II. OCCASIONAL PIECES.

Reflex Musings: Reflection from Various Surfaces.

18th April 1853.

IN the dense entangled street,
Where the web of Trade is weaving,
Forms unknown in crowds I meet
Much of each and all believing;
Each his small designs achieving
Hurries on with restless feet,
While, through Fancy’s power deceiving,
Self in every form I greet.
Oft in yonder rocky dell
Neath the birches’ shadow seated,
I have watched the darksome well,
Where my stooping form, repeated,
Now advanced and now retreated
With the spring’s alternate swell,
Till destroyed before completed
As the big drops grew and fell.
By the hollow mountain-side
Questions strange I shout for ever,
While the echoes far and wide
Seem to mock my vain endeavour;
Still I shout, for though they never
Cast my borrowed voice aside,
Words from empty words they sever—
Words of Truth from words of Pride.
Yes, the faces in the crowd,
And the wakened echoes, glancing
From the mountain, rocky browed,
And the lights in water dancing—
Each, my wandering sense entrancing,
Tells me back my thoughts aloud,
All the joys of Truth enhancing
Crushing all that makes me proud.

A Student’s Evening Hymn.

Cambridge, April 25, 1853.

I.
NOW no more the slanting rays
With the mountain summits dally,
Now no more in crimson blaze
Evening’s fleecy cloudlets rally,
Soon shall Night from off the valley
Sweep that bright yet earthly haze,
And the stars most musically
Move in endless rounds of praise.
II.
While the world is growing dim,
And the Sun is slow descending
Past the far horizon’s rim,
Earth’s low sky to heaven extending,
Let my feeble earth-notes, blending
With the songs of cherubim,
Through the same expanse ascending,
Thus renew my evening hymn.
III.
Thou that fill’st our waiting eyes
With the food of contemplation,
Setting in thy darkened skies
Signs of infinite creation,
Grant to nightly meditation
What the toilsome day denies—
Teach me in this earthly station
Heavenly Truth to realise.
IV.
Give me wisdom so to use
These brief hours of thoughtful leisure,
That I may no instant lose
In mere meditative pleasure,
But with strictest justice measure
All the ends my life pursues,
Lies to crush and truths to treasure,
Wrong to shun and Right to choose.
V.
Then, when unexpected Sleep,
O’er my long-closed eyelids stealing,
Opens up that lower deep
Where Existence has no feeling,
May sweet Calm, my languor healing,
Lend me strength at dawn to reap
All that Shadows, world-concealing,
For the bold enquirer keep.
VI.
Through the creatures Thou hast made
Show the brightness of Thy glory,
Be eternal Truth displayed
In their substance transitory,
Till green Earth and Ocean hoary,
Massy rock and tender blade
Tell the same unending story—
“We are Truth in Form arrayed.”
VII.
When to study I retire,
And from books of ancient sages
Glean fresh sparks of buried fire
Lurking in their ample pages—
While the task my mind engages
Let old words new truths inspire—
Truths that to all after-ages
Prompt the Thoughts that never tire.
VIII.
Yet if, led by shadows fair
I have uttered words of folly,
Let the kind absorbing air
Stifle every sound unholy.
So when Saints with Angels lowly
Join in heaven’s unceasing prayer,
Mine as certainly, though slowly,
May ascend and mingle there.

Two stanzas omitted, the Author knows where, but not to be inserted till he knows how.

Teach me so Thy works to read
That my faith,—new strength accruing,—
May from world to world proceed,
Wisdom’s fruitful search pursuing;
Till, thy truth my mind imbuing,
I proclaim the Eternal Creed,
Oft the glorious theme renewing
God our Lord is God indeed.
Give me love aright to trace
Thine to everything created,
Preaching to a ransomed race
By Thy mercy renovated,
Till with all thy fulness sated
I behold thee face to face
And with Ardour unabated
Sing the glories of thy grace.

(On St. David’s Day.[265] To Mrs. E. C. Morrieson.)

1st March 1854.

’TWAS not chance but deep design,
Tho’ of whom I can’t divine
Made the courtly Valentine
(Corpulent saint and bishop)
Such a time with Bob to stay:—
Let me now in bardish way
On your own St. David’s day
Toss you a simple dish up.
’Tis a tale we learnt at school,—
Oft we broke domestic rule,
Standing till our brows were cool
In the forbidden lobby.[266]
There we talked and there we laughed,
Till the townsfolk thought us daft,
What of that? a thorough draft
Was and is still my hobby.
To my tale: In ancient days,
Ere men left the good old ways,
Lived a lady whose just praise
Passes all fancied glory.
Rich was she in field and store,
Richer in the sons she bore,
How could she be honoured more?
Listen and hear the story.
On a high and festive day
When the chariots bright and gay
To the temple far away
Passed in majestic order,—
When the hour was nigh at hand,
She who should have led the band
Found no oxen at command,
Searching through all her border.[267]
Then her two sons brave and strong
Girt their limbs with band and thong,
And before the wondering throng
Drew their exulting mother.
Swift and steady, on they came;
At the temple loud acclaim
Greeted that illustrious dame,
Blest above every other.
Then, while triumph filled her breast,
Loud she prayed above the rest,
Give my sons whatever best
Man may receive from heaven.
To the shrine the brothers stept,
Low they bowed, they sunk, they slept,
Stillness o’er their brave limbs crept:—
Rest was the guerdon given.
Such the simple story told,
By a sage renowned of old,[268]
To a king[269] whose fabled gold
Could not procure him learning.
Heathen was the sage indeed,
Yet his tale we gladly read,
Thro’ his dark and doubtful creed
Glimpses of Truth discerning.
How no more the altar’s blaze
Glares athwart our worldly haze,
Warning men how evil ways
Lead to just tribulation.
How no more the temple stands.
Pointing out to godless lands
That which is not made with hands,
Even the whole Creation.
Ask no more, then, “what is best,
How shall those you love be blest,”
Ask at once, eternal Rest,
Peace and assurance giving.
Rest of Life and not of death,
Rest in Love and Hope and Faith,
Till the God who gives their breath
Calls them to rest from living.

Recollections of Dreamland.

Cambridge, June? 1856.[270]

ROUSE ye! torpid daylight-dreamers, cast yonr carking cares
away!
As calm air to troubled water, so my night is to your day;
All the dreary day you labour, groping after common sense,
And your eyes ye will not open on the night’s magnificence.
Ye would scoff were I to tell you how a guiding radiance
gleams
On the outer world of action from my inner world of dreams.
When, with mind released from study, late I lay me down
to sleep,
From the midst of facts and figures, into boundless space I
leap;
For the inner world grows wider as the outer disappears,
And the soul, retiring inward, finds itself beyond the spheres.
Then, to this unbroken sameness, some fantastic dream
succeeds,
Vague emotions rise and ripen into thoughts and words and
deeds.
Old impressions, long forgotten, range themselves in Time
and Space,
Till I recollect the features of some once familiar place.
Then from valley into valley in my dreaming course I roam,
Till the wanderings of my fancy end, where they began, at
home.
Calm it lies in morning twilight, while each streamlet far
and wide
Still retains its hazy mantle, borrowed from the mountain’s
side;
Every knoll is now an island, every wooded bank a shore,
To the lake of quiet vapour that has spread the valley o'er.
Sheep are couched on every hillock, waiting till the morning
dawns,
Hares are on their early rambles, limping o’er the dewy
lawns.
All within the house is silent, darkened all the chambers
seem,
As with noiseless step I enter, gliding onwards in my
dream.
What! has Time run out his cycle, do the years return
again?
Are there treasure-caves in Dreamland where departed days
remain?
I have leapt the bars of distance—left the life that late I
led—
I remember years and labours as a tale that I have read;
Yet my heart is hot within me, for I feel the gentle power
Of the spirits that still love me, waiting for this sacred hour.
Yes,—I know the forms that meet me are but phantoms of
the brain,
For they walk in mortal bodies, and they have not ceased
from pain.
Oh! those signs of human weakness, left behind for ever
now,
Dearer far to me than glories round a fancied seraph’s brow.
Oh! the old familiar voices! Oh! the patient waiting eyes!
Let me live with them in dreamland, while the world in
slumber lies!
For by bonds of sacred honour will they guard my soul in
sleep
From the spells of aimless fancies, that around my senses
creep.
They will link the past and present into one continuous life,
While I feel their hope, their patience, nerve me for the
daily strife.
For it is not all a fancy that our lives and theirs are one,
And we know that all we see is but an endless work begun.
Part is left in Nature’s keeping, part is entered into rest,
Part remains to grow and ripen, hidden in some living breast.
What is ours we know not, either when we wake or when
we sleep,
But we know that Love and Honour, day and night, are ours
to keep.
What though Dreams be wandering fancies, by some lawless
force entwined,
Empty bubbles, floating upwards through the current of the
mind?
There are powers and thoughts within us, that we know not,
till they rise
Through the stream of conscious action from where Self in
secret lies.
But when Will and Sense are silent, by the thoughts that
come and go,
We may trace the rocks and eddies in the hidden depths
below.
Let me dream my dream till morning; let my mind run slow
and clear,
Free from all the world’s distraction, feeling that the Dead
are near,
Let me wake, and see my duty lie before me straight and
plain.
Let me rise refreshed, and ready to begin my work again.

To the Air of “Lörelei.”

Aberdeen, January 1858.

I.
ALONE on a hillside of heather,
I lay with dark thoughts in my mind,
In the midst of the beautiful weather
I was deaf, I was dumb, I was blind.
I knew not the glories around me,
I counted the world as it seems,
Till a spirit of melody found me,
And taught me in visions and dreams.
II.
For the sound of a chorus of voices
Came gathering up from below,
And I heard how all Nature rejoices,
And moves with a musical flow.
O strange! we are lost in delusion,
Our ways and doings are wrong,
We are drowning in[271] wilful confusion,
The notes of that[272] wonderful song.
III.
But listen, what harmony holy
Is mingling its notes with our own!
The discord is vanishing slowly,
And melts in that dominant tone.
And they that have heard it can never
Return to confusion again,
Their voices are music for ever,
And join in the mystical strain.
IV.
No mortal can[273] utter the beauty
That dwells[274] in the song that they sing;
They move in the pathway of duty,
They follow the steps of their King.
I would barter the world and its glory,
That vision of joy to prolong,
Or to hear and remember the story
That lies in the heart of their song.

“I’ve heard the rushing.”

Aberdeen, 1858.

I’VE heard the rushing of mountain torrents, gushing
Down through the rocks, in a cataract of spray,
Onward to the ocean;
Swift seemed their motion,
Till, lost in the desert, they dwindled away.
I’ve learnt the story of all human glory,
I’ve felt high resolves growing weaker every day,
Till cares, springing round me,
With creeping tendrils bound me,
And all I once hoped for was wearing fast away.
I’ve seen the river rolling on for ever,
Silent and strong, without tumult or display.
In the desert arid,
Its waters never tarried,
Till far out at sea we still found them on their way.
Now no more weary we faint in deserts dreary,
Toiling alone till the closing of the day;
All now is righted,
Our souls flow on united,
Till the years and their sorrows have all died away.

“Will you come along with me?”

Aberdeen, 1858.

I.
WILL you come along with me.
In the fresh spring-tide,
My comforter to be
Through the world so wide?
Will you come and learn the ways
A student spends his days,
On the bonny, bonny braes
Of our ain burnside?
II.
For the lambs will soon be here,
In the fresh spring-tide;
As lambs come every year
On our ain burnside.
Poor things, they will not stay,
But we will keep the day
When first we saw them play
On our ain burnside.
III.
We will watch the budding trees
In the fresh spring-tide,
While the murmurs of the breeze
Through the branches glide.
Where the mavis builds her nest,
And finds both work and rest,
In the bush she loves the best,
On our ain burnside.
IV.
And the life we then shall lead
In the fresh spring-tide,
Will make thee mine indeed,
Though the world be wide.
No stranger’s blame or praise
Shall turn us from the ways
That brought us happy days
On our ain burnside.

“Why, when our sun shines clearest.”

1858.

WHY, when our sun shines clearest,
Why, when our hopes seem nearest,
Why, when our life feels dearest,
Rises a secret pain—
Hope’s perfect mirror broken—
Shadows of things unspoken—
Why will not some sure token
Calm us to rest again?
Mixed with all earthly blessing
Lingers the fear distressing—
Conscience within confessing
Nothing of ours is pure.
Still must such thoughts upbraid us,
Seeking our own to aid us;
God, not ourselves, hath made us;
Trusting in Him we’re sure.
Thus, from our sorrows gleaning
Thoughts of the world’s deep meaning,
Let us rejoice while leaning
Firm on our Father’s arm.
Now are we one for ever,
Joined so that none may sever,
Souls, so united, never
Faint through mischance or harm.

To K. M. D.

Aberdeen, 1858.

IN the buds, before they burst,
Leaves and flowers are moulded;
Closely pressed they lie at first,
Exquisitely folded.
Though no hope of change they felt,
Folded hard together,
Soon their sap begins to melt
In the warmer weather.
Till, when Life returns with Spring,
Through them softly stealing,
All their freshness forth they fling,
Hidden forms revealing.
Who can fold those flowers again,
In the way he found them?
Or those spreading leaves restrain,
In the buds that bound them?
Trust me, Spring is very near,
All the buds are swelling;
All the glory of the year
In those buds is dwelling.
What the opened buds reveal
Tells us—Life is flowing;
What the buds, still shut, conceal,
We shall end in knowing.
Long I lingered in the bud,
Doubting of the season,
Winter’s cold had chilled my blood—
I was ripe for treason.
Now no more I doubt or wait,
All my fears are vanished,
Summer’s coming, dear, though late,
Fogs and frosts are banished.

Tune, Il Segreto per esser felice.

24th March 1858.

I.
THERE are some folks that say,
They have found out a way,
To be healthy and wealthy and wise—
“Let your thoughts be but few,
Do as other folk do,
And never be caught by surprise.
Let your motto be—Follow the fashion,
But let other people alone;
Do not love them, nor hate them, nor care for their fate,
But keep a look out for your own.
Then what though the world may run riot,
Still playing at catch who catch can;
You may just eat your dinner in quiet,
And live like a sensible man.”
II.
’Twere a beautiful thing,
Thus to sit like a king,
And talk of the world turning round,
If it were not that we,
Like all things that we see,
Are standing on moveable ground.
While we boast of our tranquil enjoyments,
The means of enjoyment are flown,
Both our joys and our pains, till there’s nothing remains,
But the tranquil repose of a stone.
The world may be utterly crazy,
And life may be labour in vain;
But I’d rather be silly than lazy,
And would not quit life for its pain.
III.
In Nature I read
Quite a different creed,
There everything lives in the rest;
Each feels the same force,
As it moves in its course,
And all by one blessing are blest.
The end that we live for is single,
But we labour not therefore alone,
For together we feel how by wheel within wheel,
We are helped by a force not our own.
So we flee not the world and its dangers,
For He that has made it is wise,
He knows we are pilgrims and strangers.
And He will enlighten our eyes.

(To his Wife.)

1858.

Oft in the night, from this lone room
I long to fly o’er land and sea,
To pierce the dark, dividing gloom,
And join myself to thee.
And thou to me wouldst gladly fly,
I know thee well, my own true wife!
We feel, that when we live not nigh,
We lose the crown of life.
Yet soon I hope, at dead of night,
To meet where all is strange beside,
And mid the train’s resounding flight
To have thee by my side.
Then shall I feel that thou art near,
Joined hand to hand and soul to soul;
Short will that happy night appear,
As through the dark we roll.
Then shall the secret of the will,
That dares not enter into bliss;
That longs for love, yet lingers still,
Be solved in one long kiss.
I, drinking deep of thy rich love,
Thou feeling all the strength of mine,
Our souls will rise in faith above
The cares which make us pine.
Till I give thee, thou giving me,
As that which either loves the best,
To Him that loved us both, that He
May take us to His rest.
Wandering and weak are all our prayers,
And fleeting half the gifts we crave;
Love only, cleansed from sins and cares,
Shall live beyond the grave.
Strengthen our love, O Lord, that we
May in Thine own great love believe
And, opening all our soul to Thee,
May Thy free gift receive.
All powers of mind, all force of will,
May lie in dust when we are dead,
But love is ours, and shall be still,
When earth and seas are fled.

FOOTNOTES:

[265] See p. 207.

[266] P. 68.

[267] Herodotus, i. 31.

[268] Solon.

[269] Crœsus.

[270] See p. 249.

[271] v.r. marring with.

[272] v.r. the.

[273] v.r. may.

[274] v.r. breathes through.