{The Book of Orm 1870}

143

VII.

CORUISKEN SONNETS.

Late in the gloaming of the year,
Orm haunts the melancholy Mere,
A phantom he, where phantoms brood,
In that soul-searching solitude.
To the cold Spirit far away
He prayeth, all an autumn day.
 

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’:
The ‘Coruisken Sonnets’ no longer form part of ‘The Book of Orm’. Instead they appear as a separate section between ‘NORTH COAST, AND OTHER POEMS’ and ‘THE BOOK OF ORM’, under the title:

Sonnets
WRITTEN BY LOCH CORUISK,* ISLE OF SKYE.
(1870.)

The following footnote is added:
‘*For a detailed description of Loch Coruisk, see the writer’s Prose Works, Volume v.’
[A collected edition of Buchanan’s ‘Prose Works’ was never published, but this note probably refers to ‘The Hebrid Isles:  wanderings in the Land of Lorne and the Outer Hebrides’ (1882).]

The introductory verse is also amended:

Late in the gloaming of the year,
I haunt the melancholy Mere;
A Phantom I, where phantoms brood,
In that soul-searching solitude.
Hiding my forehead in the dim
Hem of His robe, I question Him!

For a photo of Loch Coruisk, details of how to get there, and a description of ‘that dread lake’ from Picturesque Scotland  (published in 1887), click the link below:

 Loch Coruisk

]

145

VII.

CORUISKEN SONNETS.

I.

LORD, IS IT THOU?

Lord, is it Thou? God, do I touch indeed
     Thy raiment hem, that melts like vapour dark?                                    [2]
O homeless Spirit, that fleest us in our need,
     Pause! answer! while I kneel, remain and mark. . .
     Father! . . Ere back they bear me, cold and stark,
Across Thy darken’d threshold,—ere I plead
     For love no longer, pity me, and heark!                                             [7]
Surviving the long tale of craft and creed,
The gaunt Hills gather round me, dumb and grey,—                                [9]
     The Waters utter their monotonous moan,—
     The immemorial Heavens, with no groan,
Bent sweet eyes down, as on their natal day:                                         [12]
     Cold are all these as clay, and still as stone;                                      [13]
But I have found a voice, and I will pray.                                               [14]

146

II.

WE ARE FATHERLESS.

I found Thee not by the starved widow’s bed,
     Nor in the sick-rooms where my dear ones died;
In Cities vast I hearken’d for Thy tread,
     And heard a thousand call Thee, wretched-eyed,
Worn out, and bitter. But the Heavens denied
     Their melancholy Maker. From the Dead                                           [6]
     Assurance came, nor answer. Then I fled
Into these wastes, and raised my hands, and cried:
“The seasons pass—the sky is as a pall—
     Thin wasted hands on withering hearts we press—
There is no God—in vain we plead and call,
     In vain with weary eyes we search and guess—
Like children in an empty house sit all,
     Cast-away children, lorn and fatherless.”

147

III.

WE ARE CHILDREN.

Children indeed are we—children that wait
     Within a wondrous dwelling, while on high                                         [2]
     Stretch the sad vapours and the homeless sky;                                   [3]
The House is fair, yet all is desolate
Because our Father comes not; clouds of fate
     Sadden above us—shivering we hear                                                [6]
The passing rain, the wind that shakes the gate,                                       [7]
     And cry to one another “He is near!”                                                 [8]
At early morning, with a shining Face,
     He left us innocent and lily-crown’d;
And now ’tis late—night cometh on apace—
     We hold each other’s hands and look around,
Frighted at our own shades! Heaven send us grace!
     When He returns, all will be sleeping sound.

148

IV.

WHEN WE ARE ALL ASLEEP.

When He returns, and finds all sleeping here—                                       [1]
     Some old, some young, some fair, and some not fair,                         [2]
Will He stoop down and whisper in each ear                                          [3]
     “Awaken!” or for pity’s sake forbear,—
     Saying, “How shall I meet their frozen stare
Of wonder, and their eyes so woebegone?                                             [6]
     How shall I comfort them in their despair,
If they cry out, ‘too late! let us sleep on?’”                                             [8]
Perchance He will not wake us up, but when
     He sees us look so happy in our rest,
Will murmur, “Poor dead women and dead men!
     Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest.
Wherefore awake them unto life again?
     Let them sleep on untroubled—it is best.”

149

V.

BUT THE HILLS WILL BEAR WITNESS.

But ye,—ye Hills that gather round this day,
     Ye Mountains, and ye Vapours, and ye Waves,
Ye will attest the wrongs of men of clay,
     When, in a World all hush’d, sits on our graves
     The melancholy Maker. From your caves
Strange echoes of our old lost life shall come;
     With still eyes fixed on your vast architraves,
Nature shall speak, though mortal lips be dumb.
Then God will cry: “Sadly the Waters fall,
     Sadly the Mountains keep their snowy state,
The Clouds pass on, the Winds and Echoes call,
     The World is sweet, yet wearily I wait.
Tho’ all is fair, and I am Lord of all,                                                       [13]
     Without my Children I am desolate.”

150

VI.

DESOLATE!

Desolate! How the Peaks of ashen grey,                                                 [1]
     The smoky Mists that drift from hill to hill,
The Waters dark, anticipate this day
     That sullen desolation. O how still                                                      [4]
     The shadows come and vanish, with no will!
How still the melancholy Waters lie                                                         [6]
How still the vapours of the under-sky                                                    [7]
     Mirror’d below, drift onward, and fulfil                                              [8]
Thy mandate as they mingle!—Not a sound,
     Save that deep murmur of a torrent near,
Deepening silence. Hush! the dark profound
     Groans, as some grey crag loosens and falls sheer                            [12]
To the abyss. Wildly I look around.                                                       [13]
     O Spirit of the Human, art Thou here?                                             [14]

151

VII.

LORD, ART THOU HERE?

Lord, art Thou here? far from the busy crowd,                                        [1]
     Brooding in melancholy solitude;
Darkening Thy visage with a thunder-cloud,                                            [3]
     Holding Thy breath, if mortal foot intrude.                                          [4]
     Father, how shall I meet Thee in this mood?
How shall I ask Thee why Thou dwell’st with stones,
While far away the world, like Lazarus, groans,
     Sick for Thy healing. Father, if Thou be’st good,
And wise, and gentle, O come down, come down!                                 [9]
     Come like an Angel with a human face,
Pass thro’ the gates into the hungry Town,                                             [11]
     Comfort the weary, send the afflicted grace,
Shine brighter on the Graves where we lay down
     Our dear ones, cheer them in the narrow place!

152

VIII.

GOD IS BEAUTIFUL.

O Thou art beautiful! and Thou dost bestow                                           [1]
     Thy beauty on this stillness—still as sheep
     The Hills lie under Thee; the Waters deep
Murmur for joy of Thee; the voids below
Mirror Thy strange fair Vapours as they flow;
     And now, afar upon the ashen height,                                                [6]
     Thou sendest down a radiant look of light,
So that the still Peaks glisten, and a glow
Rose-colour’d tints the little snowy cloud
     That poises on the highest peak of all.
O Thou art beautiful!—the Hills are bowed                                           [11]
     Beneath Thee; on Thy name the soft Winds call—
The monstrous Ocean trumpets it aloud,
     The Rains and Snows intone it as they fall.

153

IX.

THE MOTION OF THE MISTS.

Here by the sunless Lake there is no air,
     Yet with how ceaseless motion, with how strange                              [2]
     Flowing and fading, do the high Mists range                                       [3]
The gloomy gorges of the Mountains bare.                                              [4]
Some weary breathing never ceases there,—
     The ashen peaks can feel it hour by hour;                                           [6]
     The purple depths are darken’d by its power;
A soundless breath, a trouble all things share
That feel it come and go. See! onward swim
     The ghostly Mists, from silent land to land,
From gulf to gulf; now the whole air grows dim—
     Like living men, darkling a space, they stand.
But lo! a Sunbeam, like a Cherubim,                                                     [13]
     Scatters them onward with a flaming brand.

154

X.

CORUISK.

I think this is the very stillest place
     On all God’s earth, and yet no rest is here.
The Vapours mirror’d in the black loch’s face
     Drift on like frantic shapes and disappear;
     A never-ceasing murmur in mine ear
Tells me of Waters wild that flow and flow.
     There is no rest at all afar or near,
Only a sense of things that moan and go.
And lo! the still small life these limbs contain
     I feel flows on like those, restless and proud;
Before that breathing nought within my brain
     Pauses, but all drifts on like mist and cloud;
Only the bald Peaks and the Stones remain,
     Frozen before Thee, desolate and bowed.

155

XI.

BUT WHITHER?

And whither, O ye Vapours! do ye wend?
     Stirred by that weary breathing, whither away?
     And whither, O ye Dreams! that night and day
Drift o’er the troublous life, tremble, and blend
To broken lineaments of that far Friend,
     Whose strange breath’s come and go ye feel so deep?                       [6]
     O Soul! that hast no rest and seekest sleep,                                       [7]
Whither? and will thy wanderings ever end?
All things that be are full of a quick pain;
     Onward we fleet, swift as the running rill,—
The vapours drift, the mists within the brain
     Float on obscuringly and have no will.
Only the bare Peaks and the Stones remain;
     These only,—and a God sublime and still.                                        [14]

156

XII.

GOD IS PITILESS.

O Thou art pitiless! They call Thee Light,
     Law, Justice, Love; but Thou art pitiless.
What thing of earth is precious in Thy sight,
     But weary waiting on and soul’s distress?
     When dost Thou come with glorious hands to bless
The good man that dies cold for lack of Thee?
     When bring’st Thou garlands for our happiness?
Whom dost Thou send but Death to set us free?
Blood runs like wine—foul spirits sit and rule—
     The weak are crushed in every street and lane—
He who is generous becomes the fool
     Of all the world, and gives his life in vain.
Wert Thou as good as Thou art beautiful,
     Thou couldst not bear to look upon such pain.

157

XIII.

YEA, PITILESS.

Yea, Thou art pitiless—Thou dost permit
     The Priest to use Thee as a hangman’s cord—
Thou proppest up the Layman’s shallow wit,
     Driving the Beggar from the laden board,                                           [4]
     Thou art the easy text of those who hoard
Their gifts in secret chests for Death to see.
     “Mighty and strong and glorious is the Lord!”
The Prophet cries, gone mad for lack of Thee;                                        [8]
While good men dying deem thy grace a dream,                                     [9]
While sick men wail for Thee and mad blaspheme,
     A thousand forms of Thee the foolish preach—
Fair stretch Thy temples over all the lands,
In each of these some barbarous Image stands,
     And men grow atheists in the shrine of each.

158

XIV.

COULD GOD BE JUDGED!

Can I be calm, beholding everywhere
     Disease and Anguish busy, early and late?
     Can I be silent, nor compassionate
The evils that both Soul and Body bear?
O what have sickly Children done, to share                                            [5]
     Thy cup of sorrows? yet their dull, sad pain
Makes the earth awful;—on the tomb’s dark stair
     Moan Idiots, with no glimmer in the brain.
No shrill Priest with his hangman’s cord can beat
     Thy mercy into these—ah nay, ah nay!
The Angels Thou hast sent to haunt the street
     Are Hunger and Distortion and Decay.
Lord! that mad’st Man, and send’st him foes so fleet,
     Who shall judge Thee upon Thy judgment-day?

159

XV.

THE HILLS ON THEIR THRONES.

Ghostly and livid, robed with shadow, see!
     Each mighty Mountain silent on its throne,
     From foot to scalp one stretch of livid stone,
Without one gleam of grass or greenery.
Silent they take the immutable decree—
     Darkness or sunlight come,—they do not stir;
Each bare brow lifted desolately free,
     Keepeth the silence of a death-chamber.
Silent they watch each other until doom;
     They see each other’s phantoms come and go,
Yet stir not. Now the stormy hour brings gloom,
     Now all things grow confused and black below,
Specific through the cloudy Drift they loom,
     And each accepts his individual woe.

160

XVI.

KING BLAABHEIN.

Monarch of these is Blaabhein. On his height
     The lightning and the snow sleep side by side,
Like snake and lamb; he broodeth in a white                                           [3]
     And wintry consecration. All his pride
Is husht this dimly-gleaming autumn day—
     He thinketh of the things he hath beheld—                                         [6]
Beneath his feet the Rains crawl still and grey,                                        [7]
     Like phantoms of the mighty men of eld;                                            [8]
A quiet awe the dreadful heights doth fill,
     The high clouds pause and brood above their King;
The torrent murmurs gently as a rill;
     Softly and low the winds are murmuring;
A small black speck above the snow, how still
     Hovers the Eagle, with no stir of wing!

161

XVII.

BLAABHEIN IN THE MISTS.

Watch but a moment—all is changed! A moan
     Breaketh the beauty of that noonday dream;
The hoary Titan darkens on his throne,
     And with an indistinct and senile scream
     Gazes at the wild Rains as past they stream,
Thro’ vaporous air wild-blowing on his brow;                                         [6]
     All black, from scalp to base there is no gleam,
Even his silent snows are faded now.
Watch yet!—and yet!—Behold, and all is done—
     ’Twas but the shallow shapes that come and go,
          Troubling the mimic picture in the eye.
Still and untroubled sits the kingly one.
     Yonder the Eagle floats—there sleeps the Snow
          Against the pale green of the cloudless sky.

162

XVIII.

THE FIERY BIRTH OF THE HILLS.

O hoary Hills, tho’ ye look aged, ye                                                       [1]
     Are but the children of a latter time—
     Methinks I see ye in that hour sublime
When from the hissing cauldron of the Sea
Ye were upheaven, while so terribly
     The Clouds boiled, and the Lightning scorched ye bare.
Wild, new-born, blind, Titans in agony,
     Ye glared at heaven through folds of fiery hair! . .
Then, in an instant, while ye trembled thus
A Hand from heaven, white and luminous,
     Pass’d o’er your brows, and husht your fiery breath.
Lo! one by one the still Stars gather’d round,
The great Deep glass’d itself, and with no sound
     A cold Snow glimmering fell, and all was still as death.                      [14]

163

XIX.

THE CHANGELESS HILLS.

All power, all virtue, is repression—ye
     Are stationary, and God keeps ye great;
Around your heads the fretful winds play free;
     Ye change not—ye are calm and desolate.
     What seems to us a trouble and a fate,                                               [5]
Is but the loose fog streaming from your feet                                           [6]
     And drifting onward—early ye sit and late,
While unseen Winds waft past the things that fleet.
So sit for ever, still and passionless
As He that made ye—thought and soul’s distress                                   [10]
     Ye know not, though ye contemplate the strife;
Better to share the Spirit’s bitterest aches—
Better to be the weakest Wave that breaks
     On a wild Ocean of mysterious Life.                                                 [14]

164

XX.

O MOUNTAIN PEAK OF A GOD.

Father, if Thou imperturbable art,
     Passive as these, lords of a lonely land—
If, having laboured, Thou must sit apart—
     If having once open’d the void, and planned                                      [4]
     This tragedy, Thou must impassive stand
Spectator of the scenic flow of things,
     Then I—a drop of dew, a grain of sand—
Pity Thy lot, poor palsied King of Kings.
Better to fail and fail, to shriek and shriek,
     Better to break, like any Wave, and go,—
Impotent godhead, let Thy slave be weak!—
     Yea, do not freeze my Soul, but let it flow—
O wherefore call to Thee, a mountain Peak                                           [13]
     Impassive, beautiful, serene with snow?

165

XXI.

GOD THE IMAGE.

Impassive, beautiful, and desolate,
     Is this the Lord my God, whom I entreat?
Powerless to stay the ravages of fate—
     Jove with his right hand palsied, Jove effete,
     Fetter’d by frost upon a stony seat—
O dreadful apparition! Can this be?
     Yonder He looms, where never a heart doth beat,
In the cold ether of theology.
Come down! come down! O Souls that wander there!
Cold are the snows, chill is the dreadful air—
     Come down! come down into the Valleys deep;
Leave the wild Image to the stars, that rise
Around about it with affrighted eyes;
     Come to green under-glooms, and sink, and sleep.

166

XXII.

THE FOOTPRINTS.

Come to green under-glooms,—and in your hair
     Weave nightshade, foxglove red, and rank wolfsbane,
     And slumber and forget Him; if in vain
Ye try to slumber off your sorrow there,
Arise once more and openly repair
     To busy haunts where men and women sigh,
And if all things but echo back your care,
     Cry out aloud, “There is no God!” and die.
But if upon a day when all is dark,
Thou, stooping in the public ways, shalt mark
     Strange luminous footprints as of feet that shine—
Follow them! follow them! O soul bereaven!
God had a Son—He hath pass’d that way to heaven;
     Follow, and look upon the Face divine!

167

XXIII.

WE ARE DEATHLESS.

Yet hear me, Mountains! echo me, O Sea!
     Murmur an answer, Winds, from out your caves;
     Cry loudly, Torrents, Mountains, Winds, and Waves—
Hark to my crying all, and echo me—
All things that live are deathless—I and ye.
     The Father could not slay us if he would;                                           [6]
     The elements in all their multitude                                                       [7]
Will rise against their Master terribly,
If but one hair upon a human head
     Should perish! . . . Darkness grows on crag and steep,
A hollow thunder fills the torrent’s bed;
     The wild Mists moan and threaten as they creep;
And hush! now, when all other cries are fled,
     The warning murmur of the white-hair’d Deep.

168

XXIV.

A VOICE IN THE WHIRLWIND.

I heard a Whirlwind on the mountain peak
     Pause for a space its furious flight and cry—
“There is no Death!” loudly it seemed to shriek;
     “Nothing that is, beneath the sun, shall die.”
     The frail sick Vapours echoed, drifting by—
“There is no Death, but change early and late;
Powerless were God’s right Hand full arm’d with fate,                            [7]
     To slay the meanest thing beneath the sky.”
Yea, even as tremulous foam-bells on the sea,
     Coming and going, are all things of breath;
But evermore, deathless, and bright, and free,
     We re-emerge, in spite of Change or Death.
Hearken, O Mountains! Waters, echo me!
     O wild Wind, echo what the Man-Wind saith!

169

XXV.

CRY OF THE LITTLE BROOK.

Christ help me! whither would my dark thoughts run!                              [1]
     I look around me, trembling fearfully;
The dreadful silence of the Silent One
     Freezes my lips, and all is sad to see.
     Hark! hark! what small voice murmurs “God made me!”
It is the Brooklet, singing all alone,
Sparkling with pleasure that is all its own,
     And running, self-contented, sweet, and free.
O Brooklet, born where never grass is green,
     Finding the stony hill and flowing fleet,
Thou comest as a Messenger serene,
     With shining wings and silver-sandal’d feet;                                      [12]
Faint falls thy music on a Soul unclean,
     And, in a moment, all the World looks sweet!

170

XXVI.

THE HAPPY HEARTS OF EARTH.

Whence thou hast come, thou knowest not, little Brook,
     Nor whither thou art bound. Yet wild and gay,
Pleased in thyself, and pleasing all that look,
     Thou wendest, all the seasons, on thy way;
     The lonely glen grows gladsome with thy play,
Thou glidest lamb-like thro’ the ghostly shade;                                        [6]
To think of solemn things thou wast not made,
     But to sing on, for pleasure, night and day.
Such happy hearts are wandering, crystal clear,
     In the great world where men and women dwell;
Earth’s mighty shows they neither love nor fear,
     They are content to be, while I rebel,
Out of their own delight dispensing cheer,
     And ever softly whispering, “All is well!”

171

XXVII.

FATHER, FORGIVE THY CHILD.

O sing, clear Brook, sing on, while in a dream                                         [1]
     I feel the sweetness of the years go by!
The crags and peaks are softened now, and seem
     Gently to sleep against the gentle sky;
     Old scenes and faces glimmer up and die,
With outlines of sweet thought obscured too long;
     Like boys that shout at play far voices cry;
O sing! for I am weeping at the song.                                                      [8]
I know not what I am, but only know
     I have had glimpses tongue may never speak;
No more I balance human joy and woe,
     But think of my transgressions, and am meek.
Father! forgive the child who fretted so,—
     His proud heart yields,—the tears are on his cheek!

172

XXVIII.

GOD’S LONELINESS.

When, in my strong affection, I have sought
     To play at Providence with men of clay,
How hath my good come constantly to nought,
     How hath my light and love been cast away,—
     How hath my light been light to lead astray,
How hath my love become of sorry worth,
     How feeble hath been all my soul’s essay
To aid one single man on all God’s earth!
Father in Heaven, when I think these things,
     Helpless Thou seemest to redeem our plight—
Thy lamp shines on shut eyes—each Spirit springs
     To its own stature still in Thy despite—
While haggard Nature round Thy footstool clings,
     Pale, powerless, sitt’st Thou, in a Lonely Light.

173

XXIX.

THE CUP OF TEARS.

My God! my God! with passionate appeal,
     Pardon I crave for these mad moods of mine,—
Can I remember, with no heart to feel,
     The gift of Thy dear Son, the Man Divine—
     My God! what agonies of love were Thine,
Sitting alone, forgotten, on Thy height,
Pale, powerless, awful in that Lonely Light,
     While ’neath Thy feet the cloudy hyaline
Rain’d blood upon the darkness,—where Thine Own
     Held the black Cup of all earth’s tears, and cried!
Ev’n then, tho’ Thou wert conscious of his groan,
     Pale in that Lonely Light Thou didst abide,                                        [12]
Nor dared, even then, tho’ shaken on Thy throne,
     To reach Thy hand and dash the Cup aside.

174

XXX.

THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD.

On the dark waters of man’s thought still gleams
     Softly and silvernly, from night to night,
That starlike Legend, whose fair substance seems                                   [3]
     Consuming in the melancholy light
     It sheddeth. Father, do I see aright?
Is it a truth or most divine of dreams?
     That He, Thy Child, walk’d once in raiment white
With mortal men, and mused by Syrian streams?
O Life that puts our noblest life to shame,
     Was it a Star, or light to lead astray?
Thought’s waves grow husht beneath that silvern flame,
     Our hopes pursue it and our doubts obey;
And whether truth or phantom, it became
     The sweetest sphere that lights the World’s black way.

175

XXXI.

EARTH’S ELDEST BORN.

But He, the only One of mortal birth
     Who raised the Veil and saw the Face behind,
While yet He wander’d footsore on the earth,
     Beheld His Father’s Eyes,—that they were kind;                               [4]
     Here in the dark I grope, confused, purblind,                                     [5]
I have not seen the glory and the peace,                                                  [6]
     But on the darken’d mirror of the mind
Strange glimmers fall, and shake me till they cease—
Then, wondering, dazzled, on Thy name I call,
     And, like a child, reach empty hands and moan,
And broken accents from my wild lips fall,
     And I implore Thee in this human tone;—
If such as I can follow Him at all
     Into Thy presence, ’tis by love alone.

176

XXXII.

WHAT SPIRIT COMETH?

Who cometh wandering hither in my need?
     What gentle Ghost from Heaven cometh now?—
Oh, I am broken to the rod indeed—
     Father, my earthly father, is it thou?
     The stooping shape with piteous human brow,
The dear quaint gesture, and the feeble pace,
The weary-eyed, world-worn, belovëd face,
     Ev’n as they wildly faded, meet me now.
A gentle voice flows softly, saying plain:
     “From death comes light, from pain beatitude;
Chide not at loss, for out of loss comes gain;
     Chide not at grief, for ’tis the Soul’s best food—
Out of my death-chamber, out of wrong and pain,
     Cometh a life and odour. God is good.”

177

XXXIII.

STAY, O SPIRIT!

Father, my earthly father, stay, O stay!                                                   [1]
     I know thou wert a man as others be;
Sore were thy feet upon the World’s cold clay,
     And thou didst stumble oft, and on thy knee
     Knelt little; but thy gentle heart gleamed free
In cloud and shadow, giving its best cheer;
     Thou had’st an open hand, and laugh’d for glee
When happy men or creatures dumb played near;                                   [8]
But in thy latter years God’s scourge was sore
     Upon thee—weary were thy wrongs and dire,—
Yet blessings on thee—until all was o’er,
     Cheery thou wert beside a cheerless fire—
Till one red dawn the mark was on the door,
     And thou wert dead to all the world’s desire.

178

XXXIV.

QUIET WATERS.

O Rainbow, Rainbow, on the livid height,
     Softening its ashen outlines into dream,
Dewy yet brilliant, delicately bright
     As pink wild-roses’ leaves, why dost thou gleam
So beckoningly? Whom dost thou invite
     Still higher upward on the bitter quest?
What dost thou promise to the weary sight
     In that strange region whence thou issuest?
Speakest thou of pensive runlets by whose side
Our dear ones wander sweet and gentle-eyed,
     In the soft dawn of a diviner Day?                                                    [11]
Art thou a promise? Come those hues and dyes
From heavenly Meads, near which thou dost arise,
     Iris’d from Quiet Waters, far away!

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’:
I. LORD, IS IT THOU?:
l. 2: Thy raiment hem, that rolls like vapour dark?
l. 7: For love no longer, pity me, and hark!
l. 9: The dumb Hills gather round me, gaunt and gray,—
l. 12: Bend dim eyes down, as on their natal day:
l. 13: Cold are all these as snow, and still as stone;
l. 14: But I have found a voice—to plead, to pray.
II. WE ARE FATHERLESS:
l. 6: Their melancholy Maker. From the Dead!
III. WE ARE CHILDREN:
l. 2: Within a wondrous Dwelling, while on high
l. 3: Stretch the sad vapours and the voiceless sky;
l. 6: Sadden above us—shivering we espy
l. 7: The passing rain, the cloud before the gate,
l. 8: And cry to one another, ‘He is nigh!’
IV. WHEN WE ARE ALL ASLEEP:
l. 1: WHEN He returns, and finds the World so drear—
l. 2: All sleeping,—young and old, unfair and fair,
l. 3: Will He stoop down and whisper in each ear,
l. 6: Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?
l. 8: If they cry out, “Too late! let us sleep here”?’
V. BUT THE HILLS WILL BEAR WITNESS:
l. 13: Though all is fair, and I am Lord of all,
VI. DESOLATE!:
l. 1: DESOLATE! How the Peaks of ashen gray,
l. 4: That sullen desolation. Oh, how still
l. 6: How still the Waters watch the heaven’s array!
l. 7: How still the melancholy vapours stray,
l. 8: Mirror’d below, and drifting on, fulfil
l. 12: Groans, as some gray crag loosens and falls sheer
l. 13: To the abyss. Wildly I look around,
l. 14: O Spirit of the Human, are Thou here?
VII. LORD, ART THOU HERE?:
l. 1: LORD, art Thou here? far from the citied zones,
l. 3: Hushing Thy breath to awful undertones,
l. 4: Darkening Thy face, if mortal foot intrude.
l. 9: And wise, and gentle, oh come down, come down!
l. 11: Pass through the gates into the hungry Town,
VIII. GOD IS BEAUTIFUL:
l. 1: OH, Thou art beautiful! and Thou dost bestow
l. 6: And now, afar upon the barren height,
l. 11: Oh, Thou art beautiful!—the Hills are bowed
IX. THE MOTION OF THE MISTS:
l. 2: Yet with how ceaseless motion, like a shower
l. 3: Flowing and fading, do the high Mists lower
l. 4: Amid the gorges of the Mountains bare.
l. 6: The barren peaks can feel it hour by hour;
l. 13: But lo! a Sunbeam, like the Cherubim,
XI. BUT WHITHER?:
l. 6: Whose strange breath’s come and go ye must obey?
l. 7: O sleepless Soul! in the world's waste astray,
l. 14: These only,—and a God sublimely still.
XII. GOD IS PITILESS:
l. 1: OH, Thou art pitiless! They call Thee Light,
XIII. YEA, PITILESS:
l. 4: Driving the Beggar from the laden board—
l. 8: The Prophet cries, gone mad for lack of Thee!
l. 9: While good men dying deem Thy grace a dream,
XIV. COULD GOD BE JUDGED. [exclamation mark replaced with full stop]:
l. 5: Oh, what have sickly Children done, to share
XVI. KING BLAABHEIN:
l. 3: Like snake and lamb; he waiteth in a white
l. 6: He broodeth o’er the things he hath beheld—
l. 7: Beneath his feet the Rains crawl still and gray,
l. 8: Like phantoms of the mighty men of eld.
XVII. BLAABHEIN IN THE MISTS:
l. 6: Through vaporous air wild-blowing on his brow;
XVIII. THE FIERY BIRTH OF THE HILLS:
l. 1: O HOARY Hills, though ye look aged, ye
l. 14: A cold Snow fell, and all was still as death.
XIX. THE CHANGELESS HILLS:
l. 5: What seems to us a trouble and a fate
l. 6: Is but the loose dust streaming from your feet
l. 10 : As He that made you!—thought and soul’s distress
l. 14: On a wild Ocean of tempestuous Life.
XX. O MOUNTAIN PEAK OF A GOD:
l. 4: If having once open’d the Void, and planned
l. 13: Oh, wherefore call to Thee, a mountain Peak
XXIII. WE ARE DEATHLESS:
l. 6: The Father could not slay us if He would;
l. 7: The Elements in all their multitude
XXIV. A VOICE IN THE WHIRLWIND:
l. 7: Powerless were God’s right Hand, full arm’d with fate,
XXV. CRY OF THE LITTLE BROOK:
l. 1: CHRIST help me! whither would my dark thoughts run,
l. 12: With shining wings and silver-sandall’d feet;
XXVI. THE HAPPY HEARTS OF EARTH:
l. 6: Thou glidest lamb-like through the ghostly shade;
XXVII. FATHER, FORGIVE THY CHILD:
l. 1: OH SING, clear Brook, sing on, while in a dream
l. 8: Oh sing! for I am weeping at the song.
XXIX. THE CUP OF TEARS:
l. 12: Pale in that Lonely Light Thou did’st abide,
XXX. THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD:
l. 3: That starlight Legend, though its substance seems
XXXI. EARTH’S ELDEST BORN:
l. 4: Beheld His Father’s Eyes,—that they were kind.
l. 5:  Here in the dark I grope, confused, purblind;
l. 6: I have not seen the glory and the peace;
XXXIII. STAY, O SPIRIT!:
l. 1: FATHER, my earthly father, stay, oh stay!
l. 8: When happy men or creatures dumb played near.
XXXIV. QUIET WATERS:
l. 11: In the soft dawn of some diviner Day? ]

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The Book of Orm continued

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The Book of Orm Contents