We took a walk to Pamphy linns—
Three other friends and I,
Glad-hearted as when day begins
With summer in the sky.
Our talk was edged with homely wit,
The banter flew apace,
And ever at a happy hit
The laughter clad our face.
But we were used to each, and knew
The harmless fence of tongue;
So quip and jest rose up and flew
And prick'd, but never stung.
The lark was far above our head,
The daisy at our feet,
The heather show'd a coming red
Of tiny blossom sweet.
The sheep turn'd round to see us pass,
The milky snow-white lambs
Gamboll'd and sniff'd the growing grass,
Or nestled by their dams.
The pure air brought the far hills near,
Their furrows came to sight;
And here and there a stream grew clear,
And smiled in the sunlight.
'O, friend of mine, who late,' I said,
'Has left the streets of men,
Let all this quiet overhead
Bring back thine own again.
Look how the Earth puts forth her pride
And blooms around, to draw
Thy soul out till it toss aside
The phrases of the law.
For what are musty words to this—
Your writs and pros and cons—
When Nature, full of summer bliss,
Her summer vesture dons?
So, Faust-like, own her quiet power,
And let her have her will,
And let thy fingers clasp a flower,
Instead of inky quill.'
Our path lay through the sunny fields,
In gentle ups and downs;
Dear heart! I thought, but nature yields
A bliss unmatch'd in towns.
At length we reach'd a shepherd's cot,
That sat between two woods—
Fit home for all the stirless thought
That, dove-like, sits and broods.
I knew the shepherd; for a space
We rested by his hearth,
And saw the moorland on his face,
And in his honest mirth.
O! blessings on a hillside life
That trammels not the heart,
But in its gentle pleasures rife
Stands with its back to art.
How far above the studied speech
Of empty polish'd sound,
That glides within a proper reach,
Where rule has set the bound.
And blessings on the girl who stood
In better garb than silk,
And proffer'd to us, shy of mood,
A glass of cooling milk.
Her cheek was soft with health's fair tint,
And in her drooping eye
Sweet thoughts came up that fain would hint
That maidenhood was nigh.
Her brow was open, frank, and free,
Half-hid by wealth of tress—
A very Wordsworth's girl was she
For woodland simpleness.
So, Janet, half-way through thy teens,
And all the world to learn,
Lean to thine own sweet heart, as leans
From moss-clad rock the fern:
And hear the wish that springs from mine
Before I pass away—
Keep thou that simple life of thine,
Take to the town who may.
We reach'd a belt of wood at last,
And with a lusty cheer
I cried, 'Now all our toil is past,
For Pamphy linns are here.'
We took the shaded path that led
To the turf-clad foot-bridge,
Then struck into the streamlet's bed,
And held along its edge.
We reach'd the falls, and, looking round,
On either side were trees,
And at our feet the hurrying sound
Of water ill at ease.
Huge rocks with moss half-cover'd dipt
Or in the stream reclined,
As if they once had partly stript
To bathe, but changed their mind.
O'er these the water foam'd and splash'd
In many a whirl and turn,
Or from moss'd outlets peep'd and dash'd
To kiss a wander'd fern.
We clomb the highest peak of rock,
And, halting there to breathe,
Heard with continual splash and shock
The water run beneath.
Then, rising, down the fretted steep
To reach the base below
We struggled, careful heed to keep,
As Alpine hunters go.
We reach'd the foot, and found a rest
Beneath the trees' sweet shade,
Where Nature for her woodland guest
A flower-deck'd seat had made.
From there we watch'd the falls above,
The rocks half-worn and gray,
That still, like shapeless Sphinxes, strove
To tear their veils of spray.
A dreamy, cooling murmur went,
Like winds when spring is near,
Through all the trees, that stood intent,
And prick'd their leaves to hear.
I leant back in a shady place,
Where sunlight could not gleam:
If poets are a dreaming race,
Then here they well might dream.
But 'Further down' was still the cry—
'Down to the seat,' they said;
'There let another hour go by—
The hanging rocks o'erhead.'
So there we went, and with our knives
We roughly carved our names,
As some carve out their shorten'd lives
With vacillating aims.
And as I carv'd, a primrose bright
Look'd on with wondrous eye,
As if for ever in its sight
A troop of fays pass'd by.
Upon the rocks, from German rhyme,
I writ two lines to say—
'O, happy time of love's young prime,
Would it could last alway.'
But ere we turn'd our path to trace,
I cried, 'Farewell, thou stream!
If poets are a dreaming race,
Then here they well might dream.'
So through the woods we went, but still
What German Schiller sung
Came ever up against my will,
And somewhat lightly stung.
O, happy time when love is sweet,
And life takes little heed,
But rolls a rainbow at our feet,
Would it could last indeed!
And every flower in shaded nook,
Speedwell and violet,
Cried, with a wonder in their look—
So big, and dreaming yet?
Then out at last into the fields,
Tinged with the daisy's dyes;
Dear heart! I said, but nature yields
A bliss the town denies.
O fair is Edina, I said,
And took my young friend's arm,
For there the magic past hath shed
An ever-growing charm.
Twice have I trod its streets, and heard
In fancy all the while
Legends in hints and whisper'd word
From narrow street and pile.
But still the eye from every quest
Would stop, to wander on
To those gray rocks that had for crest
The lordly pile of stone.
Up, up it tower'd, as if in rage
The modern change to view;
Like Carlyle, from the middle age,
With brow knit at the new.
I, too, have touch'd Queen Mary's robe,
With well-shaped Darnley nigh;
Have heard the murder'd Rizzio sob
With blood-choked, helpless cry.
While through this war of uncheck'd will,
Its battles, broils, and shocks,
A stirring voice was speaking still—
The voice of fearless Knox.
God! when upon his grave I stood—
Now daily trod by feet—
His soul went flashing through my blood
In mighty waves of heat.
For great, good men can never die,
Howbeit the ages roll;
But still unseen are ever nigh,
To strengthen soul by soul.
But past is all that reign of force,
Its deeds of blood and pain,
Gone as a river dries its source,
Never to fill again.
For lo! to hide each bloody spot
A nobler comes behind;
The curbless sway of growing thought,
The dynasty of mind:
Which changes, and hath changed the earth,
As gods the sculptor's stone;
A universal Protean birth,
Whose ~ifiat~i thunders on.
There, too, beneath the statued dome
He sits, the Scott we claim;
Fit Mahomet for those who come
As pilgrims of his fame.
Light was his task, some cry, but he,
He changed the novel's bent;
And with its Gothic tracery
A chaster purpose blent.
I pass those mighty ones, who then
Were ever in my sight—
Strong kings who struggled with the pen
To widen human right.
Yes! Edina is fair, and sweet
This summer day would be
If I could lie on Arthur's Seat,
And my schoolmate with me.
For still her magic power prevails,
And still my thoughts take wing
To her, the city of the tales,
Without its roving king.
But shame on me that I should prate
Of all that city's grace
And beauty in such quiet state
Around my own sweet place.
For look! three miles adown the vale
Sanquhar lies in gray light;
And further on, time-struck and frail,
The castle lifts its height.
Bones of the iron age, it stands,
And, as to madness grown,
Flings down each year, from powerless hands,
A crutch of scatter'd stone.
And right before us, near yet far,
Furrow'd with winter rills,
That dry in summer like some scar,
Stretch out the Todholes hills.
And speck-like at their base is seen
The cot of shepherd Dryfe—
True soul of honest heart and mien,
And simple mountain life.
But here is Killo bridge, and there
Nestles old Killoside;
My blessings on the homely pair
Who 'neath its roof abide.
And right in line that puff of smoke
That every moment comes,
Is Bankhead, where, in ceaseless yoke,
The engine clanks and hums.
A little further on we pace,
Then through a field again,
And all at once, before our face,
Kirkconnel full and plain.
I see the churchyard and the church,
The gravestones standing by;
You need not through our Scotland search
For sweeter place to lie.
And further up I catch the gleam
Upon the pastor's pool;
The manse above, still as a dream,
Stands in the shadows cool.
But there, from schoolhouse to the mill,
Our hamlet stretches out;
Without one stir it slumbers still,
Save when the schoolboys shout.
And now we cross the new foot-bridge,
And shun the stepping-stones;
Nor loiter to lean o'er the edge
To hearken Nith's sweet tones;
But hasten on, when just behind
That line of thatch and slate,
An express train tears like the wind,
And twenty minutes late.