Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned
That privilege by virtue." Ill," said he,
"The end of man's existence I discerned,
Who from ignoble games and revelry
Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight
While tears were thy best pastime,-day and night;
"And while my youthful peers, before my eyes
(Each hero following his peculiar bent)
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
By martial sports,-or, seated in the tent,
Chieftains and kings in council were detained;
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
"The wished-for wind was given :-I then revolved
The Oracle, upon the silent sea;
And, if no worthier led the
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,-
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
"Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife;
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,--
The paths which we had trod—these fountains--flowers;
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
"But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
'Behold, they tremble!-haughty their array,
Yet of their number no one dares to die?'—
In soul I swept the indignity away:
Old frailties then recurred :-but lofty thought,
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak
In reason, in self-government too slow;
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
Our blessed reunion in the shades below.
The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;
Be thy affections raised and solemnised.
"Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend
Seeking a higher object Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned chiefly for that end:
For this the passion to excess was driven-
That self might be annulled; her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.”
Aloud she shrieked-for Hermes reappears!
Round the dear shade she would have clung-'tis vain :
The hours are past,-too brief had they been years;
And him no mortal effort can detain:
Swift toward the realms that know not earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way-
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay.
Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved,
She perished, and as for a wilful crime
By the just gods whom no weak pity moved,
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,
Apart from happy Ghosts that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone
As fondly he believes.—Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight:
A constant interchange of growth and blight!
FROM MEMORIALS OF SCOTLAND.
[While my fellow traveller, my sister Dorothy, and I were walking by the side of Loch Katrine, one fine evening after sunset, 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 guest 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 ;
And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny.
I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
Of something without place or bound,
And seemed 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 :
Its 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.
AT INVERSNAID, UPON LOCH LOMOND.
SWEET Highland girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; this household lawn ;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay; a quiet road,
That holds in shelter thy abode-
In truth, together ye do seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But O fair creature! in the light
Of common say, so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart!
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away:
For never saw I mien or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness;
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ;
With no restraint but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech;
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee, who art so beautiful ?
Oh, happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father, anything to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes;
Then, why should I be loath to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part:
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the spirit of them all!
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 ;
Oh, listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands :
-A voice so thrilling ne'er was 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:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
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