Oft when the dying breeze sha' seek
Wi' murm'ring kiss the ev'ning's cheek,
And rustling whispers fitfu' break
Fra' twilight grove,
Remembrance o'er the wild sha' wake
Thy pipe o' Love.
And oft where Tilt's hoarse-dashing wave
Hears round the rock his wild stream rave,
Yon woods, that, as the storm they brave,
Mourn o'er the flood,
Sha' murmur to each sullen cave,
In music rude:
While, as thy songs o' freedom sound,
The mighty spirits pour around,
Of Scots† wha hae on patriot ground,
Wi' Wallace bled;
The groves wi' aweful grandeur crown'd
Bow to the dead!
The flood's majestic genius rears
His furrow'd front sublime in years,
state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I never saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. I cannot help thinking it might have been here that he conceived the idea of the following lines, which he afterwards introduced into his poem on Bruar Water, when only fancying such a combination of objects as were now present to his eye.
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild, checquering thro' the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,
Hoarse swelling to the breeze.
It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this spot.
In the midst of the storm on the wilds of Kenmore, Burns was rapt in meditation. What do you think he was about? He was charging the English army along with Bruce at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me the following address of Bruce to his troops:
"Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled," &c.
And as the swelling pomp he hears,
Rolls his dark eye,
And shakes the reeds wreath'd o'er his ears,
Tumbling fra' high.
Night silent comes; the hero band
Sit pond'ring on their native land;
Tilt half enchains wi' rugged hand
His moon-lit wave;
The woods in sullen murmurs grand
Soothe the stern brave!
How solemn thus, when life's aw'd sight
Looks in the grave, the day ance bright
Spread wi' dark clouds, to view its light,
Steal fra' the eye;
And ponder on the gath'ring night,
Futurity!
But night is gane; the smiling morn
Beams over Tilt's rock-broken burn;
Awa' the fairy vision's torn;
And truth ance mair
Points where his lyre lies a' forlorn,
The charm o' ayr!
Ah, (blush, ye proud, on wealth wha doat!) The tune o' life ha' lost its note,
While yet upon his lyre could float
The blythsome strain;
His lips they were a' pleasure swote,
His heart a' pain!
But in the grave na wealthy scorn
Frowns on the Muse's blushing morn;
Nor fra' her tear-dew'd brow is torn
The wither'd wreath;
That cherish'd by no dews, forlorn,
Shrunk into death!
Yet shouldst thou scorn a hundred deaths,
On Scotia's wild red-blossom'd heaths,
For Burns they weave immortal wreaths;
Fra' ev'ry grove
His lay each ruby lip soft breathes,
That talks o' love!
Adieu, wi' a' thy wood-notes wild,
Thy rural pipe sae sweetly mild,
Thy song that mony a sigh beguil'd
In Sorrow's breast;
Adieu, Misfortune's tuneful child,
Thou'rt gane to rest!
THE SYLPHID.
SOFT the pleasure, sweet the pain,
As Philomel's unrivall'd strain,
Wafting on the odorous air,
Soothing every rising care,
Awakes the moon, with aspect mild,
And the Eve's bewitching child,
The evening star, the sign of love
That views the secrets of the grove,
And silence keeps-the Sylphids fair
Hold their revels in the air;
Or in forests' gloomy shade,
Frequent each nook or secret glade;
As they charm the list'ning skies,
With the choicest ecstasies;
And lull the falling moon to sleep,
'Neath yonder craggy mossy steep;
Where lapt in sweet Endymion's arms,
She gives him all her secret charms;
Then they weave the colours bright,
Which enchant men's wandering sight,
When falling drops descend in showers,
To scent the dale and amorous bowers;
Where lovers fast asleep are laid,
Secur'd with caution in the shade.
How oft amid the silent night,
The Sylphs their tender songs indite,
And chaunt their strains along the air;
Sometimes fraught with amorous care,
Sometimes on a purple zone,
Captivate the rising moon;
Sometimes basking near a rill,
Murmuring soft with magic skill,
Till the listener, wooing pain,
Thinks he hears a tender strain,
On the zephyr gently call,
To hear the roaring water fall;
Ofttimes on the buoyant Sale,
Tells a fancied, frightful tale,
Of death, t' alarm the wanderer by,
Then giggle at his misery:
Or when with sportive thoughts inclin❜d,
She fills a modest virgin's mind,
When fast asleep no fear of harm,
With every kind display, to charm
The lovely boy, who in her dreams
A little sportive Cupid seems;
And when the wisht-for kiss is nigh,
The visions with the Sylphid fly :
Her lover likewise feels the power,
At lonely midnight's sacred hour;
Over rocks and gloomy woods,
Over vales and dangerous floods,
Over seas and mountains high,
The lover's fancies smoothly fly';
And when he gains the odorous Ind,
With the swiftness of the wind,
He finds the enchanting lovely prize,
The beauteous vision cruel dies!-
He wakes the Sylphid skips away,
Affrighted at the dawn of day;
Gliding on the rays of morn,
She gives her lovers to adorn
Apollo's rosy fragrant car,
Like the crimson god of war;
And at spring profusely throws
The purple violet and the rose
O'er the sweet and verdant lawn,
Scenting all the dews of morn;
And at summer's closing eve
Cloaths of flowery texture weave,
SAD child, by frowning poverty deprest,
With vestment dank, and wildly-dripping hair,
The prey of ev'ry blast,
Hurl'd in the tempest round.
Ah torn, perhaps, ah torn, in infant years, From tender parents, and from shelt'ring home, How throbs thy guileless breast,
Made bare by the rude wind!
The laughing Loves forsake thy radiant eyes,
Yet piteous leave their brilliants on thy lids,
Which chase each other down,
In glitt'ring drops of woe.
Ah harmless boy! yet doom'd to suffer pain,
To hear loud cordage lash the groaning mast,
While wat'ry mountains huge
Roar dread destruction round.
Ah! hapless! born to give thy little life
To the wide-gaping sea, or mingling storm;
Or 'mid the fractur'd wrecks,
Or floating corses pale,
'Tis thine, to hear hoarse seamen's dying groans,
To witness heaps of hanging waters dire,
When steers with belly'd sail
No friendly saving bark.
'Tis thine, perhaps, to die in deserts wild,
fon parent soothes thy parting soul ! Unknown, to die unblest,
A naked bleaching corse,
X X-VOL. XVII.
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