk through scented fields to stray
With thee and hear thee singing by the stream.
Only
to wake at dawn and kiss thine eyes,
Knowing that all thy dreaming was of me.
God
knit thy soul with mine in Paradise
And only gave me life to live for thee.
I
would have stirred thy minstrel fires to flame
Till thy hand woke the Silver Clarsach's string,
Leaving
the world more happy for thy fame,
Tears kinder for the songs thy heart did sing.
I
would have loved thy every erring mood
And sat beside thee—silent in the grass—
Counting
the long slow shadows of the wood
Until the shadows of thy soul should pass.
But
I have dimmed the stars above the stream
By one dead hour I never can forget,
That
shatters all the wonder of thy dream
And leaves to me eternity's regret.
The
Silver Clarsach draws thy footsteps on.
Not here, not here but by some distant shore
The
Harp will wake and there will sing alone
Of how I love thee, Ian, evermore.
(Ian
has left Agnes and set forth to seek the harp without her)
SHALL
I never forget her—never regain
The
life that was all promise of bloom to me ?
Now,
in the Springtide, blossom on the tree
Seems
but her sweet pale face and a stab of pain
Pierces
my groping soul like a burning dart.
How,
when I left you, Agnes, could I know
That
far away I still would love you so
Although
I strive to tear you from my heart ?
Oh,
God of love, since your love is so vast
And
Life so cruel, was it worth your while
To
strike me thus and let the Devil smile
To
see my house of dreaming overcast ?
(Ian)
WIND
on the high hillside,
The red sun setting
Over
the Valley wide,
As though regretting
The
pallid gleaming that will come to you,
Oh,
folded blossom, with the falling dew.
Mists
from the Valley rise
Over the heather,
Blue
peatsmoke curls to the skies.
Afar together
The
old herd and his dog rest by their door
In
peace my heart will know—no more, no more.
What
dreams he all alone
With life behind him?
Of
Heaven where his own
Beloved will find him,
Of
Love that led him o'er a flowery way,
The
hidden Silver Harp Love used to play.
Sing
me the songs you knew
In your days of blossom,
When
Love came treading the dew
With a harp in his bosom.
How
shall they find that Harp—who passion worn
Stray
as I stray, weary and tossed and torn ?
LOVE
is no little thing
To
quail at sight of sin.
Love
gathers good and ill within
His
hands when lovers hear the Heavens sing.
Love
faints at no surprise,
Bewails
no memory.
Love
has eternity
And
deathless stars for ever in his eyes.
If
one who loves shall stray
From
his Beloved afar—
Seeking
some hidden star
Beyond
her sight who sees but Love's to-day.
Oh
! let him turn again.
His
stars are in her eyes.
Love's
Silver Clarsach lies
Within
her lands—hushed by her years of pain.
Oh,
Lover, wake the string
Love
is a thing so vast.
What
is a vanished past
When
loved and lover hear the Heavens sing ?
(Ian)
MISTS
that were sad as tears,
Hills
that were dark as sleep,
Has
some new radiance blessed you from the years
When,
in your hollows, faeries used to reap
White
moonlight blossoms full of twilight tears ?
Why
is the vale so fair,
That
but an hour ago
Was
cold and waste to me ? Now soft and rare
Over
the fields the valley breezes blow
Into
the hills that are so fair, so fair.
The
village street, the bell
Waking
the tree-girt tower
Seem
kindly friends that bid a sweet farewell
And
bless me setting forth, this happy hour.
The
harsh note almost seems a marriage bell.
I
have been blind, so blind.
I
sought the stars too high,
With
soul too proud in Agnes' heart to find
Love's
Silver Harp—hushed by her agony.
Dear
God, forgive me, I was proud and blind,
I
will be humble now,
Nor
ever seek to sing
Heaven's
song myself, but of the winds that blow
At
summer dawn I'll tell, of wells that spring
In
fairy caves, of twilights sweet as now.
Or
I will sing of Love
That
dwells in simple homes
Where
happy peace around the threshold moves
And
Love sits by the hearth nor ever roams
The
distant stars—Ah ! sweet and lowly Love
Oh
! since Love is so vast,
Beloved,
you will forgive
My
blindness and the sorrow of the past.
To-night,
to-night the silver strings will live
And
we will sing of Love so deep, so vast.
(Ian)
HOME,
home, at last to thee,
To
tread the hill-road o'er the little town
To
see, once more, the furrow's sunlit brown,
The
meadows' green that is so dear to me.
Home,
home at last to thee—
No
more, no more to seek some errant star,
But
know that in thine eyes my Heavens are
And
thy heart is the only harp for me.
(Ian)
MOONLIGHT
on apple-blossom
And
stars above the stream,
A
far faint breath of the moorland
Like
bells in a waking dream,
Only
thy love for ever, thy hands within my own,
The
Silver Harp by the river—
Singing, singing alone.
No
hands of mine need waken
Those
silver strings to-night.
Love
soars into the silence,
No
voice can reach his height,
But
where we blend for ever
Our
lives for life to be
The
harp beside the river
Sings of my love for thee.
Moonlight
on apple-blossom
And
stars above the stream,
Thy
voice amid the shadows
Crowning
my life's long dream,
My
roaming o'er for ever,
Heaven's
song at last my own,
The
Silver Harp by the river
Singing, singing alone.
PROUD
passionate dreams, I thought would never die,
You
marshal in the darkness silently
And
wave farewell to me e'er one by one
You
fade from me for ever and are gone ,
And,
as at last you go—lone passionate things,
I
hear afar the lilt of silver strings.
Once,
in my pride, I thought those strings asleep
And
sought for them with hands that yearned to reap
Harvests
of song—thinking that I alone
Could
wake them when the winds of love had blown
Over
the garden. Ah ! the lonely pride
Of
those who wrapped in their own thoughts abide,—
Seeking
yet blind, deaf yet insatiable—
Why
should I grieve to bid my dreams farewell
For
now I know that Harp could never sleep
Since
God's first lovers their first watch did keep
In
gardens, sweet as these, of scented gloom
And
moonlight falling through the apple-bloom.
Ah
! Silver Harp, my soul—proud lonely thing,
Was
deaf to every whisper of thy string.
I
ever saw the sunlight on thee gleam
And
yearned my hands to thee in many a dream,
Yet
never knew thy song until alone
I
stood where winds of sorrowing had blown.
Then,
only then, borne by the breeze along
I
learnt the deathless burden of thy song—
“Love
is more vast than sin, more true than tears,
The
years of Love are God's eternal years."
WE
too have come where fields of Spring are golden
And
rapturous birds sing, all along the glade,
One
last song of those minstrel lovers olden
Who
plucked the flower of love that cannot fade.
We
too have set Spring in our hearts for ever
And
sometimes hear—a s Ian long ago—
A
silver harp-string thrill beside a river,
A
voice that calls where apple-blossoms blow.
For
not in Ian's grave these strings are sleeping,
They
woke not only to his minstrelsy
But
ever sing in hearts where love is keeping
Life's
spring afire through centuries to be.
Those
are the hearts that are for ever straying
Through
fields of Spring that fade not with the years,
Who
hear afar the Silver Clarsach playing
One
song of Love more vast than sin or tears.
“THE
Silent Valley never says 'Good-bye’.”
Look
back, look back from Hunter Heck's high shoulder—
Radiant
with sunset all the meadows lie.
Gather
for ever in your memory
Each
tawny wood, each hoary scattered boulder,
The
Silent Valley and the hills that hold her
Then
turn away. Stay not to say
"Good-bye."
For
we will roam once more the hills together
When
thrushes wake the woods we love so well—
Spring
lit with primrose star and pale bluebell—
And
we will find once more in golden weather
That
secret hollow where amid the heather
White
orchids bloom like snow upon the fell.
All
through the world are errant spirits yearning
Ever
to thee, Grey Land, and, one by one,
They
come when all their wandering is done,
To
seek old thresholds and the peat-fires burning
On
hearths of home, the Autumn forests turning
To
gold amid thy mountains grey and lone.
So
will we come o'er Hunter Heck's high shoulder
Once
more and see the radiant meadows lie—
Fair
as the dreams that stir our memory
Far
from the Valley and the hills that fold her—
Dreams
of a bluebell wood, a hoary boulder,
Waters
that glisten to a sunlit sky
Along the Vale that never says "Good-bye."