{North Coast and other Poems 1868}

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                                                                                                                                   55

A PRELUDE.

I.

O THOU whose ears incline unto my singing,
Turn with me to the mountains, and behold
A sad thing in the land wherein thou dwellest.

I have to utter dread things of man’s heart;
I have to point at evil with my finger;
I have to find the light of GOD in evil.

And yet I am no wielder of the thunders;
I have no little curse to hurl at sinners:
My full heart hungers out unto the stainéd.

I have a word to leave upon my tombstone;
I have a token for the men who follow:—
‘This man’s heart hungered out unto the stainéd.’

And love and sorrow and wrong shall scent my song;                             56
From discords I will wring harmonious breathings,
Sounding a plea for all men, here and yonder.

For I have stains upon me, and am base:
It is not much that such a man can say;
And yet ’tis much, if said with all his might.

 

II.

O thou whose ears incline unto my singing,
Woman or man, thou surely bear’st thy burden,
And I who sing, and all men, bear their burdens.

Even as a meteor-stone from suns afar,
Didst thou not reach the ways of life, and breathe?
No wonder that to much thou art a stranger.

Sweet, sweet it is to sit in leafy places,
In a green darkness, and to hear the stirring
Of strange breaths hither—thither—in the branches;

And sweet it is to sail on purple waters,
Between the heaven o’er and heaven under,
The hills above us, and their ghosts beneath us;

And sweet it is to watch the blue-maned lightning                                   57
Spring shrieking at the earth, and slowly perish
Under the falling of the leaden rain.

Thou lov’st all grand and gentle and sweet things,—
The wind-flower at the tree-root, and the white cloud,
The strength of mountains, and the power of waters.

And unto thee all seasons utter pleasure:
Spring, standing startled, listening to the skylark,
The wild flowers from her lap unheeded falling;

And Summer, in her gorgeous loose apparel;
And Autumn, with her dreamy silver eyebrows;
And Winter, with his white hair blown about him.

Yea, everywhere there stirs a dreamy beauty,
A gleaming and a flashing unto change,
An under-stream of sober meditation.

Yet nought endures, but all their glory fadeth,
And power and sweet and sorrow are interwoven;
There is no single presence of the Godhead.

                                                                                                             58

III.

The world is wondrous round thee — GOD’s green world—
A world of pleasant waters and soft places,
And weirdly woven colours in the air.

Yet evermore a trouble doth pursue thee,—
A hunger for the wherefore of thy being,
A wonder from what regions thou hast fallen.

Thou gladdenest in the glad things of the world,
Yet criest surely, ‘Wherefore, and oh, wherefore?
What am I? wherefore doth the world seem happy?’

Thou saddenest in the sad things of the world,
Yet criest on, ‘Why are men bruised and beaten?
Whence do I grieve and gladden to no end?’

Thy trouble grows tenfold when thou beholdest
The agony and burden of thy fellows,
The pains of sick men, and the groans of hungry.

Thou seest the good man tear his hair and weep;                                   59
Thou seest the bad man tread on human necks,
Prospering and blaspheming; and thou wonderest.

The silken-natured woman is a bond-slave;
The gross man fouls her likeness in high places;
The innocent are heart-wrung; and thou wonderest.

The gifts of earth are given to the base;
The monster of the cities spurns the martyr;
The martyr dies, denying; and thou wonderest.

How shalt thou reconcile these bitter things?
How shalt thou cast thy hope beyond the sunset?
The sweetest man’s conception is a coward’s.—

How shalt thou ask for more from him who singeth?
He can but sing aloud that these things are,
And look about for signs that GOD perceives them.

 

IV.

The singer is the curious-eyéd man
Who searches in the byeways of the world
For little signs the LORD has dropped in passing.

For where His robe has brushed grow grass and pansies,                       60
And where His smile has fallen there are song birds,
And where His tears have dropped are tear-strung women;

And from His strange mysterious robe, in passing,
Drop jewels, and they lie in gloomy places,—
Yea, in the dark depths of a murderer’s spirit.

There is no place so wholly desolate
But tokens of His passing there lie hidden:
The curious-eyéd man must seek these out.

Have I not found them in an outcast’s hair?
And in the breast and on the feet of sinners?
There is no place so base that GOD hath scorned it.

And ever, when he comes upon such tokens,
A glamour fills the vision of the singer,
And he is sure the LORD hath passed that way.

And ’tis his task to put on blearéd eyes
The euphrasy of beauty, that his fellows
May see as he hath seen, and so be holpen.

There is no hope but one for him who singeth,—                                    61
To wander in the highways and the byeways,
To see deep down into the depths of action.

Is there a cheek on earth he would not kiss?
—Let him upon a mountain-top, and there
Ask for the lightning of annihilation.

 

V.

All is not o’er if loving is not o’er:
Somewhere the basest thing contacts with GOD;
The curious-eyéd man discovers where.

He sitteth not within a purple chamber;
He hath read deep in books and deep in souls;
The cunning of a craft is on his fingers.

He knoweth the dark windings up to GOD;
He goeth where the murderer’s knife is lifted,
But feareth not.—GOD hath him by the hand.

He hath no stool to sit and suck his thoughts on;
He hath no creed where all creeds may not join him;
He hath no love that is not love for all men.

The eyes of men and women love the distant;                                         62
They scorn the wonders on their hearths and thresholds.
How should the stale grass on their doors look fair?

But, lo! the singer passeth by, and straightway
The common things are looming in the distance,
Distant in beauty and in revelation;

And long thin lines of meaning gleam afar off,
Like shafts of moonlight shimmering sweetly upward,
And then the singer’s voice is heard intoning.

And evermore the singer’s soul is troubled,
When Music, with her beautiful eyes bent upward,
Springs from his side, and soars, of earth disdainful.

And evermore, in those consummate moments,
The singer cries, ‘GOD is above the world!
Up, up! sing in His ears, belovéd spirit.’

And o’er the wastes where weary eyes are watching,
A sudden glory is shaken, like a banner
Unfolded rapidly to strains of music.

 

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’:
‘A Prelude’ does not appear under that title since Buchanan had reworked this poem for inclusion in ‘The Book of Orm’, published in 1870:

Part II, v. 1-2 of ‘A Prelude’ corresponds to ‘The Book of Orm’, Section V (‘Songs of Seeking’), Part I, v. 1-2:

O thou whose ears incline unto my singing,
Woman or man, thou surely bearest thy burden,
And I who sing, and all men, bear their burdens.

Even as a meteor-stone from suns afar,
I fell unto the ways of life and breathed,
Wherefore to much on earth I feel a stranger.

Part II, v. 3-10 of ‘A Prelude’ corresponds to ‘The Book of Orm’, Section V (‘Songs of Seeking’), Part III (‘The Happy Earth’), v. 1-8:

Sweet, sweet it was to sit in leafy Forests,
In a green darkness, and to hear the stirring
Of strange breaths hither and thither in the branches;

And sweet it was to sail on crystal Waters,
Between the dome above and the dome under,
The Hills above me and the Hills beneath me;

And sweet it was to watch the wondrous Lightning
Spring flashing at the earth, and slowly perish
Under the falling of the summer Rain.

I loved all grand and gentle and strange things,—
The wind-flower at the tree-root, and the white cloud,
The strength of Mountains, and the power of Waters.

And unto me all seasons utter’d pleasure:
Spring, standing startled, listening to the skylark,
The wild flowers from her lap unheeded falling;

And Summer, in her gorgeous loose apparel,
And Autumn, with her dreamy drooping lashes;
And Winter, with his white hair blown about him.

Yea, everywhere there stirred a deathless beauty,
A gleaming and a flashing into change,
An under-stream of sober consecration.

Yet nought endured, but all the glory faded,
And power and joy and sorrow were interwoven;
There was no single presence of the Spirit.

Part III, v. 1-4 of ‘A Prelude’ corresponds to ‘The Book of Orm’, Section V (‘Songs of Seeking’), Part V (‘World’s Mystery’), v. 1-4:

The World was wondrous round me—God’s green World—
A World of gleaming waters and green places,
And weirdly woven colours in the air.

Yet evermore a trouble did pursue me—
A hunger for the wherefore of my being,
A wonder from what regions I had fallen.

I gladdened in the glad things of the World,
Yet crying always, ‘Wherefore, and oh, wherefore?
What am I? Wherefore doth the World seem happy?’

I saddened in the sad things of the World,
Yet crying, ‘Wherefore are men bruised and beaten?
Whence do I grieve and gladden to no end?’

Part III, v. 5-8 of ‘A Prelude’ corresponds to ‘The Book of Orm’, Section V (‘Songs of Seeking’), Part VI (‘The Cities’), v. 2-5:

My trouble grew tenfold when I beheld
The agony and burden of my fellows,
The pains of sick men and the groans of hungry.

I saw the good man tear his hair and weep;
I saw the bad man tread on human necks
Prospering and blaspheming: and I wondered.

The silken-natured woman was a bondslave;
The gross man foul’d her likeness in high places;
The innocent were heart-wrung: and I wondered.

The gifts of earth are given to the base;
The monster of the Cities spurned the martyr;
The martyr died, denying: and I wondered.]

 

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                                                                                                                                 63

AN ENGLISH ECLOGUE.

TIMOTHY.

WELL, here’s the cuckoo come again, after the barley sowing,
The duckweed white upon the pond, all round the violets blowing,                                                   [1:2]
The gorse has got its coat of gold, and smells as sweet as clover,
The lady-smocks are in the hedge, the primroses nigh over,                                                                 [1:4]
And out upon the common there you see the lambkins leaping,                                                          [1:5]
The very snakes crawl here and there, — but Holy Tommie’s sleeping.                                         [1:6]

 

JACOB.

Ah, him that used to work with Bourne! Bourne told me how he blundered.                                 [2:1]
He used to preach. I heard him once. LORD! how he groaned and thundered!                64  [2:2]
The women squeaked like sucking-pigs, the men roared out like cattle,                                          [2:3]
And my gray hair stood up on end!                                                                                                                 [2:4]

 

TIMOTHY.

                                                      All trash and stuff and tattle!                                                       [3:1]
He lost his head through meddling so with things that don’t concern us;
When we go questioning too close, ’tis little GOD will learn us;                                                            [3:3]
’Tis hard enough to squeeze the crops from His dry ground about us,                                             [3:4]
But as for serving ’t other world,—it gets its crops without us.                                                            [3:5]
Ah, Tommie’s was a loss that used to put me out completely!                                                             [3:6]
No man about could plough a field or kill a pig so neatly.                                                                      [3:7]

 

JACOB.

That’s where it lies! We get no good by asking questions, neighbour:                                              [4:1]

Parsons are sent to watch our souls, while we are hard at labour:                                                      [4:2]
This world needs help to get along, for men feed one another,                                                      66 [4:3]
And what do we pay parsons for,—if not to manage ’t other?                                                            [4:4]

 

TIMOTHY.

You’re right! No man as grumbles so with this here world has thriven;                                            [5:1]
Mutton won’t drop into our mouths, although we gape at heaven.                                                     [5:2]
Why, Tommie was a ruddy lad, as rosy as an apple,                                                                               [5:3]
Till Methodism filled his head, and he was seen at chapel,
Found out that he’d received a call, grew dismal, dull, and surly,
Read tracts when working in the fields, went praying late and early,                                                 [5:6]
And by-and-bye began himself to argue with the doubting,                                                                   [5:7]
And though he’d scarcely been to school, began his public spouting.
And soon I found—I wasn’t blind—how he let matters go here,—                                                  [5:9]
While he was at his heavenly work, things suffered down below here:                                            [5:10]
The hens dropped off through want of feed, horses grew sick and useless,                            67  [5:11]
For lack o’ milking presently the cows grew dry and juiceless;                                                          [5:12]
And when I sought him out, and swore in rage and consternation,
I’m hanged if Tommy didn’t cry and talk about salvation!                                                                    [5:14]
‘Salvation’s mighty well,’ says I, right mad with my disaster,
‘But since I want my farm-stock saved, you find another master!’                                                   [5:16]
And I was firm, and sent him off, though he seemed broken-hearted:                                             [5:17]
He slipt a tract into my fist the morning he departed;                                                                              [5:18]
Ay, got a place next day with Bourne, who knew the lad was clever,                                             [5:19]
But dawdled still about his work, and preached as much as ever.                                                    [5:20]

 

JACOB.

But Bourne soon sent him packing off—Bourne’s just the sort of fellow;                                        [6:1]
Why, even when the parson calls, he grumbles and looks yellow!                                                      [6:2]

                                                                                                                                           68

TIMOTHY.

He got another master, though, but soon began to tire him;
His wages sank, and by-and-bye no farmer here would hire him;                                                      [7:2]
And soon between this world and that, poor Tommie grew more mournful,                                  [7:3]
His strength and cleverness went off—the country folk looked scornful—                                     [7:4]
And soon the blessed Methodists grew tired, and would not hear him,                                            [7:5]
And bolted when he tried to speak, and shrank from sitting near him.                                              [7:6]

 

JACOB.

’Tis just the way with Methodists. Give me the High Church, neighbour.                                        [8:1]

 

TIMOTHY.

‘Why don’t you be a man?’ said they, ‘keep clean, and do your labour?’
And what d’ye think that Tommie said?—‘I don’t play shilly-shally;                                                 [9:2]
If I’m to serve the LORD at all, ’twill be continuálly:                                                                            69  [9:3]
You think that you can grub and cheat from Sunday on to Sunday,                                                   [9:4]
And put the LORD ALMIGHTY off by howling out on one day;
But if you want to get to heaven, your feelings must be stronger.’                                                      [9:6]
And Holy Tommie would not go to chapel any longer.                                                                           [9:7]
Learned sense? No, no! Reformed? Not he! But moped and fretted blindly,                                [9:8]
Because the blessed Methodists had used him so unkindly.                                                                  [9:9]
His life grew hard, his back grew bare, his brain grew dreadful airy,                                               [9:10]
He thought of t’other world the more ’cause this seemed so contrary;
Went wandering on the river-side, and in the woods lay lurking,
Gaped at the sky in summer-time when other men were working,                                                    [9:13]
And once was spied a-looking up where a wild lark was winging,                                                   [9:14]
And tears a-shining in his eyes,—because the lark was singing!                                                        [9:15]
Last harvest-time he came to me, and begged for work so sadly,                                              70  [9:16]
And vowed he had reformed so much, and looked so sick and badly,                                           [9:17]
I had not heart to send him off, but put him out a-reaping,                                                                   [9:18]
But, LORD! the same tale o’er again—he worked like one half-sleeping.
‘Be off!’ says I, ‘you’re good for nought;’ and all the rest stood sneering.                                    [9:20]
‘Master, you may be right,’ says he,—‘the LORD seems hard o’ hearing!                                    [9:21]
I thought I could fulfil below the call that I had gotten,                                                                           [9:22]
But here’s the harvest come again, and all my life seems rotten.                                                        [9:23]
The Methodists are little good, the High Church folk are lazy,                                                           [9:24]
And even when I pray alone, the ways o’ Heaven seem hazy.                                                           [9:25]
Religion don’t appear to keep an honest lad from sad things,                                                             [9:26]
And though the world is fine to see, ’tis full of cruel bad things.
Why, I can’t walk in fields and lanes, and see the flowers a-growing,                                       71  [9:28]
And look upon the bright blue sky, or watch the river flowing,                                                          [9:29]
But even there, where things look fine, out creeps the speckled adder,                                          [9:30]
Or silver snakes crawl by, and all at once the world looks sadder.                                                  [9:31]
The better I have seemed to grow, the worse all things have gone with me.
It’s all a great blank mystery! I wish the LORD was done with me!’                                                 [9:33]
And slowly, ever after that, Tommie grew paler, stiller,                                                                         [9:34]
And soon he could not work at all, and quickly he grew iller:                                                             [9:35]
And when the early new-year rains were yellowing pool and river,                                                  [9:36]
He closed his eyes, and slept, and gave the puzzle up for ever.                                                         [9:37]

 

JACOB.

His head was gone, that’s clear enough—the chapel set it turning.                                                   [10:1]

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TIMOTHY.

Now, this is how I look at it, although I have no learning:                                                                     [11:1]
In this here world, to do like him is nothing but self-slaughter,—
He went close to the edge o’ life, and heard a roar like water,                                                          [11:3]
His head went round, his face grew pale, his blood lost life and motion,—                                   [11:4]
’Twas just as vi’lets lose their scent when set beside the ocean.                                                        [11:5]
But there’s the parson riding up, with Doctor Barth, his crony;                                                          [11:6]
Some of these days the parson’s weight will kill that blessed pony!                                                 [11:7]
Ah, he’s the man to settle things that make the wits unsteady!                                                            [11:8]
Wife, here’s the parson! Draw some ale, and set the table ready.                                                    [11:9]

 

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’:
Beneath the title is added the following quote from the revised version of the poem:
‘He crept close to Creation’s brim, and heard a roar like water.’
v. 1, l. 2: Down on the duck-pond in the lane the white-weed is a-blowing,
v. 1, l. 4: The lady-smocks are blowing bold, the primroses nigh over,
v. 1, l. 5: On field and fold all things look fair, and lambkins white are leaping,
v. 1, l. 6: The speckled snakes crawl here and there, —but Holy Tommie’s sleeping.
v. 2, l. 1: Ah, him that used to work with Crewe! Crewe told me how he blundered.
              (Note: The selection of names here is interesting since it’s one of the few occasions when Buchanan’s Staffordshire roots may be exposed. Bourne was probably chosen in memory of Hugh Bourne (1772-1852), the founder of Primitive Methodism who was born in Stoke, perhaps in order to highlight the theme of the poem. This does create a possible confusion in the verse and that is probably why Buchanan changed the name in the revised version. Choosing Crewe as the replacement may have no significance at all, but I like to think he chose it for the railway town’s proximity to his birthplace.)
v. 2, l. 2: He used to preach. I heard him too. LORD! how he groaned and thundered!
v. 2, l. 3: The women shrieked like sucking-swine, the men roared out like cattle,
v. 2, l. 4: But seem’d to think it mighty fine!
v. 3, l. 1: All trash and stuff and tattle!
v. 3, l. 3: When questioning too close we go, ’tis little GOD will learn us;
v. 3, l. 4: To squeeze the crops ’tis hard enough from His dry ground about us,
v. 3, l. 5: But sowing t’other world is stuff,—it gets its crops without us!
v. 3, l. 6: omitted
v. 3, l. 7: omitted
v. 4, l. 1: That’s where it lies! We get no good by asking questions, neighbour:
v. 4, l. 2: ’Tis Parsons cook our Sunday food, while we are hard at labour:
v. 4, l. 3: This world needs help upon its way, for men feed one another,
v. 4, l. 4: And why do we give Parsons pay?—if not to manage t’other?
v. 5, l. 1: You’re right! No man as grunts and grides at this here world has thriven;
v. 5, l. 2: Mutton won’t drop in our insides though we do gape at heaven!
v. 5, l. 3: Why, Tommie’s cheek was ruddy red, as rosy as an apple,
v. 5, l. 6: Read tracts at work, big tracts and small, went praying late and early,
v. 5, l. 7: And by and by began, poor fool, to argue with the doubting,
v. 5, l. 9: I wasn’t blind—and soon I found how he let matters go here,—
v. 5, l. 10: While he was tilling heavenly ground things suffered down below here:
v. 5, l. 11: Through want of feed, the hens did die, the horses next grew useless,
v. 5, l. 12: For lack o’ milking by and by the very cows grew juiceless;
v. 5, l. 14: Why, Tommie sigh’d, and snivell’d sore, and talk’d about salvation!
v. 5, l. 16: ‘I want to save my property; so find another master!’
v. 5, l. 17: He didn’t grumble or resist, though he seemed broken-hearted,
v. 5, l. 18: But slipped a tract into my fist the morning he departed;
v. 5, l. 19: Ay, got a place next day with Crewe, who knew the lad was clever,
v. 5, l. 20: But dawdled as he used to do, and preached as much as ever.
v. 6, l. 1: But Crewe soon sent him packing too—he’s just the sort of fellow;
v. 6, l. 2: Why, ev’n when Parson calls, old Crewe grunts, grumbles, and looks yellow!
v. 7, l. 2: His wages sank and sank, and so no farmer here would hire him;
v. 7, l. 3: And soon, between that world and this, poor Tommie grew more mournful,
v. 7, l. 4: His worldly ways went all amiss—the country folk looked scornful—
v. 7, l. 5: And last the blessed Methodists grew tired, and would not hear him,
v. 7, l. 6: And wouldn’t heed his talk inspired, and shrank from sitting near him.
v. 8, l. 1: With Methodists ’tis just the way. Give me the High Church, neighbour.
v. 9, l. 2: And what d’ye think that Tommie cried?—‘I don’t play shilly-shally;
v. 9, l. 3: If I’m to serve my LORD and Guide, ’twill be continuälly:
v. 9, l. 4: You think that you can cheat and scoff from Sunday on to Sunday,
v. 9, l. 6: But if you seek salvation, know, your feelings must be stronger.’
v. 9, l. 7: And holy Tommie would not go to chapel any longer.
v. 9, l. 8: Learned sense? Not he! Reformed? Pooh, pooh! but moped and fretted blindly,
v. 9, l. 9: Because the precious praying crew had used him so unkindly.
v. 9, l. 10: His back grew bare, his life grew sore, his brain grew dreadful airy,
v. 9, l. 13: Gaped at the sky in summer-tide when other men were working,
v. 9, l. 14: And once (I saw him) watch’d the skies, where a wild lark was winging,
v. 9, l. 15: With tears a-shining in his eyes,—because the lark was singing!
v. 9, l. 16: Last harvest-time to me he came, and begged for work so sadly,
v. 9, l. 17: Show’d for his former ways such shame, and look’d so sick and badly,
v. 9, l. 18: I had not heart to give him pain, but put him out a-reaping,
v. 9, l. 20: ‘Be off!’ says I, ‘you lazy lout,’ and all the rest stood sneering.
v. 9, l. 21: ‘Master,’ says he, ‘you’re right, I doubt,—the LORD seems hard o’ hearing!
v. 9, l. 22: I thought I could fulfil full clear the call that I had gotten,
v. 9, l. 23: But here’s another harvest here, and all my life seems rotten.
v. 9, l. 24: The Methodists are dull as stone, the High Church folk are lazy,
v. 9, l. 25: And even when I pray alone, the ways of Heaven seem hazy.
v. 9, l. 26: Religion don’t appear to me to keep a lad from sad things,
v. 9, l. 28: Why, I can’t walk in woodland ways, and see the flowers a-growing,
v. 9, l. 29: And on the light green meadows gaze, or watch the river flowing,
v. 9, l. 30: But even here, where things look fine, out creeps the speckled adder,
v. 9, l. 31: Or snakes crawl in the golden shine, and all creation’s sadder.
v. 9, l. 33: It beats me out and out, and so—I wish the LORD was done with me!’
v. 9, l. 34: And after these same words were said, Tommie grew paler, stiller,
v. 9, l. 35: And by and by he took to bed, and quickly he grew iller:
v. 9, l. 36: And when the early new-year rain was yellowing pool and river,
v. 9, l. 37: He closed his eyes, and slipt his chain, and fell to sleep for ever.
v. 10, l. 1: ’Tis clear enough, he’d lost his wit—the chapel set it turning.
v. 11, l. 1: Now, this is how I look at it, although I’ve got no learning:
v. 11, l. 3: He crept close to Creation’s brim, and heard a roar like water,
v. 11, l. 4: His head went round, his limbs grew stiff, his blood lost life and motion,—
v. 11, l. 5: Like one who stands upon a cliff and sees the roaring Ocean. . . .
v. 11, l. 6: But there’s the Parson at his gate, with Doctor Barth, his crony;
v. 11, l. 7: Some of these days the old chap’s weight will kill that precious pony!
v. 11, l. 8: Ah, he’s the man whose words don’t fail to keep one sage and steady!
v. 11, l. 9: Wife, here be Parson! Draw some ale, and set the table ready. ]

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                                                                                                                       73

THE BATTLE OF DRUMLIEMOOR.

(NORTH COAST. COVENANT PERIOD.)

BAR the door! put out the light, for it gleams across the night,
     And guides the bloody motion of their feet;
Hush the bairn upon thy breast, lest it guide them in their quest,
     And with water quench the blazing of the peat.
Now, wife, sit still and hark!—hold my hand amid the dark;                                     [1:5]
     O Jeanie, we are scattered e’en as sleet!                                                                     [1:6]

It was down on Drumliemoor, where it slopes upon the shore,
     And looks upon the white surf of the bay,                                                                   [2:2]
In the kirkyard of the dead, where the heather is turned red                                      [2:3]
     By the bloody clan that sleep beneath the clay;                                                         [2:4]
And the Howiesons were there, and the people of Glen Ayr,                            74
     And we gathered in the dark o’ night to pray.                                                           [2:6]

How! Sit at home in fear, when GOD’s voice was in mine ear,                                  [3:1]
     When the priests of Baal were slaughtering His sheep?
Nay, there I took my stand, with my reap-hook in my hand,                                     [3:3]
     For bloody was the sheaf that I might reap;
And the LORD was in His skies, with a thousand dreadful eyes,
     And His breathing made a trouble on the deep.                                                        [3:6]

Each mortal of the band brought his weapon in his hand,
     Though the chopper or the spit was all he bare;
And not a man but knew the work he had to do,
     If the Fiend should fall upon us unaware.
And our looks were ghastly white, but it was not with affright,                                  [4:5]
     For we knew the LORD was hearking to our prayer.                                              [4:6]

Oh, solemn, sad, and slow, rose the stern voice of Monroe,
     And he cursed the curse of Babylon the Whore;                                    76  [5:2]
And we could not see his face, but a gleam was in its place,                                      [5:3]
     Like the phosphor of the foam upon the shore;
And the eyes of all were dim as they fixed themselves on him,
     And the Sea filled up the pauses with its roar.

And when, with accents calm, Kilmahoe gave out the psalm,                                     [6:1]
     And the sweetness of GOD’s voice was on his tongue,                                           [6:2]
With one voice we praised the LORD of the Fire and of the Sword,
     And louder than the winter wind it rung;
And across the stars on high went the reek of vapour by,                                            [6:5]
     And a white mist drifted round us as we sung.                                                           [6:6]

It was terrible to hear our cry rise deep and clear,                                                          [7:1]
     Though we could not see the criers of the cry,
But we sang and gripped our brands, and touched each other’s hands,                 [7:3]
     While a thin sleet smote our faces from the sky;
And, sudden, strange, and low, hissed the accents of Monroe,                           77  [7:5]
     ‘Grip your weapons! Yea, be silent! They are nigh!                                                [7:6]

And heark’ning, with clenched teeth, we could hear across the heath                    [8:1]
     The tramping of the horses as they flew,
And no man breathed a breath, but all were still as death,
     And close together shivering we drew;
And deeper round us fell all the eyeless gloom of Hell,                                      78
     And the Fiend was in among us ere we knew.                                                          [8:6]

Then a shriek of men arose, and the cursing of our foes—                                         [9:1]
     No face of friend or foeman could we mark;
But I struck and kept my stand, trusting GOD to guide my hand,                              [9:3]
     And struck, and struck, and heard the hell-hounds bark;
And I fell beneath a horse, but I reached with all my force,
     And ripped him with my reap-hook through the dark.                                           [9:6]

As we struggled, knowing not whose hand was at our throat,
     Whose blood was spouting warm into our eyes,
We felt the thick snow-drift swoop upon us from the rift,                                          [10:3]
     And murmur in the pauses of our cries;
But, lo! before we wist, rose the black reek and the mist,                                         [10:5]
     And the pale Moon made a glamour from the skies.                                             [10:6]

O GOD! it was a sight that made the hair turn white,                                          79
     That withered up the heart’s blood into woe,                                                           [11:2]
To see the faces loom in the dimly lighted gloom,
     And the dead men lying bloodily below;                                                                     [11:4]
While melting, with no sound, fell with gentleness around                                          [11:5]
     The white peace and the wonder of the Snow!                                                       [11:6]

Ay, and thicker, thicker, poured the pale silence of the LORD,                                [12:1]
     From the hollow of His hand we saw it shed,
And it thickened round us there, till we choked and gasped for air,                      [12:3]
     And beneath was ankle-deep and stainéd red;
And soon, whatever wight was smitten down in fight
     Was buried in the drift ere he was dead.                                                                    [12:6]

Then we beheld at length the troopers in their strength,
     For faster, faster, faster up they streamed,
And their pistols flashing bright showed their faces ashen white,
     And their blue steel caught the driving moon and gleamed.                          80  [13:4]
And a dying voice cried, ‘Fly!’ And behold, e’en at the cry,                                    [13:5]
     A panic fell upon us, and we screamed!

Oh, shrill and awful rose, ’mid the splashing blood and blows,
     Our scream unto the LORD that let us die;
And the Fiend amid us roared his defiance at the LORD,
     And his servants slew the strong man ’mid his cry;
And the LORD kept still in heaven, and the only answer given                                  [14:5]
     Was the white Snow falling, falling, from the sky.

Then we fled! the darkness grew! ’mid the driving cold we flew,
     Each alone, yea, each for those whom he held dear;
And I heard upon the wind the thud of hoofs behind,
     And the scream of those who perished in their fear,                                              [15:4]
But I knew by heart each path through the darkness of the strath,                      81
     And I hid myself at dawn,—and I am here.                                                              [15:6]

Ah! gathered in one fold be the holy men and old,                                                        [16:1]
     And beside them lie the curséd and the proud;                                                        [16:2]
The Howiesons are there, and the people of Glen Ayr,                                              [16:3]
     Kirkpatrick, and Macdonald, and Macleod.
And while the widow groans, lo! GOD’s hand around their bones                         [16:5]
     His thin ice windeth softly as a shroud.                                                                        [16:6]

Ay, on mountain and in vale our women will look pale,                                        82  [17:1]
     And palest where the ocean surges boom;
Buried ’neath snow-drift white, with no holy prayer or rite,
     Lie the lovéd ones they look for in the gloom;
And deeper, deeper still, drops the Snow on vale and hill,                                        [17:5]
     And deeper and yet deeper is their Tomb!

 

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’:
‘North Coast’ is omitted from the subtitle.
v. 1, l. 5: Now, Wife, sit still and hark!—hold my hand amid the dark;
v. 1, l. 6:  O Jeanie, we are scattered—e’en as sleet!
v. 2, l. 2: And looks upon the breaking of the bay,
v. 2, l. 3: In the kirkyard of the dead, where the heather is thrice red
v. 2, l. 4: With the blood of those asleep beneath the clay;
v. 2, l. 6: And we gathered in the gloom o’ night—to pray.
v. 3, l. 1: How! Sit at home in fear, when GOD’s Voice was in mine ear,
v. 3, l. 3: Nay! there I took my stand, with my reap-hook in my hand,
v. 3, l. 6: And His breathing made a trouble on the Deep.
v. 4, l. 5: And our looks were ghastly white, but it was not with affright,—
v. 4, l. 6: The Lord our God was present to our prayer.
v. 5, l. 2: And he curst the curse of Babylon the Whore;
v. 5, l. 3: We could not see his face, but a gleam was in its place,
v. 6, l. 1: But when, with accents calm, Kilmahoe gave out the psalm,
v. 6, l. 2: The sweetness of God’s Voice upon his tongue,
v. 6, l. 5: And across the stars on high went the smoke of tempest by,
v. 6, l. 6: And a vapour roll’d around us as we sung.
v. 7, l. 1: ’Twas terrible to hear our cry rise deep and clear,
v. 7, l. 3: But we sang and gript our brands, and touched each other’s hands,
v. 7, l. 5: And, sudden, strange, and low, hissed the voice of Kilmahoe,
v. 7, l. 6: ‘Grip your weapons! Wait in silence! They are nigh!’
v. 8, l. 1: And heark’ning, with clench’d teeth, we could hear, across the heath,
v. 8, l. 6: And—the Fiend was in among us ere we knew!
v. 9, l. 1: Then our battle-shriek arose, mid the cursing of our foes—
v. 9, l. 3: But I struck and kept my stand (trusting God to guide my hand),
v. 9, l. 6: And ript him with my reap-hook through the dark.
v. 10, l. 3: We felt the thick snow-drift swoop upon us from the lift,
v. 10, l. 5: But, lo! before we wist, rose the curtain of the mist,
v. 10, l. 6: And the pale Moon shed a glimmer from the skies.
v. 11, l. 2: That wither’d up the heart’s blood into woe,
v. 11, l. 4: And the butcher’d lying bloodily below;
v. 11, l. 5: While melting, with no sound, fell so peacefully around
v. 11, l. 6: The whiteness and the wonder of the Snow!
v. 12, l. 1: Ay, and thicker, thicker, poured the pale Silence of the Lord,
v. 12, l. 3: And it gather’d round us there, till we groan’d and gasp’d for air,
v. 12, l. 6: Was buried in the drift ere he was dead!
v. 13, l. 4: And their blue steel caught the driving Moon, and gleamed.
v. 13, l. 5: But a dying voice cried, ‘Fly!’ And behold, e’en at the cry,
v. 14, l. 5: And the Lord kept still in Heaven, and the only answer given
v. 15, l. 4: And the scream of those who perish’d in their fear,
v. 15, l. 6: And I hid myself all day,—and I am here.
v. 16, l. 1: Ah! gathered in one fold be the holy men and bold,
v. 16, l. 2: And beside them the accursed and the proud;
v. 16, l. 3: The Howiesons are there, and the Wylies of Glen Ayr,
v. 16, l. 5: And while the widow groans, lo! God’s Hand around their bones
v. 16, l. 6: His thin ice windeth whitely, as a shroud
v. 17, l. 1: On mountain and in vale our women will look pale,
v. 17, l. 5: And deeper, deeper still, spreads the Snow on vale and hill,]

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                                                                                                             83

THE NORTHERN MUSE.

BELL from the North hath journeyed hither;
She brings the scent of heather with her,
     To show in what sweet glens she grew.                                              [1:3]
Where’er she trips, in any weather,
She steps as if she trod on heather,
     And leaves a sense like dropping dew.

The mountains own her for their daughter;
Her presence feels like running water,
     Cooled from the sun in a green glade:
So strange she seems to city seeing,—
A playmate of the winds,—a being
     Made of the dew and mountain shade.

In the strange streets she stops to listen,
Her red lips part, her blue eyes glisten,
     Wild windy voices round her speak;
She sees the streets roll dark and clouded,                                             84
Fearless as when she paused, enshrouded
     By mists upon a mountain-peak.

And oft, while wondrous-eyed she wanders,
She meets a sweet face,—pauses, ponders,—
     And then peers backward as she goes;
As in the far-off solemn places
She drooped the tenderest of faces
     Over some tender thing that grows.

Long have the clouds and winds been by her,
Long have the waters murmured nigh her,
     And sweet delight in those hath she;
Long has she watched the shapes of wonder
Darken around with crying thunder,
     Yet all have used her tenderlie.

Yea, she hath been a frail flower, lying
Under the peak where storms were crying,
     Feeling the hills quake through and through,
And, when the storm was ended, raising
A little dewy head, and gazing
     With pensive pleasure up the blue.

Yea, then the serpent lightning often                                                        [7:1]
Watched her with eyes that seemed to soften,
     And smiled, and fled, and smiled again;
Till, all around her gentler growing,                                                         86
She felt the moist winds blowing, blowing,
     While shafts of cool light drank the rain.

When mighty shapes had love and pity,
What should appal her in the city?
     What should she fear in sun or shower?
The cloud of life is pleasure-laden,
She fears it not,—she is a maiden
     Familiar with the things of power.

She is as sweet as maidens may be,
Yet does not seem as things of clay be,
     But seemeth, as she passes by,
The shadow of a spirit-lady
(A wool-white cloud with image shady)
     Floating above her in the sky!

Yet seems she made in mortal fashion,—                                                [10:1]
A thing of pureness and of passion,
     A winning thing of eyes and lips,
A maiden with a cheek to sigh on,
A heart to love, a breast to die on,                                                         [10:5]
     Kiss-worthy to the finger-tips!

No pantaloon, no simpering sinner,                                                         87
No little man of straw shall win her,
     No scented darling of the sun;
But he who wins must win in honour,
And stir her soul, and breathe upon her,
     Even as the shapes of power have done.

And such a one his plaint should utter
Where the torn wings of tempests flutter,
     Where waters stir and winds are loud;
Or in the dark mysterious city,
When she is stirred to human pity,
     In the windy motion of the cloud.

Bell from the North, how shall I win her?
Wind, cloud, shade, water dwell within her,
     And she, like those, is meek and strong.
How shall I weave, O mountain daughter,
A song of wind, cloud, shade, and water?
     How make thee mine with such a song?

Lo! here the things of power are meaner,
The flowers around our feet uncleaner,
     Than where her vagrant footsteps climb;
And here we prize ignoble thinking,                                                        88
And here sit latter rhymesters drinking
     The muddy lees of ancient rhyme.

And, oh! the singing must be mournful;                                                   [15:1]
Strong things are cruel, sweet things scornful,                                         [15:2]
     And the fresh breath of life grows foul;                                              [15:3]
While where she roams strong things are tender,
Great things are grand things, sounds of splendour
     Drown the dull hooting of the owl.                                                     [15:6]

The life-cloud round me thunders, lightens;
Strong without gentleness, it frightens
     The timid soul to grovelling deeds;
And when the brave soul, hating error,
Upbraids the many-headed terror,
     It smites him down, and no man heeds.

If, ere the song be uttered duly,
I who have served her long and truly
     Should faint and fall, though strong and brave,
Last I will pray in loving duty
That Bell will come, with all her beauty,
     To look a little on my grave.

And she will come (while up above her                                                  89
The spirit-lady still will hover,
     Pausing a space, with white wings furled);
Her foot will rest, her eye look nor’ward,
And that one grave will be thenceforward
     The sweetest grave in all the world.

And surely, when she wanders thither,
The scent of heather will be with her,
     The shady peace of mountains blue;
And she will breathe like fresh winds blowing,
And glide away like water flowing,
     And leave a sense like dropping dew.

 

[Notes:
‘The Northern Muse’ is not included in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’. However I did come across an earlier version of the poem published in The Argosy (September, 1866) and reprinted in The New York Times on 7th October, 1866 under the title, “A London Lyric”. The following changes refer to this earlier version:

v.1,  l. 3: To show in what sweet glens she grew,—
v. 7, l. 1: Yea, then the tameless Lightning often
v. 10, l. 1: Yet is she made in mortal fashion,—
v. 10, l. 5: A waist to clasp, a heart to die on,—
v. 15, l. 1: And ah! the singing must be mournful;—
v. 15, l. 2: Strong things are tender, sweet things scornful,
v. 15, l. 3: And the fresh breath of faith grows foul;
v. 15, l. 6: Drown the dull whooting of the owl.

The illustration below accompanied the poem in The Argosy.

North Coast and other Poems continued

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North Coast and other Poems Contents