The Bard of the North: A Series of Poetical Tales, Illustrative of Highland Scenery and CharacterDavid Robertson, 1833 - 214 ページ |
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amid athwart awful bard beauteous beautiful beneath blast blood blue blue heaven bosom bower brain brave breath bright brow cairn cataract cliffs clouds cold crags Cruachan dark dead death deep desert dreadful dream e'er eagle earth echo eternal fair falchion fearful flashing flowers gazed glen Glenfinnan glorious glory grave grey heard heart heaven hills hour Innisfail life's light lips Loch Lochaber lone love's majestic midnight mighty mighty shadow moon morning mountain neath night o'er ocean Ossian pass'd perish'd plaided band Rathmor roll'd rolling round savage seem'd shadow she-the shining shriek sigh silent silent hills sire smile snood solitary solitude song soul spirit star stone stood storm Strathfillan sunbeam sword tale tempest thee thine thou thousand throne thunder tower tribes Twas vale voice wander'd wandering warrior wave wild wilderness wildly winds wings woman's vengeance
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168 ページ - O'er thy billows, on their march To the sea, Are but ashes in the shower ; Still the jocund summer hour, From his cloud will weave a bower Over thee. When the voice of human power Has ceased in mart and bower, Still the broom and mountain flower Will thee bless. And the mists that love to stray O'er the Highlands, far away, Will come down their deserts gray To thy kiss. And the stranger, brown with toil, From the far Atlantic soil, Like the pilgrim of the Nile, Yet may come To search the solemn heaps...
168 ページ - TO THE CLYDE. When cities of old days But meet the savage gaze, Stream of my early ways, Thou wilt roll, Though fleets forsake thy breast, And millions sink to rest, — Of the bright and glorious west Still the soul. When the porch and stately arch, Which now so proudly perch O'er thy billows, on their march To the sea, Are but ashes in the shower; Still the jocund summer hour, From his cloud will weave a bower Over thee. When the voice of human power Has ceased in mart and bower...
169 ページ - Will thee bless. And the mists that love to stray O'er the Highlands, far away, Will come down their deserts gray To thy kiss. And the stranger, brown with toil, From the far Atlantic soil, Like the pilgrim of the Nile, Yet may come To search the solemn heaps That moulder by thy deeps, Where desolation sleeps, Ever dumb. Though fetters yet should clank O'er the gay and princely rank Of cities on thy bank, All sublime ; Still thou wilt wander on, Till eternity has gone, And broke the dial stone Of...
94 ページ - Seek ye for the blast that rages Through its own blue depths sublime ! Picture then their wars and sages From the awful waste of time. All their names and all their doing — All their sorrows, joys, and tears — All their rapine and their ruin, Slumber in the gulf of years : All the sights and signs they saw, on Nature's old and shrivel'd scroll, Dim forgetfulness hath drawn His black mantle o'er the whole.
125 ページ - Correyeric's brow, When, rushing to the fight of black Culloden, The glory of the glens was doom'd to bow ; And thou didst swell the cry of savage slaughter, Which told the charge of Scotland's plaided band, When swords were shiver'd, and the blood, like water, Was vainly pour'd for their devoted land.
126 ページ - In everlasting gloom, though years like night Have gather'd round life's citadel, and clouded Thy earthly eyeballs, still thy mind is bright, — Ay, clear and piercing, as when thou went'st roaming, Athwart the grey heaps, by the living rills, When the broad gorgeous drapery of gloaming Came down, like slumber, and embraced the hills.
93 ページ - Yes, the grey bothy and our towers are hoary ; No more the hunters gather in the hall, To rouse the red deer in the misty corrie, Or hit the falcon by the waterfall. The rising beams of hope may come and gather O'er other lands — they will not visit us : The dark stone looking through the silent heather — That fort — exclaims, it was not always thus...
92 ページ - But, ah ! the song is hush'd along the meadow, Mute is the shepherd's pipe upon the hill, And time moves o'er our deserts like a shadow, Bidding the magic of the harp be still. And silence, like the robes of death or slumber, Falls round the green sides of each fairy glen, And, save the ruin'd cot or cairn's grey lumber, Nought tells that Scotland's valleys had their men.
96 ページ - They have pass'd, and left their ashes Floating on each distant breeze ; Like the wave that leaps, and washes Long-lost pearls from the seas. Time shall spread his wings asunder, And unvail the awful past ; To Jehovah's trump of thunder They shall rise, and live at last.
91 ページ - ... gleam Of sunny clouds that, ranged in glorious legions, Float onward like the phantoms of a dream. Fondly I list the far and wild commotion Of the strong wind, as o'er the hill he skiffs ; Or drink the music, as the mighty ocean Rings like the voice of God among the cliffs. In joy I see the dim...