YOUNG Margaret woke, and waking cried, | |
| Rise, Mary! lo, on Dunscore side, | |
| The morning sun shines bright; and hear!— | |
| The reapers’ horns ring far and near! | |
| The thrush sings loud in bush and bower, | 5 |
| The doves coo loud on Isle old tower; | |
| The poet’s walk, by Ellisland, | |
| Is rife with larks that love the sand; | |
| The pars are leaping in the Rack, | |
| The cornecrake calls from fair Portrack; | 10 |
| There ’s silver, sure, in yon sweet rill | |
| That flows ’tween this and blithe Cowehill; | |
| And see! from green Dalswinton’s lake, | |
| Their distant flight the herons take. | |
| I ’m glad I ’ve wakened—’t is so sweet | 15 |
| To see the dew shine on our feet; | |
| To see the morn diffuse its wealth,— | |
| Light, life, and happiness, and health; | |
| And then the sounds which float abroad | |
| Are Nature’s, and come all from God! | 20 |
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| Young Mary thus: from London fair | |
| She came to Margaret for sweet air; | |
| Not sisters born, yet sisters they | |
| In heart, in spirit, and in play. | |
| See, see! the farmer quits his horn,— | 25 |
| Fast ’neath the sickle sinks the corn! | |
| The bandsmen all with hoary locks | |
| Tie up the sheaves and set the shocks; | |
| The busy maids, with snooded tresses, | |
| Dish sweet milk pottage out in messes; | 30 |
| E’en now upon Nith’s winding stream | |
| The glad sun sheds a brighter beam; | |
| Dark Blackwood smiles, and ’mongst her trees | |
| Carse lists the music of her bees; | |
| And from Dalswinton, broad and fair, | 35 |
| The smell of fruit fills all the air: | |
| Old Age in sunshine walks abroad | |
| Thankful, and gives his thoughts to God! | |
| |
| See, children, see!—’T was thus another | |
| Voice spoke, of aunt perchance, or mother,— | 40 |
| That stream has run, yon sun has shone, | |
| Yon hills have stood, that wind has blown, | |
| Since first God framed them with his hand,— | |
| All else is changed within this land: | |
| Landmarks decay, tombs yield their trust, | 45 |
| Youth fades, and old age sinks to dust! | |
| Ten ancient names have ceased in story, | |
| Ten ancient towers have lost their glory, | |
| Two kirks, where Learning’s lamp and cowl | |
| Were trimmed, now shelter bat and owl! | 50 |
| For Seton’s soul, where monks said masses, | |
| The wandering gypsies graze their asses; | |
| Full sixty halls where Maxwells dwelt | |
| The sway of strangers’ hands have felt; | |
| The Douglas—but I shall not say | 55 |
| What chances wrought their sad decay— | |
| Or stern Kirkpatrick, whose dread dirk | |
| Won Scotland’s freedom in her kirk; | |
| Or Charteris, whose proud feudal power | |
| From Tinwald reached to Liddel’s tower; | 60 |
| Or Halliday, whose hounds could range | |
| From Solway sands to Moffat grange; | |
| All these—the brightness of their days | |
| Are gone—their power the stranger sways— | |
| Or sad on their diminished bounds | 65 |
| They rule, nor hosts, nor deep-mouthed hounds. | |
| Fair children, this stern lesson learn:— | |
| What merit wins and worth can earn, | |
| May, in some inconsiderate hour, | |
| Be plucked—as now I pluck this flower! | 70 |
| The flower will rise with sun and rain | |
| In summer, and bloom bright again: | |
| But when fame goes, its emblem see, | |
| My children, in yon stricken tree! | |
| It lies—it rots—nor from its side | 75 |
| Sends shoots to be the forest’s pride! | |
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