Poems In Two Volumes, vol 2 | Page 2

and their domains 70 Would all have seem'd but paltry things,?Not worth a moment's pains.
Rob Roy had never linger'd here,?To these few meagre Vales confin'd;?But thought how wide the world, the times?How fairly to his mind!
And to his Sword he would have said,?"Do Thou my sovereign will enact?From land to land through half the earth!?Judge thou of law and fact!" 80
"Tis fit that we should do our part;?Becoming, that mankind should learn?That we are not to be surpass'd?In fatherly concern."
"Of old things all are over old,?Of good things none are good enough:--?We'll shew that we can help to frame?A world of other stuff."
"I, too, will have my Kings that take?From me the sign of life and death: 90 Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,?Obedient to my breath."
And, if the word had been fulfill'd,?As might have been, then, thought of joy!?France would have had her present Boast;?And we our brave Rob Roy!
Oh! say not so; compare them not;?I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!?Would wrong thee no where; least of all?Here standing by thy Grave. 100
For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,?Wild Chieftain of a Savage Clan!?Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love?The liberty of Man.
And, had it been thy lot to live?With us who now behold the light,?Thou would'st have nobly stirr'd thyself,?And battled for the Right.
For Robin was the poor Man's stay?The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand; 110 And all the oppress'd, who wanted strength,?Had Robin's to command.
Bear witness many a pensive sigh?Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays?Alone upon Loch Veol's Heights,?And by Loch Lomond's Braes!
And, far and near, through vale and hill,?Are faces that attest the same;?And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,?At sound of ROB ROY's name. 120
2. THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field,?Yon solitary Highland Lass!?Reaping and singing by herself;?Stop here, or gently pass!?Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,?And sings a melancholy strain;?O listen! for the Vale profound?Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt?So sweetly to reposing bands 10 Of Travellers in some shady haunt,?Among Arabian Sands:?No sweeter voice was ever heard?In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,?Breaking the silence of the seas?Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings??Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow?For old, unhappy, far-off things,?And battles long ago: 20 Or is it some more humble lay,?Familiar matter of today??Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,?That has been, and may be again!
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung?As if her song could have no ending;?I saw her singing at her work,?And o'er the sickle bending;?I listen'd till I had my fill;?And, as I mounted up the hill, 30 The music in my heart I bore,?Long after it was heard no more.
3. STEPPING WESTWARD.
While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our?road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had?been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met,?in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region,?two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by?way of greeting, "What you are stepping westward?"
"What you are stepping westward?"--"Yea."?--'Twould be a wildish destiny,?If we, who thus together roam?In a strange Land, and far from home,?Were in this place the guests of Chance:?Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,?Though home or shelter he had none,?With such a Sky to lead him on?
The dewy ground was dark and cold;?Behind, all gloomy to behold; 10 And stepping westward seem'd to be?A kind of heavenly destiny;?I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound?Of something without place or bound;?And seem'd to give me spiritual right?To travel through that region bright.
The voice was soft, and she who spake?Was walking by her native Lake:?The salutation had to me?The very sound of courtesy: 20 It's power was felt; and while my eye?Was fixed upon the glowing sky,?The echo of the voice enwrought?A human sweetness with the thought?Of travelling through the world that lay?Before me in my endless way.
4. GLEN-ALMAIN,
or the NARROW GLEN
In this still place, remote from men,?Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;?In this still place, where murmurs on?But one meek Streamlet, only one:?He sang of battles, and the breath?Of stormy war, and violent death;?And should, methinks, when all was past,?Have rightfully been laid at last?Where rocks were sudely heap'd, and rent?As by a spirit turbulent; 10 Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,?And every thing unreconciled;?In some complaining, dim retreat,?For fear and melancholy meet;?But this is calm; there cannot be?A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed??Or is it but a groundless creed??What matters it? I blame them not?Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 20 Was moved; and in this way express'd?Their notion of it's perfect rest.?A Convent, even a hermit's Cell?Would break the silence of this Dell:?It is not quiet, is not ease;?But something deeper far than these:?The