卢吉河｜大卫·格雷诗选｜David Gray 1838-1861

那些美给灵魂带来的冲动
我的歌把你化成语言。没有更美好的溪流
曾将金色的沙子卷入大海，
没有比卢吉河更甜美的音乐，笼罩
在山谷中，和她自己的旋律交织在一起。
说这个名字，我心深处就会震颤，
一个超越魅力的词；如果这歌
能顺畅地流淌，蜿蜒到尽头
像卢吉河一样自然地
蜿蜒曲折，那世界就会倾听
在甜蜜的迷恋中，被吞噬和迷失，

有人听见那迷人的乐音。
就像温暖夏日里的朝圣者
走在尘土飞扬的路上，他看到
清澈的银流，随水波滑行，
在翠绿的河岸之间——心中悸动，
祝福这清新的诱惑并饮下，
（他炽热的脸庞遇见了它的倒影，
那倒影来自一片不可抵达的天空阴影）
于是，在这后来的日子里的人们，
会聆听一首乡谣，
一首无害而质朴的回旋歌；
在这后来的日子里，在大多数书卷气的诗句中，
亲爱而神圣的自然被遗忘，失落掉
她那单纯、不加修饰的谦逊。

把这首诗献给你，朋友！你在人群中灵魂卓越，
在世人之间；我欣然带来我的初生之歌！
但愿它能更有价值，以配得上你的高贵，
真正的诗人和真正的英国绅士！
你的恩惠让我受宠若惊，你的赞美给我以灵感；
你那完全的善意夺走了我的心，而如今
你的爱减轻了我缓慢的衰落。

在一棵叶子柔美的白蜡树下，
透过它的枝条，闪烁的阳光流淌，
仿佛稀有的天青玉般清透，使人清凉，
在深绿的草地上织就斑驳的阴影，
我迷醉地躺下。在我头旁盛开着
一篱野蔷薇，芬芳如同爱人呼吸，
当她的面颊靠在你身上
那绵软的触感，如睡眠般温柔。
一丛风铃草，那难以言喻的花朵
因半透明的蔚蓝而闪耀，轻轻点头，
当一阵淡淡的微风，带着芬芳，
亲吻它们，让它们轻轻摇曳，仿佛无意。
在我眼前流淌着我心中最亲爱的溪流，
甜美的卢吉河，林间的博思林——这对溪流更加美丽
比那些自我吟唱、流入大海的溪流更美，
胜过明澈的爱琴海，点缀着神圣的群岛——
它们仿佛一同汇聚在一片翠绿的山谷中；
而在严厉而明亮的正午里，烟雾
在空气中盘旋，升过悬铃木，
盘绕而上——化为一小团孤独的蓝色云雾，
飘在那幸福的小村上空。遥远的地方，
一座缓缓隆起的山丘，披着阴影，
覆满榛树、光泽的桦树与银杉，
直面锐利的天空。啊，在那片林中，我知道，
香草与风信子格外美丽，
在属于它们的季节里；伴随着蓝莓
那朦胧而薄雾般的蓝色，是童年所珍爱的。
八月的一个阳光明媚的午后，
一个异象激荡我半醒的灵魂，
要把更纯净的光辉洒向那些田野，
那些熟知我少年脚步的田野；并歌唱
你的田园之美，卢吉河啊，使它流芳。
如今，当夜晚漫长，我守在温馨的家里炉火旁
我写下文字；在画眉鸟唱起之前，
它在三月初芽的枝头，吟唱出流畅的音符，
当红色的、风起的清晨渐渐在东方，
铺展，或者当低矮的夜空
燃烧如黄玉般闪耀——所有珍贵的构思，
都可望与我的歌声结合而完成，
在言语能表达欲望的极限里。

愿那份灵感与喜悦
曾在那个秋日考验并滋养我的心灵，
现在和我在一起，在赤裸的大地上
柔软、洁白、无风的雪花静静地飘落！

上帝啊，在我死之前，再一次，
在盲目的黑暗和蛀蚀的坟墓
将我容纳，且我的记忆如同
一抹柔美的晚霞，缓缓消逝——
再一次，上帝啊，让你的奇迹充盈我的心灵。
冬日！羽毛般无声的雪
厚重在空气中，带来奇异的喜悦，并铺下
荒野上的仙毯。
没有日光，但四周充盈着内在的光——
那纯净之光——柔和的月光，
如幸福梦境的银色朦胧。
多么美丽！远处的荒原小径上，
群山环抱，峡谷幽暗，
（德鲁伊之手建造的孤独祭坛
像一个悲伤的幽灵一样站立着），隐藏的云彩
洒下柔美，直到每一根青翠的杉枝
都被羽饰与穗装点，直到每一株石南花枝
精巧地镶边。梧桐，
在它们神秘交错的枝条中
都披上了银色。所有的绿意
在微妙的空气中轻轻舞动，
轻声细语；那些执着的嗡鸣
来自柔软的蜜蜂，在附子花钟中
勤勉地栖息；那不灭的光辉
曾经的夏日阳光，再未能
显露大自然的和谐与神圣
散发美的灵魂。
在雪地的朦胧中，半隐半现，
如月光中闪现的幽灵，孩子们狂奔嬉戏
沉浸在令人目眩的喜悦中。
空气中有一种生命的光辉——
在寂静的空气里，在心灵里
一种悸动的惊奇，被敬畏悄悄包裹。

轻轻地——以微妙的轻柔——当光线
在未破晓的东方加速苏醒时；而悄然——
以明确的静默——当潜行的黎明
点缀漂浮的云朵，缓缓落下，缓缓飘落，
以犹豫的旋涡般动作飘落，
白羽般的雪片——平静得像沉睡的声音，
朦胧如梦。银雾弥漫的空气
闪烁着柔和的光辉，如同月光
穿透半透明的云雾照射下来。
昨晚我看见（当那赤红的太阳，
巨大而陌生，低低西沉，清晰可见，
将炽烈的橘色铺满西方），一幅景象
冬天以温和的姿态展现。绿色的田野，
未被牛啃食，湿润沉睡；裸露的树木
投下枯骨般的影子。茂密的篱笆，
缠绕成紧密的坚实，没有叶子，
当阳光触及颤动的水珠时，
闪烁如珠宝一般。
独自一人，也不像同伴那样吹着口哨
在童话般的诗句或乡谣中，
那个犁童对着冒烟的牛群呼喊；
而在喧闹声中，从邻近的田野
振翅而起一群寒鸦
更加喧闹；在结霜的空气中，
随风无序地四处飞舞，
低低抱怨，喋喋不休地鸣叫。
红色的夕阳照亮万物；溪流映红
却依然冰冷；在那阴冷不祥的东方前，
搜寻着骨骼，吹来寒气，掠过山坡，
发出干涩的呼啸声，而我在炉火旁
在屋内暮色中安坐。

但如今，何等美丽变化的启示，
啊，季节和日子的赐予者！
万物元素的创造者，苍白的薄雾，
看不见的大风和确切的霜冻！
我该如何形容你的雪的奇妙？
尽管我们知道它的本质和诞生，
能以哲学智慧迅速解说
它的如何、何处、以及降落的方式；
然而，噢，那内在的美丽与生命——
雪中所孕育的生命！处女般柔软
绝对纯净的雪片，
轻轻落在同伴之上，寂然无声！
不受粗俗风的吹拂，无数的雪花
轻轻飘落，如爱般温柔！
在洁白覆盖的河岸之间，
透明澄澈中，卢吉河好似
蜿蜒迷人，却带着迷惑的宁静，
无声的流水，流淌隐约而不显；
每一片田野都被披上银衣，
犁沟里闲置着一把犁。
大地被珍爱，因为在这柔软、
纯净而均匀的覆盖下，
温暖与丰厚的温和孕育沉睡的根，
为春天的复苏做好准备。

如今，当我书写时，这奇景笼罩了山谷，
风已平息，每一片林木都承载了雪的重量；
透过交错的枝丫，
我望见一片闪耀的光辉。雪花晶莹剔透
在晨霜的静穆下精致，
覆于每一根枝头；如此无风的静谧
弥漫在空气中，仿佛童话般幽谷
环绕某座幽灵宫殿，苍白的居所里
是传说中睡美人。无声的鸟儿
在寂静的树林里不安地飞来飞去，
等待魔咒的突然破裂；
当它们迅速振翼
从白枝跃起，落下一阵闪烁的雪雨
如星光般。这不是普通的白，而是
一种清澈透亮的光辉，映入
眨眼的双眸，闪出银色光芒。
无阳光，天空浑然一片云幕。
山谷显得孤寂，仿佛幽魂；而房舍中
女主人的呼唤声却回响加倍。
我找不到语言去描绘这完美景象；
美的陶醉，
寂静纯净的欢愉；
灵感的神圣氛围溢满天地，
让世界屏息，充满神性。
上帝将天使化作灵——即风——
他的使者是燃烧的火焰。于是啊，心啊！
（脆弱的心因孤独而昏厥）
在甘甜的微风中，灵魂苏醒；
上帝的天使引导雷云；上帝
的声音确实在雷霆中响起。周围
皆为爱意与不变的神性；
他的怜悯笼罩万物。
而在光亮的雪中，定有
天使的感化——虔诚而神圣的事工，
在奇妙的静谧中，以慈爱之举
将耀眼的衣裳轻落
于孕育的大地。

于是，如此，美丽的雪轻轻洒下，
这神圣的降落；当缩短的白昼
在低沉而斑驳的西方凄然消逝，
霜月展示出冰冷的蓝色夜晚，
东方的寒风如钢般锋利，撒落冰霜。
在渐满的月亮周围，星辰比蜜蜂还密集，
准时闪烁的星辰聚集。巨大的白雪覆盖的山丘
闪烁升起，延伸至夜晚的蓝色边际，
宛如幽灵，被狭窄的杉木峡谷条纹分割，
黑色波动，庄严肃穆。越过卢吉河流，
积聚一层脉络状的薄冰，悄悄爬行，
用精灵般的足迹环绕每块石头和芦苇，
精巧地构筑冰的纹理；而在水坝上方
飞溅的水声充盈清澈
而含氮的寒空气中。整个漆黑的冬日时光，
锋利的风自白色平原呼啸而来，
尖锐如口哨般。蜷缩在温暖床上的孩子
小心倾听，害怕瘦狼
或那些他在古书中见过的奇异兽类
会在嘎吱作响的窗户处拉扯
嚎叫。而当最后懒散的黎明
在风中以红光重新照亮东方，
以无力的火焰，浓烈的蓝色
严肃而鲜明地笼罩雪山之上，
闪烁着寒意，而半透明的薄云
缓缓游弋于西方冰冷的天空。
沿着林间，猛烈而尖锐的风刮过，
哀号，剥落枝头披覆的雪衣，将雪撒向四方，
撒向四野。如此，白昼流逝：
当祖父在火堆旁守着
蜷缩着，鼻尖挂着一滴寒冷的水珠。

现在，在冰层之下，卢吉河低沉咆哮，
冰面光滑处，冰壶选手踏上去，
野心勃勃，豪情满怀。接着几个快乐时光，
叮当作响的石壶从谨慎的手中滑出，
大麦酒——最适合狂放的气氛，
入口微烈，古老的笑话也被讲开。
啊，归家的路上，当太阳，
低悬西方，泛起红光，
缓缓落下，所有镶着琥珀边的云彩，
如火焰随从，带着渐暗的光辉
散开！扫帚被挥舞，象征胜利的标志，
他们豪情万丈地夸耀，
这次投壶是如何完成的——带着怎样的弧线，
独特——所有技艺的完美——
那颗石壶威风地滚向投壶标志，
胜利加冕，同时将其余石壶四散甩开。

隆隆作响！在乡村旅店内，
那时星辰撒落在清冷的苍穹，
明亮而尖锐；而月亮
磨砺着她的半圆；空气
在凛冽颤抖的呼啸中，如镰刀般割裂，
他们坐在轰鸣的壁炉旁，畅饮
加了糖的珠状“威士忌”。
哦，当这珍贵液体点燃头脑的激情，
让欢乐充盈，心跳加速，
古老的友谊之中，坚实有力的握手，
粗糙橡木桌上，布满茧子的双手紧握！
唱起《友谊地久天长》，泪光闪烁，¹
随着夜晚渐逝，友谊愈发明亮！

现在，沉睡的大地庄严地等待着
春天准时的复苏。
被束缚和捆缚的寒霜严密警醒，
使所有河流坚硬，赋予每片田地刚毅之力。
这片荒芜的土地承受着北方
那严酷专制的猛力；
而人类以顺从的心态接受这种威力——
在无力抗拒之处，祈望上帝的怜悯，
等待解冻来临。

啊，全能全知的上帝，
无形无相，唯通过万物之效而被认识与爱慕，
解开这荒芜的大地的束缚吧！
万物未竟之生命的灵魂——
在原子中，在人类中！万界的灵魂啊！
不要让你的荣耀空虚，也不要使
你所造的人陷于恐惧与饥饿。
你从天庭洒下甘霖滋养大地；
你赐下如羊毛般的雪，并广撒
霜华如灰。你投下冰块如碎片，
有谁能忍受你的寒冷？
你发出命令，顷刻间冰雪消融；
你使风吹动，水流淌动。²

冰封的空气很快迎来微妙的解冻，
忽然，一缕爬行的雾，夹带着雨，
浸润其中，使阴湿的白昼昏暗，细雨淅沥，
宣告着变化。夜幕下，横贯天穹，
在狂风中，掠过被唤醒的天空，
成群结队，奔腾的云涌动在被唤醒的苍穹，
壮丽而阴沉。苍白的月亮，
惊讶地穿过云层时隐时现，
随后颤抖着隐藏起来。一颗清醒而明亮的星，
如活的蓝宝石，低垂在她身旁，
忠诚的灵魂陪伴她孤寂的绝望，
在乌云风暴中闪耀。随后雨水不断倾泻，
无尽地落下，夜与雨声同声低语。
而在回响的晨曦中，何其巨变！
草地闪闪发光，像刚洗过一样；
隐蔽小径上，一块块昏暗的积雪
孤寂地消融。苏醒的森林摇曳
枝头没有羽毛。那覆盖大地的白色盛装
已然消失，美丽的山岭
在晚霞中曾映照玫瑰般的光辉
与无力的黄金洗礼，
如今却黯淡，盲目的雨水匍匐其上。
此刻卢吉河在回荡的山谷中轰鸣奔腾，
泛着黄褐，广布金黄的沙粒
在草地上。西南风，被唤醒，
在易怒的温和中肆虐，将天空洗净，
以长翼之风吹拂至蓝色深渊，
奏响了三月赤红的低沉乐章。

高高吹起，洗净长空啊，西南风！
卷起那满盈的云团；推翻——
混乱堆积的白色雾崖，
陡然倾塌，高耸而未曾消散；
而当它们悄无声息地传播开来
散裂开来，破碎成毁灭的华丽
因你无形之力，而显露的宁静，
与甘美揭示的上界深邃——
那碧蓝的、大气的海！
高高吹起，筛净大地啊，西南风！
如今沉滞的空气渐稀薄，不再有
僵硬的白昼向暮色愈显阴沉；
也不再有雨从厚重的云阴滴落：
而在温柔而美丽的落日中，
白昼沉没，直至澄澈透明的空气中，
仿佛在一间新装饰的殿堂，
金色的月亮随风而染红。³
不再透过苍白的雾与低垂的云，
那永恒的山岭——大地的骨骼——隆起
其神性以供崇拜；而是庄严地
在澄澈天幕下勾勒，每一块峭岩
将满布伤痕的雄伟托举至天国。
雄鹰从微风吹拂的岩架上飞起，
大胆地拍击双翼，迎风而上，
以难以想象的速度，
伸展至上层以太，并重新获得
与高贵的太阳进行傲慢的交流！
高高吹起吧，西南方向吹来的深邃的风！
在岩石的洞穴和深壑
悲哀地呻吟吧，因为荒凉笼罩着一切。
穿过未知的深渊和污秽的裂谷，
那神圣属于恐惧与永恒的湿冷，
黑暗永远盘踞，盲目地嚎叫
直到嘶哑的巨龙，在悲痛中哀号
在地狱般的诅咒巢穴中作出回应。

愉悦于那久困病榻之人，
总凝望着那不变的群山，
被水汽环绕，被云雾笼罩；
同样原始的景观被无休止的雨水浸透；
令人精神抖擞的风令他感到愉快。
被那深沉的声音唤醒，脱离孤寂的思绪，
森林的运动（像一匹骏马
在进军的银色号角中嘶鸣），
他奔向自然旧形的亲近。
就像一幅美丽的图画突然揭开
展现在急切的画师眼前，大地之美，
被春天最初的荣光所触染，
向他的灵魂投下莫名的光彩。
他在模糊的激荡中感知
万物，他的欢欣亦模糊不清。
大地的形貌与永恒的美丽击打
穿透他的心灵，直到他感到
如同一个新生的、未被玷污的存在。
突然从萌芽的树林里传来音乐，
空中云雀，惊喜并欢悦。
噢，云雀！（因你苏格兰的名对我
最为甜美）怀着难以言说的爱意
我爱你，因为每天早晨当我躺着
长期患病，身心疲惫，
便见你自低草间升起，
它的歌声仿佛只为我一个人而唱。
于千鸟之中，我能辨识那音调，
这声音，我的小小甜美祭司！
对于衰竭的心与绝望的灵魂，
什么更能安抚胜过一个自然唱歌的
鸟儿？许多年前的一个圣烛节，
当因疼痛和疾病而虚弱时，它注入
进我灵魂一份甘美的喜悦。
因为忽然，在朦胧空气中
响起柔和、流丽而清澈的乐音，
如白银，比管风琴的低声更温柔，
在低音轰鸣前升起。钝化的风
已不再带着刺骨的霜锋，
忘却低语，而夏日的宁静
弥漫心灵与感官。尚无紫罗兰
吐露芬芳；自幽暗草地
尚无雪花莲敢于探首；连白蜡树
那乐声所自出的树，也未舒展其芽
去黝黑，当胚芽方才聚绿。
然而这坚毅的春之先声
吟唱出丰富的和声，巧妙雕琢
她的声音，并透过光滑的喉咙抽泣她的灵魂
在美妙的颤抖中。当她调和
她柔韧的歌声，缓缓自闭合的天幕
降下圣洁的雪。然而穿透那阵雪，
令万物肃静，依然清晰
红鸫⁴用颤音滑音结尾
自渐白的白蜡树，唱出喘息的狂喜。
我满怀惊奇而立；直至今日
仍怀着陶醉忆起那亲切之歌；
也永远不会有一个快乐的圣烛节
但我还是想出去听。若偶然
有歌鸟将音符洒落空寂空气，
它那无家可归的音符，在我心中仿佛
正是那只优雅灰色的鸟儿
曾在飘雪中唱出柔美乐声。

此时，当松散的田土被风吹开，
冰雪自白苍的山岭
缓缓消融而下，犁便从沟槽中解开。
套上顺从的马儿，翻转
用深压的犁刃那肥润的壤土。
从早上到晚上以缓慢的步调
牧童划出笨拙的平行线，
而庄重地染褐了端整的田野。
那是一个雾蒙蒙的二月天
十年前，我还是个十岁的男孩时，
亲眼见到一场乡间犁地竞赛。清晨
东方亮起昏暗烟霭般的火光，
铅紫色的微辉中，隆隆的车辚
载着一副轻犁（车后
一匹鬃毛光亮的马小跑而来）
尾饰彩带）从我家门前经过，
驶向那丰腴肥沃的草地，
环绕卢吉河畔。多少牛群
在此肥壮，垂唇滴露，常常纵横奔驰
他们在蹄声嘈杂的草地上狂奔，
摆动尾巴抽打口渴的苍蝇。
然而如今那平展翠绿的广野
很快就被改为朴素的棕色；
二十副犁由二十名农夫执持，
用闪亮的犁刃切开鲜活的草皮。
啊，多少个冬日的时刻，风雨交加，
在幽暗的山谷，或在荒凉的山坡
这二十人孤独地锻炼自己，
并在艰苦中臻于娴熟。多少抚触
与诚挚的善语都曾给予
那亲爱忠实、默默前行的马儿，
胸膛高挺，宁静而坚忍。
现在，期待已久的大日子终于到来了：
他们骄傲地肩并肩站着，
耐心而坚定；而在后面，
农人早已褪去衣衫，露出黝壮的臂膀——
长期劳作使手臂强健——热切的情郎
俯身轻倾，小心谨慎地执握
犁把。随着开始的信号
一阵不和谐的嘈声齐起，撕裂
那渐渐混浊湿润的空气。
突然间，马群奋起，清亮的轭具
在光中铿然作响。犁刀巧妙弯转
锋刃闪耀，咬住青草，切开
青翠的叶片，几不可闻的细声
随即平滑的犁刃紧随而下；
自光亮的坡面，黏土般的田块
齐整倾入一侧的沟垄。
如此，直至那潮湿、阴冷而未澄清的天，
聚集其粘液预兆着雨；
而荒凉的夜自凄寂的东方潜行而来。
当谨慎的裁决终被宣布
由那位睿智的评判——一位白发农人，
他在年轻时也是热切的牧童——
一些心胸燃起胜利的火焰。另一些人，
套上蒸汽腾腾的马匹，缓慢而行，
伤心疲惫；还有隆隆的噪音
载着归途的车辚，远传数里，
直至夜幕带来寂静与安宁。

但他从未以灵魂的忧伤姿态，
绝望地套上那光润、冒烟的马队，
踏上归途——我亲爱的朋友！
他曾三度赢得大奖——那金色的几尼，
并因此声名远播，成为名人；
直至死亡——那可咒的吝啬鬼，在他盛年时
将他带走，送往神秘的边境。那一刻，
我体会到挚友死去时生命的空白。
莫名的虚无与缺憾，
永远无法满足！那不可撤销的律令
吞噬生者，同时让死者腐朽。
不再，不再，于那辉煌的五月之夜，
我们徘徊，追逐昔日的欢愉。
五月的第一夜！还有柔和的银色月亮
在蓝天之上点亮她的半弦；
而在西方的橘褐霞光中，
闪耀迎来盛会的满星！
在卢吉河畔的低矮草地上
聚集半透明的薄雾，然后蔓延
在忙碌的静寂中笼罩金黄的荆棘，
与繁叶的丛林。穿过曲折的谷地，
卢吉河流淌，如永恒之音，
奏着不歇的乐章。而在此地，
三个完美的夏天过去了，我亲爱的第一个朋友
和我在一起；我们突然发誓，
走上六英里路去求爱
两姐妹，她们甜美的脸庞被阳光亲吻
晒成浆果般的褐色，质朴而动人——
比所罗门的爱更值得亲吻。
于是我们心情欢快，清晰歌唱
古老的歌——那是在拉马斯节；
以及坦纳希尔温柔所作的那首甜美之曲，
配上比她自身更甜的旋律；
低地少女——在沾满银露的田野中
我们急行，雾霭因脚步而升腾，
直至抵达荒原。从石南丛生的床榻里，
紫石南间，一只鸻鸟扑簌飞起，
疯狂尖叫；而自松林呜咽的山谷里
雉鸡发出刺耳的哀鸣
不和谐地回荡。随后，在接骨木树间
投下厚重古老的阴影，不久我们看见
那窗棂映着月白；低低听见
巴蒂，那蓬毛牧犬，低声咕哝着
他阴沉地咆哮着表示不满。
但我的朋友却偷偷地走近，喊道，
“呼呼，巴蒂！巴蒂！”那狗便迎上来
呜咽着，把湿漉漉的鼻子放在手掌里
乖顺无比，当我轻叩窗棂时
仙女召唤里面的灵魂。
门吱呀作响，一张脸
她微笑着偷看，直到我低声说：“开门，凯特！”
月光中传来低柔的询问——
“哦！是你吗？”我的回答是一个吻。
于是我们步入石铺的厨房，
我们踢着那堆柴火，直到它燃烧起来；
围坐火旁，许多爱情故事
被娓娓道来，直至曙光的金绿石
在东方燃起，从群山之巅滚下
薄绸般的晨雾，被朝阳点燃。
这是我三年前的第一个五月：
现在在博斯林旁边的一座教堂墓地里——
古老的过道——我的第一位朋友长眠，
早早赴了与上帝——万有之主——的约会。

我们曾同桌，共读学堂，
沿着乡间小路一同归家，也曾知晓
篱笆中灰雀的巢，
蓝色光滑的蛋，温暖而安宁。
正如两头幼牛在春夜寒冷时
紧挨着躺在荒凉的山坡上
为了互相温暖，所以当麻烦来临时，
我们依偎而近，情谊愈深
心灵相通，成为真正的朋友。
但死亡突然改变了他的面容，
将他埋入远离我的幽暗之中。
啊，友谊啊，神圣享受的前奏，
灵魂的绝妙结合，
我欠你多少祝福，
又承受了多少无法言说的哀愁！
雏菊在高高的绿叶间盛开，
在他的坟墓上，倾听，你可听见
博斯林河在流淌时发出美妙的音乐；
你可以看到她边缘的白杨树
银色的小叶在阳光下闪烁。
哦，小小的流浪传教士，博斯林河！
风儿在他孤独的坟墓旁奏出美妙的音乐。
哦，熟悉的面孔，永远消失了！还有声音，
永远沉默！我曾听你歌唱
在乡村客栈里，当银色霜花
覆盖窗格，静默地守护，
唱着充满爱与哀愁的古老苏格兰歌谣，
当融化的白雪静静飘落，
无休无止。我也曾见你舞蹈
与丰腴少女狂欢旋舞，在遥远的
在呼啸山丘上孤独的农舍里，
当风暴凝结成雷云。
亲爱的导师，参与乡间一切欢愉，
总是如夜般热情洋溢！
我常常想念你，就像今晚一样，
我的心充满着你的挚爱之歌
音乐和歌词在我耳边响起，
那么，低地姑娘，你可曾离去——直到
我的眼里充满了泪水，亲爱的！亲爱的！
我愿跨越死亡的危险边缘，
只为再见你亲爱的、清晰的面庞，听到
那古老而狂野的音乐，如往昔般，如往昔般。

但当卢吉河带着哀怨的歌声
蜿蜒穿过最幽绿的峡谷，探索
那明亮的阳光；当阴影消逝，
它在分隔的牧场中更迅捷地流淌，
带着轻柔的涌声，因此从那阴郁的故事中
我的歌以更快乐的节奏寻求平静
与银色尽头的安宁与平滑。
从东方的山谷里，露水晶莹
如同闪耀的赫蒙宝石般落下，闪烁着光芒
在日出映照下；斜射的光束
如金色箭雨，使每一滴闪烁的水珠
都化作钻石，每一片草叶
焕发光彩；——于是大地的旅者来到
甜美的卢吉河，歌声回响。在水坝之上
如小型瀑布，声响洪亮，
白衣般冲破连绵雾气。
穿过常春藤覆盖的桥，沿着岩石河床
在波浪形的银椴的阴影下，枝条弯曲
轻触水面泛起涟漪，河水潺潺
忽而急促、变化无常，穿过榛树凉亭
少女正被求爱；
当在她旁边的天鹅绒草地上
恋人低身而躺，他温柔的话语
表达炽热情感——她信任地将
她所有温柔的美丽托付于他宽厚的胸膛
脸颊泛红。啊，卢吉河！你此刻肯定在低语
在你微小的石头上清晰而亲切地流淌！
当他们在沉思的间隙听到
你潺潺的音乐，灵魂中从不
蒙上阴影。你的歌声就是幸福，
是甜美共鸣的启示，
被他们领会；因为从未有
自然在灵魂闪耀时阴郁过。
这是黄昏时分，那颗唯一的星星
白色的星从最纯净的蔚蓝中升起；
当夜色缓缓撒下千重阴影
在旋转的世界里，小溪歌唱
她的母亲大地沉睡。啊，秋夜！
当天空湛蓝，满月
如朱诺般高悬，白色丰盈
炽烈辉煌；当在南方苍穹中
猎户座如冰冻的骷髅
显露古老的雄伟与铠甲般的力量；
仙后座寒冷而清晰地闪烁
在她的七颗钻石宝座上！
在茂密的树叶丛中，夜莺
苏格兰夜莺，叽叽喳喳延长
白、白，啾——日间的完整旋律。
穿过蓝色的寂静与柔和的空气，远远传来
粗哑瀑布的隆隆声
在家中的炉火旁无人理会，
在榛树凉亭中亦无人留意
爱意在此翱翔，度过宁静的时光；而仍
当无形的风以诡异哀号漫游
穿越松林幽谷，少女更紧紧依偎
直到两条坚实相交的臂膀
给予安慰；唇间轻触。

此刻正值季节——在摇曳的树叶前，
被十月火焰般的炼金术染红，
枯黄而酥脆——牧场的干草已被割下。
与螺旋状的兰花、幽暗的风铃草交错，
最细腻的蔚蓝色，光滑的毛茛，
牛眼花淡淡地开着，
我不知其名——芬芳的黑麦草生长其中。
此刻，锋利的镰刀以稳健的弧度挥下，
一切在炙烤的阳光下枯萎。
过去两天的黄金时光（傍晚云霞
色彩斑斓，层叠散布，
错综复杂）乡村少女们来到田间，
赤裸着手臂，赤裸着脚踝；在真诚的欢笑中
还有家常的玩笑和清脆的笑声，
采集枯萎的香草。她们目光闪烁，
少女的活力尽情燃烧，
伴随轻微的喘息——她们轻松搬运
那堆温热的草料到堆垛处。
啊，多少次，
老人慢慢堆起草垛，
看见却不责备我们狂欢的嬉戏：
他半带忧伤地回忆起自己年轻时的青春
那时美丽是心灵的魔力，
而一张美丽的脸是魅力所在；当唇间触碰
是如魔法般神奇；完美的生活
是对女性世界的奇妙渴望。
但在令人屏息、神经紧绷的正午，
烈日直射下，阳光未曾减弱
她们从田野中退去
到凉爽安慰的树林中，或幸运地寻到
被山毛榉树荫凉爽的昏昏水塘，
去浸泡松弛的四肢。她们跃入水中，
从光滑的河岸直冲而下，
进入冰冷的水中，缓缓划动，
用有节奏的划水和张开的双手；而常常，
当清澈的水漫过唇边
轻轻玩弄，她们挺起膨胀的胸膛
充满未消耗的活力。
噢，多么愉快的时光！
在树荫下多么舒适，当白昼
用丝绸般的雾气遮掩远方景象，
送来远方令人心神松弛的气息——
在甜美慰藉的树荫下更惬意
漫步沉思。心灵因此宁静
激荡的情感平息，进入虔诚的恍惚，
不觉神圣的力量显现
上帝以美丽的自然形态体现。
就如太阳藐视平凡的目光
在高空之上，但在广阔的
灰色的海面上展露柔和的面容，所以上帝
在自然中闪耀。啊，甘美的林间小路
位于美丽的格伦康纳，我在青春飞扬之时
曾见神圣浪漫的英雄。
没有蜿蜒小径穿过新鲜的橘树林，
通向白色的坎帕尼亚城，坐落于
不受侵犯的蓝宝石海边，
能比得上格伦康纳那阴影婆娑的幽径？
那被鸟环绕的山毛榉树枝，
在尘土飞扬的小径上相互亲吻，
投下颤动的影子；当温暖的西风
自在地吹过此地，
这里便弥漫着音乐与芳香
笼罩在格伦康纳，如同天使歌咏般的旋律
在蔚蓝的天空中由天使唱和。
不要以为我空言或夸张，
如同诗人言辞浮夸
描述爱情之光辉时少女的所为；
而是存在着美丽与愉悦，
以及比一切感官更甜美的感受，
对行走在枝下、聆听的人，
如海浪般回荡的低鸣乐声。
在那里，我沉思良久——收获了
充满心灵的朴素灵感，满足
我灵魂的渴望。在那里我感受到
那不受束缚的神性，潜藏于
美丽之中；当永恒的星辰
透过被光照亮的叶片闪烁银光时，
我情不自禁地敬拜。
哦，美丽的夜晚
久远的无法言说的甘美时光！
当暮色不经意间将我包围，沉思其中，
独自沉思于低语的叶下，
它们为格伦康纳投下阴影。平静时刻
引发遐想，如同大地披上长袍般，
披上阴影的沉思，平息
她的动作如同音乐般千变万化。
西边天色已晚，
薄薄褪色的橘色，阴沉的云层
紫水晶般，边缘染着火焰般的紫色，
缓慢而均匀地移动。
无风的黄昏幽影
慢慢聚集，甜美和谐的音调
在叶间林丛中回响
逐渐消失，只留下画眉独唱；
然后，从碧玉般的天空轻柔出现一颗星
散发银光，随着西方逐渐昏暗而明亮。
但在半圆的月亮升起之前，
她将白色光辉洒向透明空气，
画眉停止歌唱，通过薄暮的林丛
灰鹡鸰发出奇异的叫声，林间的声音
害羞的小鸟盘旋在禾田间；
突然，悄无声息地，蓝色
加深，直到无数白星
透过晶莹平滑而柔软的天空低垂，
不是冷漠的，而是六月激情的光芒。
灰鹡鸰现在，在高大的绿叶玉米间
用沾露水的羽毛覆盖她的卵，
并止住了她那人类般的哭喊。寂静留存
在心灵中留下空隙，突如其来的悲伤，
低沉的叹息声中，空气一片空虚。
然后，在整晚的夜色中，夏日的大地
将她的孩子们温柔地拥入安眠；
现在，娇嫩的少女们安睡，
她们的灵魂在白皙的肢体中沉睡，奢华安宁。
啊，唇如雪的少女们！雪白的眼睑
轻轻覆盖生动的眼睛！未被亲吻的双颊，
半陷在枕般的压力中，圆润的手臂
在甜美梦境的温柔中伸展，
将温暖投向冰冷而无情的空气！
睡吧！婴儿般温柔的眼睛，
嘟起的红润小嘴唇！丰满的手
握成深有酒窝的拳头
玫瑰色的慵懒中，卷发舒展着
圆圆的娃娃脸上散发着芬芳，
亲吻宝贝！沉默清脆的舌尖
与银色笑声！现在音乐般的声音
小脚丫沉默不语，蓝色的鞋子
不再从托儿所的门口踏来踏去。
你不属于死亡，睡眠！你的宁静领域
被梦幻的幸福调和，被朦胧环绕，
带着幽暗，满盈圣洁
以天堂的精致元素。
在闪烁的天空中燃烧吧，远方的星辰！
而你，温柔的新月！高挂吧
展现你柔和的奇迹，你洁白的光环
你的清澈之美，直到健康的黎明
消退你的微光与借来的骄傲！

仰卧而睡，在懒散的午后，
在风尚未醒、圣山之风未降临之前，
是甜美的。啊，让诗人描绘
那神圣之地，他曾躺卧在圆形
青翠芳香的悬铃木下，半醒半睡，
无法入眠，却又半沉于梦境，处于那一刻
敏感的感官被欺骗，天使的翅膀
奏出灵性的音乐。甜美而朦胧
圣地，不仅因其美丽而可爱，
也因记忆而珍贵，
那些在心中浮现的往昔画面，
各自分明，繁盛而美好，
带着某种奇特情绪的柔和色调，
赋予原本单纯美丽的景物
生动光彩。
在一片美丽山谷，绿草如毯，
柔韧而倾斜，从溪水旁延展，
一棵圆形悬铃木，叶如蜜色，
丰茂，蜜蜂低语般嗡嗡作响，
为水井投下阴影。晶莹的水面
冰冷而幽静；在它光滑的胸膛上
映出缠绕的枝影。没有水罐打扰
它的自然宁静，只有清晨与黄昏
我慈爱的母亲踏过露湿的草地，
耐心地提着水壶，带回
清凉甘露。每个春天来临，
一朵雪花莲，从枯草间探出，
最深的叶子带着柔和的绿，
白色绽放，在透明的胸中
映出洁白的倒影。无人触碰，
这隐藏的美；它盛开，又凋谢，
在孤独中绽放光彩，又在孤独中消逝——
无人知晓，无人爱慕，唯有一颗单纯的心
诗意的心，创造了这首歌。
在这脆弱奢华的赠予之后
它微小的生命已留存在灵魂中，
一只知更鸟在低矮的缝隙中筑巢，
仅离水面约一尺高的低处，
水。它带来干叶、苔藓和草，
用细发衬垫，使巢
柔软。我放下了写字的手
放在那红色胸膛上，
柔滑而温暖，轻轻呼吸着未出生的五个生命；
而那躲在树叶后面的警觉的伙伴在我头顶歌唱
哀婉，歌声中带着忧伤，
在林间幽处，如隐士般宁静，
心满意足。常在九月的日子里，
林木繁花，田野
谷物丰盈闪耀，
温暖的阳光充满静谧的空气
带着淡淡蒸气——我心绪纷乱，
在那里度过了沉醉的假日；
因为，哦，亲爱的上帝！有一种纯粹的喜悦
在梦中：在那些精神疲惫的时刻，
烦恼的心灵在虚幻中找到安慰
构筑幻想。啊，能仰卧
平铺在阴影草地上，
透过绿叶的空隙观望
缓慢漂浮的白云，
无限的蔚蓝天穹！寂静，
昏睡的午后，伴着静谧的声响
如思绪的和声，卢吉河流淌——
气泡声被远距离柔化成音乐般的低吟
由远及近。然后，那些微弱的影响，
那些激发灵感的幻象冲动
涌入心灵，带来灵感，
神秘：而幽灵般的记忆
（逝去感情之幽灵）徘徊在未消散的，
不容颠覆的灵魂殿堂！

正如在松软的草甸间缓缓舔过
卢吉河啃食环绕的蕨类；并在飞溅中
越过水坝，越过岩石平原
在黑色漩涡中蔓延；我的初生之歌也如此
在无心的漂泊中匆匆赶向终点。
啊，那清脆击打之声何其动人甜美
那在我们宁静山谷中低语的织机！
戴尔从未梦想过如此美丽的山谷——
戴尔，最优秀的河畔歌手，诗人中的
万千之一。读者啊，请快来，
看看卢吉河如何蜿蜒着她的水流
穿过林木丛生的村庄与尖塔耸立的小镇；
再看看博斯林如何急步奔来
自桤木的林间涌出，渴望合并
她涟漪的和声与卢吉河的平静
清澈的音乐，如同灵魂的音乐。
可当你看见她们汇合之处时，读者，请停下，
哦，停下倾听织机的乐声。
穿过爬满常春藤的朴素小桥
（如果你来的话，你会看到
一位前往我们山谷集市的夏季朝圣者)
卢吉河流淌着，泡沫般的星星像钟铃一样
散布在水面。一片平坦的漂白草地
将柔软的地毯铺到敞开的门前
通向简朴的白色房舍。蓝色的炊烟
在呼吸的空气中蜷曲升向树梢
渐渐散开，消失无踪。一阵嗡鸣声
勤劳地传来，是织机的击响声，
那里坐着少女，朴实美丽，充满
家常的单纯，她们一边唱一边织，
在悠闲时光里唱着织着，
每日皆如明日的复本，平顺地
让记忆成为镜子，映照出金色的希望，
满足的希望，看见自己。此地住着一对
老夫妇，他们已走过八十年的人生
（我的外祖父母），他们的智慧之魂已触及
对那蒙福居所的期待
那天上的光明之处，在那里他们将完成
死亡所揭示的生命。去年冬夜
我，这习常的访客，看见了
这对亲爱的老人。他在安乐椅中
昏昏入睡，而她在无声的纺车旁
端坐，额头低垂在膝上，
半睡半醒！我母亲说，这是
生命即将终结的征兆。
一个十岁的男孩，他们的外孙，在地板上
仰卧于早早的睡眠中；三人都
未觉我进来。一幕奇异的景象，
满载奇异的教训，赐予人类的灵魂。
在她婚姻生活的最初阶段，
这位妇人，如今啊！已如此疲惫而衰老，
她生育了五个女儿；而深爱的儿子们，
也同样有五个。其中有些英年早逝，
但仍有六个健在，并且都居住在
离她家不到一英里的地方。那朵花，
那位母亲的偶像，也是她的骄傲，
是她所有希望的磁石，主赐恩典的化身，
正是她最小的儿子，
是所有孩子中最小的。她常常告诉我，
没有人能比得上他掷石子的力量；
穿着鞋子时，他能超过飞快的赛跑者，
而赤足时，在修剪平整的草地上起舞，
在夏日假期与秋日晚间，
（直到今天他们仍然如此）他的笑声最为清朗，
步伐最轻盈；他能拨动淳朴女子的心弦，
以自然的优雅，
以及他那危险的爱情故事讲述。
我无法说清是何等神秘的方式，
白日梦，或夜晚的银色幻象，
抑或是理性庄严的显现，描绘着
一种平和的抱负与宁静的幸福，
为未来衰老的岁月——但忽然之间，
在壮年之际，他心灵中开出了一朵花，
那是不灭的渴望，
要成为上帝的传道人。当神圣的计划
主宰灵魂的行动时，必然会有途径
来实现它们。他以谨慎的心，
以值得称赞的节俭，以及
双臂的强健力量，在夏日的数月中，
积攒下一份足以满足需求的财富，
一直撑到学期结束。
他所有体力劳动所得，
在那晴朗夏日的翠绿田野里，
伴随银色的小溪与凉爽的微风，
都在冬日的烟雾城镇中花费。
但当他完成了一年的学业，
以他的归来祝福了父亲的家，
带来了何等神圣的希望！
他母亲满怀渴望地憧憬，或喋喋不休地
在各处谈论他——他奇异的习惯，
以及他在午夜时分对那些怪异书籍的钻研。
他的父亲，则带着一种严峻的喜悦，
如今变得自豪，觉得自己已不凡，
因为在整个山谷之中，谁人
曾有过如此高贵、如此博学的儿子，
和他一样值得骄傲？
时光流逝：但当三年过去，
完成了各自不同的命定，
一种变化悄然渗入他们生命的河流，
正如乌云的阴影使清澈溪水变得幽暗。
他们的儿子回家了，但随他一同而来的，
却是忧伤。他的脸色美丽得过于明亮，
像阳光渲染云彩般映亮了他的面颊。
他的容颜带着一种比明显悲伤更忧郁的喜悦，
而那奇妙的人体构造，
如此精巧地被造，
这奥秘的机巧，正在消耗殆尽，
以一种痛苦不安的方式走向坟墓。
何必多说？每一颗心都必定知道，
凭借同情的预感？很久，
一个四季轮转的整年，
（因为我母亲井旁的白色雪花莲，
两度在绿草间绽开它最白的花瓣），
他在病榻上消耗着生命。这必定是
对一颗会思考的灵魂而言疲惫的试炼，
这样带着对临近死亡的清醒意识，
那可怖的消瘦！一次又一次地
无情逼近。母亲在纺车旁坐着，
而当他的声音渐渐微弱，
枕边放着一支简单的口哨，
一旦吹响，她便带着耐心与悲伤进来，
给予传道人安抚的爱，用希望
来滋养正在消逝的生命。但他的呼吸
愈发微弱；他干燥而苍白的嘴唇
紧贴在那小小的乐器上，
却发不出哪怕一丝微弱的声音！
一只小铃铛，原是孩子的玩具，
如今挂在他床边，它清脆的声响
轻轻响起，召唤着疲惫。就这样，他的时日
一点点缩短，直到完成，而他的灵魂，
那不朽的本质，通过他的眼睛
渴望着，凝视着那位威严者，
祂在神圣的奥秘中伟大无比，
那位模糊启示录的成全者！！

自那以后已经过去十二年，而他如今
成了那些认识他的人心中幸福的回忆，
因为认识他，就是去爱他。
我常常认为这样反倒更好，正如命运，
或者说，上帝（他的旨意就是命运）已经证明了这一点；
因为如果他活着而后堕落（我们当中有谁
能完全无瑕呢？叫那自高的要谨慎，
免得他跌倒），那他在父母年老的时候
或许会成为他们的忧伤。
但如今，他却成了荣耀与喜乐；
是一份记忆中的宝藏；是一种喜悦，
无法言喻：在孤独的炉火旁，
他们从不厌倦地谈论他的赞美，并且说
如果他蒙上帝保全，他本会成为
如此伟大、良善、而高贵的人，正如（他们所说的）
全国都会认识他；然而我深知，
在整个教区四邻里，没有一个人
再提起他；他如今已被遗忘，
而这他出生的山谷，也不再记得他。——
这他出生的山谷竟不记得他？
那曾经深爱的，什么都不是了吗？——那美丽的面庞，
那灵巧的四肢，如今只是贫贱模糊的尘土？
那身体、血液，以及脑中交错的网络，
像土块一样崩解！这就是一切吗？
一块草皮，一个日期，一段墓志铭，然后
是遗忘，和深邃的虚无！
于是，他出生的山谷不再记得他。
树木低语随风而过，溪流奔涌，
花朵在幽谷中闪耀着露珠，
一切无知觉的受造物都在微笑，
以慈爱的姿态；然而人却像清晨的轻梦一般，
清晨，人们美丽地醒来，
像从压覆的阴霾中升起的彩虹，
被唤出，映照在太阳之前——
却只是一瞬的荣耀。不再有声音
留下来低语他的行踪：
那可触的身体，在母亲的怀抱里
溶解消散，面容的每一道特征
都在腐败的变化中消失。哦，黑色的土地！
将那缓缓腐朽的形体遮掩，不让赤裸的眼睛看见，
那从鲜活发丝中败坏的美丽，
那因罪而变得无法再容纳
圣灵的身体。大地啊，把它紧紧裹住，
直到天堂因末日的号角而震动！

这还不是全部：因为那不可见的灵魂
流露出温柔的渴望，那不可熄灭的愿望，
渴望过一种更纯洁的生活，更加接近
那万有生命的本源。那力量，
生动幻想与无边景象的力量，
（以天堂的色彩染成的高远辉光），
那想象的创造，述说着
凡人之体内不朽之魂的渴慕！
此刻，当我四周盲目劳作的狂风
咆哮，雨点鞭打着满是水痕的窗；
此刻，当山坡上的松林幽谷
在与那无形敌手的搏斗中怒吼；
而黑色的山潭因风暴而翻腾泛白；——
在这外在的元素之战之中，
我的灵魂以平静的姿态——甚至比
外头那狂烈风暴更安宁——
安坐于她神圣的居所，沉思着
死亡，那严峻却揭示新生命的奥秘。
当那熟悉、曾可拥抱的形体
只不过是一小撮白色的尘埃，灵魂
在神圣的扩张中成长，更接近上帝。
因此，我的心，不要因得不到支持而悲伤
他的记忆在我们心中消逝，不再，
当草色已然斑白，拂晓迟疑时，
他再也不会羞怯地穿过未曾践踏的原野，
再也不会轻拂他清晨的小径：
他不再于山毛榉树下，倦怠地舒展身躯，
沉思以色列王所作的神圣诗篇；
因为在那被转化的荣耀中，他已重新被穿上
不朽的衣裳，他在更纯净的空气中
呼吸，在更美的山谷里。那里没有风暴
如此刻般狂烈；没有变迁，没有晦暗，
但一切都平静、永恒、清晰，
上帝的荣光与羔羊照亮万有！

如今，这首歌要结束了——并非为自我荣耀而唱，
而是在卢吉河的侍奉中。它一直是
一个加冕的异象，一场银色的梦，
即我能以知名的永恒触及这山谷，
使那烦躁的流水闪烁，
在超越尘世光芒的光辉中发亮。
此处无际的天国的风更为纯净，
金色的光芒更锐利，更晶莹，
天空更深地湛蓝如蓝宝石。因为对我而言，
在这翠绿的田野与葱茏的丘陵之上，
萦绕着你们所看不见的荣光，
也有你们所感受不到的力量，
喜悦和莫名的忧伤！
我的家在这里；而且就像一颗忍耐的星，
在那安宁的乐园与我自己的灵魂之间
闪耀着——那就是一位母亲在其中发光，
是唯一真正女人性的完满。
还有一位父亲——带着那属于
灰白经历的智慧，以及那严肃的喜悦，
喜悦于赤裸的真理，以及那属于
深沉反思之心的理性——他已度过
在此地的五十个寒冬。而所有那些希望，
装点着当下；所有那些悲伤的悔恨，
使过去黯淡，如今都呈现在我的灵魂之中，
借由这亲爱山谷的外在
形态与色彩，因此，我渴望
使它的溪流在不朽的诗行中流淌，
低声吟唱，穿越那曲折蜿蜒的幽谷！

让宽容的仁爱阻止
歌者的严厉评判：并非他
因畏惧而阻止那公义之言，
那可责之言，以善意说出，以及那真理
支撑谴责的真理。然而，亲爱的主啊，
年轻时对心灵的奉承，带着
不可熄灭的渴望，展现出
我希望的狂热。哦！如果这梦
消逝为虚无，甚至比虚无更惨，
如秋日夕阳金色光环般的黑暗深渊，
以及那夜晚
未竟的雄心将我包围，
我的命定，想象那可怕的地狱
将征服的灵魂彻底吞没！所以啊，诸位
以嫉妒与慈爱守护
我们神圣文学的荣耀，
请以信的希望所生的慈爱阅读，
宽恕那些零散的学童之思，过于直白
无法用抽搐般的言语表达，或用冷漠
精美拼花般的词句包装，
宽恕青春的怪异，技巧的不足，
以及那对故乡的盲目虔诚的热情！

THAT impulse which all beauty gives the soul
Is languaged as I sing. For fairer stream
Rolled never golden sand unto the sea,
Made sweeter music than the Luggie, gloom’d
By glens whose melody mingles with her own.
The uttered name my inmost being thrills,
A word beyond a charm; and if this lay
Could smoothly flow along and wind to the end
In natural manner, as the Luggie winds
Her tortuous waters, then the world would list
In sweet enthralment, swallowed up and lost,

As he who hears the music that beguiles.
For as the pilgrim on warm summer days
Pacing the dusty highway, when he sees
The limpid silver glide with liquid lapse
Between the emerald banks—with inward throe
Blesses the clear enticement and partakes,
(His hot face meeting its own counterpart
Shadowy, from an unvoyageable sky)
So would the people in these later days
Listen the singing of a country song,
A virelay of harmless homeliness;
These later days, when in most bookish rhymes,
Dear blessed Nature is forgot, and lost
Her simple unelaborate modesty.

And unto thee, my friend! thou prime of soul
’Mong men; I gladly bring my firstborn song!
Would it were worthier for thy noble sake,
True poet and true English gentleman!
Thy favours flattered me, thy praise inspired:
Thy utter kindness took my heart, and now
Thy love alleviates my slow decline.

Beneath an ash in beauty tender leaved,
And thro’ whose boughs the glimmering sunshine flow’d
In rare ethereal jasper, making cool
A chequered shadow in the dark-green grass,
I lay enchanted. At my head there bloomed
A hedge of sweet-brier, fragrant as the breath
Of maid belovëd when her cheek is laid
To yours in downy pressure, soft as sleep.
A bank of harebells, flowers unspeakable
For half-transparent azure, nodding, gleamed
As a faint zephyr, laden with perfume,
Kissed them to motion, gently, with no will.
Before me streams most dear unto my heart,
Sweet Luggie, sylvan Bothlin—fairer twain
Than ever sung themselves into the sea,
Lucid Ægean, gemmed with sacred isles—
Were rolled together in an emerald vale;
And into the severe bright noon, the smoke
In airy circles o’er the sycamores
Upcurled—a lonely little cloud of blue
Above the happy hamlet. Far away,
A gently-rising hill with umbrage clad,
Hazel and glossy birch and silver fir,
Met the keen sky. Oh, in that wood, I know,
The woodruff and the hyacinth are fair
In their own season; with the bilberry
Of dim and misty blue, to childhood dear.
Here, on a sunny August afternoon,
A vision stirred my spirit half-awake
To fling a purer lustre on those fields
That knew my boyish footsteps; and to sing
Thy pastoral beauty, Luggie, into fame.
Now, while the nights are long, by the dear hearth
Of home I write; and ere the mavis trills
His smooth notes from the budding boughs of March,
While the red windy morning o’er the east
Widens, or while the lowly sky of eve
Burns like a topaz;—all the dear design
May reach completion, married to my song
As far as words can syllable desire.

May yet the inspiration and delight
That proved my soul on that Autumnal day,
Be with me now, while o’er the naked earth
Hushfully falls the soft, white, windless snow!

Once more, O God, once more before I die,
Before blind darkness and the wormy grave
Contain me, and my memory fades away
Like a sweet-coloured evening, slowly sad—
Once more, O God, thy wonders take my soul.
A winter day! the feather-silent snow
Thickens the air with strange delight, and lays
A fairy carpet on the barren lea.
No sun, yet all around that inward light
Which is in purity,—a soft moonshine,
The silvery dimness of a happy dream.
How beautiful! afar on moorland ways,
Bosomed by mountains, darkened by huge glens,
(Where the lone altar raised by Druid hands
Stands like a mournful phantom), hidden clouds
Let fall soft beauty, till each green fir branch
Is plumed and tassel’d, till each heather stalk
Is delicately fringed. The sycamores,
Thro’ all their mystical entanglement
Of boughs, are draped with silver. All the green
Of sweet leaves playing with the subtle air
In dainty murmuring; the obstinate drone
Of limber bees that in the monkshood bells
House diligent; the imperishable glow
Of summer sunshine never more confessed
The harmony of nature, the divine
Diffusive spirit of the Beautiful.
Out in the snowy dimness, half revealed
Like ghosts in glimpsing moonshine, wildly run
The children in bewildering delight.
There is a living glory in the air—
A glory in the hush’d air, in the soul
A palpitating wonder hush’d in awe.

Softly—with delicate softness—as the light
Quickens in the undawned east; and silently—
With definite silence—as the stealing dawn
Dapples the floating clouds, slow fall, slow fall,
With indecisive motion eddying down,
The white-winged flakes—calm as the sleep of sound,
Dim as a dream. The silver-misted air
Shines with mild radiance, as when thro’ a cloud
Of semi-lucent vapour shines the moon.
I saw last evening (when the ruddy sun,
Enlarged and strange, sank low and visibly,
Spreading fierce orange o’er the west), a scene
Of winter in his milder mood. Green fields,
Which no kine cropped, lay damp; and naked trees
Threw skeleton shadows. Hedges thickly grown,
Twined into compact firmness with no leaves,
Trembled in jewelled fretwork as the sun
To lustre touched the tremulous waterdrops.
Alone, nor whistling as his fellows do
In fabling poem and provincial song,
The ploughboy shouted to his reeking team;
And at the clamour, from a neighbouring field
Arose, with whirr of wings, a flock of rooks
More clamorous; and thro’ the frosted air,
Blown wildly here and there without a law,
They flew, low-grumbling out loquacious croaks.
Red sunset brightened all things; streams ran red
Yet coldly; and before the unwholesome east,
Searching the bones and breathing ice, blew down
The hill with a dry whistle, by the fire
In chamber twilight rested I at home.

But now what revelation of fair change,
O Giver of the seasons and the days!
Creator of all elements, pale mists,
Invisible great winds and exact frost!
How shall I speak the wonder of thy snow?
What though we know its essence and its birth,
Can quick expound in philosophic wise,
The how, and whence, and manner of its fall;
Yet, oh, the inner beauty and the life—
The life that is in snow! The virgin-soft
And utter purity of the down-flake
Falling upon its fellow with no sound!
Unblown by vulgar winds, innumerous flakes
Fall gently, with the gentleness of love!
Between its spotless-clothëd banks, in clear
Pellucid luculence, the Luggie seems
Charmed in its course, and with deceptive calm
Flows mazily in unapparent lapse,
A liquid silence. Every field is robed,
And in the furrow lies the plough unused.
The earth is cherished, for beneath the soft
Pure uniformity, is gently born
Warmth and rich mildness fitting the dead roots
For the resuscitation of the spring.

Now while I write, the wonder clothes the vale,
Calmed every wind and loaded every grove;
And looking thro’ the implicated boughs
I see a gleaming radiance. Sparkling snow
Refined by morning-footed frost so still
Mantles each bough; and such a windless hush
Breathes thro’ the air, it seems the fairy glen
About some phantom palace, pale abode
Of fabled Sleeping Beauty. Songless birds
Flit restlessly about the breathless wood,
Waiting the sudden breaking of the charm;
And as they quickly spring on nimble wing
From the white twig, a sparkling shower falls
Starlike. It is not whiteness, but a clear
Outshining of all purity, which takes
The winking eyes with such a silvery gleam.
No sunshine, and the sky is all one cloud.
The vale seems lonely, ghostlike; while aloud
The housewife’s voice is heard with doubled sound.
I have not words to speak the perfect show;
The ravishment of beauty; the delight
Of silent purity; the sanctity
Of inspiration which o’erflows the world,
Making it breathless with divinity.
God makes His angels spirits—that is, winds—
His ministers a flaming fire. So, heart!
(Weak heart that fainted in thy loneliness)
In the sweet breezes spirits are alive;
God’s angels guide the thunder-clouds; and God
Speaks in the thunder truly. All around
Is loving and continuous deity;
His mercy over all His works remains.
And surely in the glossy snow there shines
Angelic influence—a ministry
Devout and heavenly, that with benign
Action, amid a wondrous hush lets fall
The dazzling garment on the fostered fields.

So thus with fair delapsion softly falls
The sacred shower; and when the shortened day
Dejected dies in the low streaky west,
The rimy moon displays a cold blue night,
And keen as steel the east wind sprinkles ice.
Thicker than bees, about the waxing moon
Gather the punctual stars. Huge whitened hills
Rise glimmering to the blue verge of the night,
Ghostlike, and striped with narrow glens of firs
Black-waving, solemn. O’er the Luggie stream
Gathers a veiny film of ice, and creeps
With elfin feet around each stone and reed,
Working fine masonry; while o’er the dam
Dashing, a noise of waters fills the clear
And nitrous air. All the dark wintry hours
Sharply the winds from the white level moors
Keen whistle. Timorous in homely bed
The schoolboy listens, fearful lest gaunt wolves
Or beasts, whose uncouth forms in ancient books
He has beheld, at creaking shutters pull
Howling. And when at last the languid dawn
In windy redness re-illumes the east
With ineffectual fire, an intense blue
Severely vivid o’er the snowy hills
Gleams chill, while hazy half-transparent clouds
Slow-range the freezing ether of the west.
Along the woods the keenly vehement blasts
Wail, and disrobe the mantled boughs, and fling
A snow-dust everywhere. Thus wears the day:
While grandfather over the well-watched fire
Hangs cowering, with a cold drop at his nose.

Now underneath the ice the Luggie growls,
And to the polished smoothness curlers come
Rudely ambitious. Then for happy hours
The clinking stones are slid from wary hands,
And Barleycorn, best wine for surly airs,
Bites i’ th’ mouth, and ancient jokes are crack’d.
And oh, the journey homeward, when the sun,
Low-rounding to the west, in ruddy glow
Sinks large, and all the amber-skirted clouds,
His flaming retinue, with dark’ning glow
Diverge! The broom is brandished as the sign
Of conquest, and impetuously they boast
Of how this shot was played—with what a bend
Peculiar—the perfection of all art—
That stone came rolling grandly to the Tee
With victory crown’d, and flinging wide the rest

In lordly crash! Within the village inn,
What time the stars are sown in ether keen,
Clear and acute with brightness; and the moon
Sharpens her semicircle; and the air
With bleakly shivering sough cuts like a scythe,
They by the roaring chimney sit, and quaff
The beaded ‘Usqueba’ with sugar dash’d.
Oh, when the precious liquid fires the brain
To joy, and every heart beats fast with mirth
And ancient fellowship, what nervy grasps
Of horny hands o’er tables of rough oak!
What singing of Lang Syne till teardrops shine
And friendships brighten as the evening wanes!

Now the dead earth, wrapt solemnly, expects
The punctual resurrection of the Spring.
Shackled and bound, the coldly vigilant frost
Stiffens all rivers, and with eager power
Hardens each glebe. The wasted country owns
The keen despotic vehemence of the North;
And, with the resignation that obtains
Where he is weak and powerless, man awaits,
Under God’s mercy, the dissolvent thaw.

O All-beholding, All-informing God
Invisible, and only through effects
Known and belov’d, unshackle the waste earth!
Soul of the incomplete vitality
In atom and in man! Soul of all Worlds!
Leave not Thy glory vacant, nor afflict
With fear and hunger man whom Thou hast made.
Thou from Thy chambers waterest the earth;
Thou givest snow like wool; and scatterest wide
Hoarfrost like ashes. Casting forth Thy ice
Like morsels, who can stand before Thy cold?
Thou sendest forth Thy word, and lo! they melt;
Causing Thy wind to blow, the waters flow.*

Soon the frozen air receives the subtle thaw
And suddenly a crawling mist, with rain
Impregn’d, the damp day dims, and drizzling drops
Proclaim a change. At night across the heavens
Swift-journeying, and by a furious wind
Squadron’d, the hurrying clouds range the roused sky,
Magnificently sombrous. The wan moon,
Amazed, gleams often through a cloudy rack,
Then, shuddering, hides. One earnest wakeful star
Of living sapphire drooping by her side,
A faithful spirit in her lone despair,
Outshines the cloudy tempest. Then the shower
Falls ceaseless, and night murmurs with the rain.
And in the sounding morning what a change!
The meadows shine new-washed; while here and there
A dusky patch of snow in shelter’d paths
Melts lonely. The awakened forest waves
With boughs unplumed. The white investiture
Of the fair earth hath vanished, and the hills
That in the evening sunset glowed with rose
And ineffectual baptism of gold,
Shine tawdry, crawled upon by the blind rain.
Now Luggie thunders down the ringing vale,
Tawnily brown, wide-leaving yellow sand
Upon the meadow. The South-West, aroused,
Blustering in moody kindness, clears the sky
To its blue depths by a full-wingëd wind,
Blowing the diapason of red March.

Blow high and cleanse the sky, O South-West wind!
Roll the full clouds obedient; overthrow
White crags of vapour in confusion piled
Precipitate, high-toppling, undissolved;
And while with silent workings they are spread
And scattered, broken into ruinous pomp
By Thy invisible influence, what calm
And sweet disclosure of the upper deep
Cerulean, the atmospheric sea!
Blow high and sift the earth, thou South-West wind!
Now the dull air grows rarer, and no more
The stark day thickens towards evenfall;
Nor from the solid cloud-gloom drips the rain:
But in a sunset mild and beautiful
The day sinks, till in clear dilucid air,
As in a chamber newly decorate,
The golden Phœbe reddens with the wind.
No more through hoary mists and low-hung clouds
The eternal hills—bones of the earth—upheave
Their deity for worship: but severe
Against the clear sky outlined, each sharp crag
Uplifts its scarred magnificence to Heaven.
From breezy ledge the eagle springs aloft,
And, beating boldly up against the wind
With inconceivable velocity,
Stretches to upper ether, and renews
Haughty communion with the regal sun!
Blow high, O deep-mouth’d wind from the South-West!
And in the caves and hollows of the rocks
Moan mournfully, for desolation reigns.
Through the unknown abysses and foul chasms,
Sacred to horror and eternal damps
And darkness ever-cumbent, blindly howl
Till the hoarse dragons, wailing in their woe
Infernal, answer from accursed dens.

Pleasant to him who long in sick-room pent,
Surveying still the same unchanging hills
Belted with vapour, muffled up in cloud;
The same raw landscape soaked in ceaseless rain;
Pleasant to him the invigorating wind.
Roused from reclusive thought by the deep sound
And motion of the forest (as a steed
When shrills the silver trumpet of the onset),
He rushes to communion with old forms.
Like a fair picture suddenly uncovered
To an impatient artist, the fair earth,
Touched with the primal glory of the Spring,
Flings an indefinite glamour on his soul.
With indistinct commotion he perceives
All things, and his delight is indistinct.
Earth’s forms and ever-living beauty strike
Amazement through his spirit, till he feels
As one new-born to being undeflowered.
The sudden music from the budding woods,
The lark in air, startles and overjoys.
O Laverock! (for thy Scottish name to me
Sounds sweetest) with unutterable love
I love thee, for each morning as I lie
Relaxed and weary with my long disease,
One from low grass arises visibly
And sings as if it sang for me alone.
Among a thousand I could tell the tones
Of this, my little sweet hierophant!
To fainting heart and the despairing soul
What is more soothing than the natural voice
Of birds? One Candlemas, many years ago,
When weak with pain and sickness, it infused
Into my soul a bliss delectable.
For suddenly into the misty air
A mellow, smooth and liquid music, clear
As silver, softer than an organ stop
Ere the bass grumbles, rose. The blunted winds,
No longer edged severely with keen frost,
Forgot to whisper, and a summer-calm
Pervaded soul and sense. No violet
As yet breathed perfume; from the darkling sward
No snowdrop boldly peeped; and even the ash,
Whence flowed the sound, unfolded not her buds
To blacken while the embryo gathered green.
And yet this hardy herald of the Spring
Chaunted rich harmony, daintily carved out
Her voice, and through her sleek throat sobb’d her soul
In a delicious tremble. As she tuned
Her pliant song, slow from the closing sky
The sacred snow fell calm. Yet through the shower,
Hushing all nature into silence, clear
The Feltie-flier[B] trilled her slippery close
In panting rapture, from the whitening ash.
I stood all wonder; and to this late hour
Remember the dear song with ravishment;
Nor ever comes a merry Candlemas day
But I am out to hear. And if perchance
Some warbler sprinkle on the vacant air
Its homeless notes, the bird seems to my heart
The individual bird of comely grey
That sang her pliant strain through falling snow.

Now, when the crumbling glebe is by the wind
Unbound, and snows adown the mountains hoar
Glide liquid, from the furrow loose the plough.
Enyoke the willing horses, and upturn
With deep-pressed share the saponaceous loam.
From morn to even with progression slow
The ploughboy cuts his awkward parallels,
And soberly imbrowns the decent fields.
It was a hazy February day
Ten years ago, when I, a boy of ten,
Beheld a country ploughing-match. The morn
Lighted the east with a dim smoky flare
Of leaden purple, as the rumbling wains
Each with a plough light-laden (while behind
Trotted a horse sleek-comb’d and tail bedight
With many coloured ribbons) by our home
Went downwards to the rich fat meadow-grounds
Bounding the Luggie. Many a herd of beeves
Dew-lapp’d had fattened there, and headlong oft
O’er the hoof-clattering turf they wildly ran,
Lashing with swinging tail the thirsty flies.
But now the smooth expanse of level green
Was quickly to be changed to sober brown;
And twenty ploughs by twenty ploughmen held
To cut with shining share the living turf.
Oh many a wintry hour, thro’ wind and rain,
In valleys gloom’d, or by the bleak hill-side
Lonely, these twenty had themselves inured
And stubborn’d to perfection. Many a touch
And word of honest kindness had been used
To the dear faithful horses snooving on
In quiet patience, jutting noble chests.
Now the big day, expected long, was come:
And, with proud shoulders yoked, conscious they stood
Patient and unrefusing; while behind,
All ready stripped, brown brawny arms displayed—
Arms sinewed by long labour—eager swains
O’er-leaning slight, with cautious wary hold
The plough detain. At the commencing sign
A simultaneous noise discordant tears
The air thick-closing to a hazy damp.
Sudden the horses move, and the clear yokes,
Well polished, clatter. With an artful bend
The gleaming coulter takes the grass and cuts
The greenly tedded blades with nibbling noise
Almost unheard. The smooth share follows fast;
And from its shining slope the clayey glebe
In neat and neighbouring furrows sidelong falls.
Thus till the dank, raw-cold, and unpurged day
Gathering its rheumy humours threatens rain;
And the bleak night steals up the forlorn east.
And when the careful verdict is preferr’d
By the wise judge (a gray-hair’d husbandman,
Himself in his fresh youth a ploughboy keen),
Some bosoms fire exultant. Others, slow
Their reeking horses harnessed, lag along
Heart-sad and weary; and the rumbling noise
Of homeward-going carts for miles away
Is heard, till night brings silence and repose.

But never with sad motions of the soul,
Despairing, yoked his sleek and smoking team
For homeward journey my belovëd friend!
He the great prize, the guinea⁵ all of gold,
Gained thrice and grew a very famous man;
Till Death, the churl accurs’d, him in his prime
Bore to the border-land of wonder. Then
I felt the blank in life when dies a friend.
Inexplicable emptiness and want
Unsatisfied! The unrepealable law
Consumed the living while the dead decayed.
No more, no more thro’ glorious nights of May
We wander, chasing pleasure as of old.
First night of May! and the soft-silvered moon
Brightens her semicircle in the blue;
And ’mid the tawny orange of the west
Shines the full star that ushers in the even!
On the low meadows by the Luggie-side
Gathers a semi-lucent mist, and creeps
In busy silence, shrouding golden furze
And leafy copsewood. Thro’ the tortuous dell
Like an eternal sound the Luggie flows
In unreposing melody. And here,
Three perfect summers gone, my dear first friend
Was with me; and we swore a sudden oath,
To travel half-a-dozen miles and court
Two sisters, whose sweet faces sunshine kissed
To berry brown and country comeliness—
Kiss-worthier than the love of Solomon.
So singing clearly with a merry heart
Old songs—It was upon a Lammas nicht;
And that sweet thing by gentle Tannahill,
Married to music sweeter than itself;
The Lowland Lassie—thro’ dew-silvered fields⁶
We hastened ’mid the mist our footsteps raised
Until we reached the moorland. From its bed
Among the purplish heather whirring rose
The plover, wildly screaming; and from glens
Of moaning firs the pheasant’s piercing shriek
Discordant sounded. Then, ’mong elder trees
Throwing antique fat shadows, soon we saw
The window panes, moon-whitened; and low heard
Bawtie, the shaggie collie, grumble out
His disapproval in a sullen growl.
But slyly wearing nearer, cried my friend,
“Whisht, Bawtie! Bawtie!” and the fellow came
Whining, and laid a wet nose in his palm
Obedient, while I tinkled on the panes
A fairy summons to the souls within.
The door creaked musically, and a face
Peeped smiling, till I whispered, “Open, Kate!”
And thro’ the moonshine came the low sweet quest—
“Oh! is it you?” My answer was a kiss.
Then entering the kitchen paved with stone,
We kicked the sparkling faggot till it blazed;
And sitting round it, many a tale of love
Was told, until the chrysolite of dawn
Burned in the east, and from the mountain rolled
The sarcenet mists far-flaming with the morn.
This was my first of May three years ago:
Now in a churchyard by the Bothlin side—
The Auld Aisle—moulders my first friend, and keeps
An early tryste with God, the All in All.

We sat at school together on one seat,
Came home together thro’ the lanes, and knew
The dunnock’s nest together in the hedge,
With smooth blue eggs in cosy brightness warm.
And as two youngling kine on cold Spring nights
Lie close together on the bleak hill-side
For mutual heat, so when a trouble came
We crept to one another, growing still
True friends in interchange of heart and soul.
But suddenly death changed his countenance,
And grav’d him in the darkness far from me.
O Friendship, prelibation of divine
Enjoyment, union exquisite of soul,
How many blessings do I owe to thee,
How much of incommunicable woe!
The daisies bloom among the tall green blades
Upon his grave, and listening you may hear
The Bothlin make sweet music as she flows;
And you may see the poplars by her brink
Twinkle their silvery leaflets in the sun.
O little wandering preacher, Bothlin brook!
Wind musically by his lonely grave.
O well-known face, for ever lost! and voice,
For ever silent! I have heard thee sing
In village inns what time the silver frost
Curtained the panes in silent ministry,
Sing old Scotch ballads full of love and woe,
While the assimilative snow fell white and calm
With ceaseless lapse. And I have seen thee dance
Wild galliards with the buxom lasses, far
In lone farm-houses set on whistling hills,
While the storm thickened into thunder-cloud.
Dear mentor in all rustic merriment,
Ever as hearty as the night was long!
I miss thee often, as I do to-night,
And my heart fills; and thy belovëd songs
The music and the words ring in my ears,
Then Lowland lassie wilt thou go—until
My eyes are full of tears, dear heart! dear heart!
And I could pass the perilous edge of death
To see thy dear, clear face, and hear again
The old wild music as of old, of old.

But as the Luggie with a plaintive song
Twists thro’ a glen of greenest gloom, and gropes
For open sunshine; and, the shadows past,
Glides quicker-footed thro’ divided meads
With sliding purl, so from that tale of gloom
My song with happier motions seeks the calm
And quiet smoothness of a silver end.
From orient valleys where as lucent dew
As ever jewelled Hermon, falls and shines
Fulfilled by sunrise; where slant arrow-showers
Of golden beams make every twinkling drop
A diamond, and every blade of grass
A glory;—comes the earth-born wanderer
Sweet Luggie, singing. Over the mill-dam
Sounding, a cataract in miniature,
White-robed it dashes thro’ unceasing mist.
Thro’ ivied bridge, adown its rocky bed
Shadowed by wavy limes whose branches bend
Kissing the wave to ripples, on it purls
Abrupt, capricious, past the hazel bower
Where marriageable maid is being woo’d;
And as on sward of velvet by her side
Her lover low reclines, while his dear tongue
Voices warm passion—she confiding lays
All her mild beauty in his manly breast
Blushing. Ah, Luggie! sure you murmur now
Clearly and dearly o’er thy pumy stones!
And when amid a pause of thought they hear
Thy babblement of music, never a shade
Darkens their souls. Thy song is happiness,
A revelation of sweet sympathies
By them interpreted; for never yet
Was Nature sullen when the spirit shone.
This is in twilight, when that only star
White Hesperus from chastest azure grows;⁷
And as night trails her thousand shadows slow
Over the spinning world, the streamlet sings
Her mother earth asleep. O Autumn nights!
When skies are deeply blue, and the full moon
Soars in voluptuous whiteness, Juno-like,
A passionate splendour; when in the great south
Orion like a frozen skeleton
Hints of his ancient hugeness and mail’d strength;
And Cassiopeia glimmers cold and clear
Upon her throne of seven diamonds!
In the thick-foliaged brake, the nightingale
Of Scotland, chirping stonechacker, prolongs
With whit, whit, chirr-r the day’s full melody.
Far-sounding thro’ blue silence and smooth air,
The drumming noise of the hoarse waterfall
Is heard unheeded all by homely fires,
And heard unheeded all in hazel bower
Where love wings hours of serene joy; and still
As roams with eerie wail the unbodied wind
Thro’ ghostly glen of pine, the maiden clings
More closely, till two firm entwining arms
Press comfort; and there is a touch of lips.

Now in this season—ere the flickering leaves,
Touch’d with October’s fiery alchemy,
Grow sere and crisp—is shorn the meadow-hay.
Mingled with spiral orchis, dim blue-bell
Of delicatest azure, crowfoot smooth,
And ox-eye flaunting with faint flowers wild,
Nameless to me—the fragrant rye-grass grew.
Now with a measured sweep the keen-edged scythe
Cuts all to wither in the imbrowning sun.
Two golden days o’erpast (with eves of cloud
Magnificently coloured, heaped and strewn
Confusedly) the country lasses come
Bare-armed, bare-ancled; and ’mid honest mirth
And homely jests with tinkling laughter winged,
Gather the fading balm. With kindling eyes,
And all the life of maidenhood aflame
In little tremulous pants,—they carry light
The warm load to the stack.
Oh, many a time
The old man, building slow the rising stack,
Saw and reproved not our wild merriment:
Remembering, half-sad, his own fresh youth
When beauty was a magic to the soul
And a fair face a charm; when a lip-touch
Was necromancy; and the perfect life
A wondrous yearning after womanhood.
But at the breathless nerve-dissolving noon,
When hot the undiminished sun downthrows
Direct his beams, they from the field retire
To cool consoling grove, or haply seek
The drowsy pool by beechen shadow chilled,
To lave the limbs relaxed. With eager leap,
Headlong they plunge from the enamelled bank
Into the liquid cold, and slowly move
With measured strokes and palms outspread; while oft,
When the clear water rises o’er the lip
Dallying, they uptilt the swelling chest
In unspent vigour.
Oh, the pleasant time!
Pleasant beneath embowering trees, when day
Hides with her silken mists the distant scene
And breathes afar a nerve-dissolving steam—
Pleasant in sweet consolatory shade
To wander pensive. Then the soul serenes
The turbulent passions, and in devout trance,
Unconscious of celestial power, reveals
The God reflected in fair natural forms.
For as the Sun disdains the vulgar gaze
In his uplifted sphere, yet in the broad
Grey Ocean shews a softer face, so God
In nature shines. Oh, sweet the bowery path
Of fair Glenconner, where in volant youth
I saw the heroes of divine Romance.
No pathway winding through fresh orange groves,
Leading to white Campanian city, set
Inviolably by the sapphire sea,
Can fair Glenconner’s umbrage-shadowed way
Excel. The bird-embowering beechen boughs,
Kissing each other, on the dusty way
Throw trembling shadows; and when warm west winds
Roam hither in voluptuous unconcern,
There is a music and a fragrancy
Upon Glenconner, like the music hymned
By quires angelic on cerulean floors.
Deem not I speak in vanity, or speak
In false hyperbole, as poets do
When languaging in love the radiance
Of maids; but there is beauty and delight
And passive feeling sweeter than all sense,
To him who walks beneath the boughs, and hears
The humming music like the sound of seas.
There have I dreamed for hours—and gathered there
The homely inspiration which fulfils
The yearning of my soul. There have I felt
The unconfined divinity which lies
In beauty; and when the eternal stars
Have twinkled silver thro’ illumined leaves,
I could not choose but worship.
O fair eves
Of undescribable sweetness long ago!
When gloaming caught me musing unawares,
Musing alone beneath the whispering leaves
That overshade Glenconner. Hour of calm
Suggestive thought, when, like a robe, the earth
Puts on a shadowy pensiveness, and stills
The music of her motions multiform.
Day lingered in the west; and thro’ a sky
Of thinly-waning orange, sullen clouds
Of amethyst, with flamy purple edged,
Moved evenly in sluggish pilotage.
The windless shades of quiet eventide
Slow gathered, and the sweet concordant tones
Of melody within the leafy brake
Died clearly, till the Mavis piped alone;
Then softly from the jasper sky, a star
Drew radiant silver, brightening as the west
Darkened. But ere the semicircled moon
Shed her white light adown the lucent air,
The Mavis ceased, and thro’ the thin gloom brake
The Corncraik’s curious cry, the sylvan voice
Of the shy bird that haunts the bladed corn;
And suddenly, yet silently, the blue
Deepened, until innumerous white stars
Thro’ crystal smooth and yielding ether drooped,
Not coldly, but in passionate June glow.
The Corncraik now, ’mong tall green bladed corn
Breasted her eggs with feathers dew-besprent,
And stayed her human cry. The silence left
A gap within the soul, a sudden grief,
An emptiness in the low sighing air.
Then swooning through full night, the summer’d earth
Bosom’d her children into tender rest;
Now delicately chambered ladies breathe
Their souls asleep in white-limb’d luxury.
O Virgins purest lipped! with snowy lids
Soft closed on living eyes! O unkissed cheeks,
Half-sunk in pillowy pressure, and round arms
In the sweet pettishness of silver dreams
Flung warm into the cold unheeding air!
Sleep! soft bedewer of infantine eyes,
Pouter of rosy little lips! plump hands
Are doubled into deeply-dimpled fists
And stretched in rosy langour, curls are laid
In fragrance on the rounded baby-face,
Kiss-worthy darling! Stiller of clear tongues
And silvery laughter! Now the musical noise
Of little feet is silent, and blue shoes
No more come pattering from the nursery door.
Death is not of thee, Sleep! Thy calm domain
Is tempered with a dreamy bliss, and dimmed
With haunted glooms, and richly sanctified
With the fine elements of Paradise.
Burn in the gleaming sky, ye far-off Stars!
And thou, O inoffensive Crescent! lift
The wonder of thy softness, the white shell
Of thy clear beauty, till the wholesome dawn
Wither thy brightness pale, and borrowed pride!

But sleep supine, on indolent afternoon
Ere the winds wake, and holy mountain airs
Descend, is sweet. Oh, let the bard describe
The sacred spot where, underneath the round
Green odoriferous sycamore, he lay
Sleepless, yet half-asleep, in that one mood
When the quick sense is duped, and angel wings
Make spiritual music. Sweet and dim
The sacred spot, belovëd not alone
For its own beauty: but the memories,
The pictures of the past which in the mind
Arise in fair profusion, each distinct
With the soft hue of some peculiar mood,
Enchant to living lustre what before
Was to the untaught vision simply fair.
In a fair valley, carpeted with turf
Elastic, sloping upwards from the stream,
A rounded sycamore in honied leaves
Most plenteous, murmurous with humming bees,
Shadows a well. Darkly the crystal wave
Gleams cold, secluded; on its polished breast
Imaging twining boughs. No pitcher breaks
Its natural sleep, except at morn and eve
When my good mother thro’ the dewy grass
Walks patient with her vessels, bringing home
The clear refreshment. Every blowing Spring,
A snowdrop, with pure streaks of delicate green
Upon its inmost leaves, from withered grass
Springs whitely, and within its limpid breast
Is mirror’d whitely. Not a finger plucks
This hidden beauty; but it blooms and dies,
In lonely lustre blooms and lonely dies—
Unknown, unloved, save by one simple heart
Poetic, the creator of this song.
And after this frail luxury hath given
Its little life in keeping to the soul
Of all the worlds, a robin builds its nest
In lowly cleft, a foot or so above
The water. His dried leaves, and moss, and grass
He hither carries, lining all with hair
For softness. I have laid the hand that writes
These rhymes belovëd, on the crimson breast,
Sleek-soft, that panted o’er the five unborn;
While, leaf-hid, o’er me sang the watchful mate
Plaintive, and with a sorrow in the song,
In silvan nook where anchoret might dwell
Contented. Often on September days,
When woods were efflorescent, and the fields
Refulgent with the bounty of the corn,
And warming sunshine filled the breathless air
With a pale steam,—in heart-confused mood
Have I worn holidays enraptured there;
For, O dear God! there is a pure delight
In dreaming: in those mental-weary times,
When the vext spirit finds a false content
In fashioning delusions. Oh, to lie
Supinely stretched upon the shaded turf,
Beholding thro’ the openings of green leaves
White clouds in silence navigating slow
Cerulean seas illimitable! Hushed
The drowsy noon, and, with a stilly sound
Like harmony of thought, the Luggie frets—
Its bubbling mellowed to a musical hum
By distance. Then the influences faint,
Those visionary impulses that swell
The soul to inspiration, crowding come
Mysterious: and phantom memory
(Ghost of dead feeling) haunts the undissolved,
The unsubvertive temple of the soul!

But as thro’ loamy meadows lipping slow
Eats the fern-fringëd Luggie; and in spray
Leaps the mill-dam, and o’er the rocky flats
Spreads in black eddies; so my firstborn song
Hastes to the end in heedless vagrancy.
O ravishingly sweet the clacking noise
Of looms that murmur in our quiet dell!
No fairer valley Dyer ever dreamed—
Dyer, best river-singer, bard among
Ten thousand. Reader, hasten ye and come,
And see the Luggie wind her liquid stream
Thro’ copsy villages and spiry towns;
And see the Bothlin trotting swift of foot
From glades of alder, eager to combine
Her dimpling harmony with Luggie’s calm
Clear music, like the music of the soul.
But where you see the meeting, reader, stay,
O stay and hear the music of the looms.
Thro’ homely rustic bridge with ivy shagged
(Which you shall see if ever you do come
A summer pilgrim to our valley fair),
The Luggie flows with bells of foam-like stars
About its surface. A smooth bleaching-green
Spreads its soft carpet to the open doors
Of simple houses, shining-white. Blue smoke
Curls thro’ the breathing air to the tree-tops
Thin spreading, and is lost. A humming noise
Industrious is heard, the clack of looms,
Whereon sit maidens, homely fair, and full
Of household simpleness, who sing and weave,
And sing and weave thro’ all the easy hours,
Each day to-morrow’s counterpart, and smooth
Memory the mirror wherein golden Hope,
Contented, sees herself. Here dwell an old
Couple whose lives have known twice forty years
(My mother’s parents), their sage spirits touched
With blest anticipation of a home
Celestial bright, wherein they may fulfil
The life which death discovers. Last winter night
I, an accustomed visitant, beheld
The dear old pair. He in an easy chair
Lay dozing, while beside her noiseless wheel
She sat, her brow into her lap declined,
And half asleep! Sure sign, my mother said,
Of the conclusion of mortality.
A boy of ten, their grandson, on the floor
Lay stretched in early slumber; all the three
Unconscious of my entrance. A strange sight,
Fraught with strange lessons for the human soul.
In the first portion of her married life,
This woman, now, alas! so weary, old,
Bore daughters five; of well-beloved sons
An equal number. Some of them died young,
But six are yet alive, and dwelling all
Within a mile of her own house. The flower,
The idol of the mother, and her pride,
Dear magnet of all hopes, embodiment
Of heavenly blessings, was the youngest son,
Youngest of all. Me often has she told
How not a man could fling the stone with him;
That in his shoes he outran racers fleet
Barefooted; dancing on the shaven green
On summer holidays and autumn eves
(As to this day they do) his laugh was clearest,
Lightest his step; and he could thrill the hearts
Of simple women by a natural grace,
And perilous recital of love tales.
I cannot tell by what mysterious means,
Day-dream, or silver vision of the night,
Or sacred show of reason, picturing
A smooth ambition and calm happiness
For years of weaker age—but suddenly
In prime of life there flowered in his soul
An inextinguishable love to be
A minister of God. When holy schemes
Govern the motions of the spirit, ways
Are found to compass them. With wary care,
Frugality praiseworthy, and the strength
Of two strong arms, he in the summer months
Hoarded a competence equivalent
To all demands, until the session’s end.
Whate’er by manual labour he had gained
Thro’ the clear summer months in verdant fields,
With brooks of silver laced, and cool’d with winds,
Was spent in winter in the smoky town.
But when, his annual course of study past,
He with his presence blessed his father’s house,
With what a sacred sanctity of hope
Eager his mother dreamed, or garrulous
Spake of him everywhere—his foreign ways,
And midnight porings o’er uncanny books.
His father, with a stern delight suffused,
Grew a proud man of some importance now
In his own eyes; for who in all the vale
Had e’er a son so noble and so learned,
So worthy as his own?
So time wore on: but when three years complete
Had perfected their separate destinies,
A change stole o’er the current of their lives,
As a cloud-shadow glooms the crystal stream.
Their son came home, but with his coming came
Sorrow. A hue too beautifully fair
Brighten’d his cheek, as sunlight tints a cloud.
His face had caught a trick of joy more sad
Than visible grief; and all the subtle frame
Of human life, so wonderfully wrought,
A mystery of mechanism, was wearing
In sore uneasy manner to the grave.
What need to tell what every heart must know
In sympathy prophetical? Long time,
A varied year in seasons four complete
(For the white snowdrop o’er my mother’s well
Twice oped its whitest leaves among the green),
He lay consuming. It must needs have been
A weary trial to the thinking soul,
Thus with a consciousness of coming death,
The grim Attenuation! evermore
Nearing insatiate. At her spinning-wheel
His mother sat; and when his voice grew faint,
A simple whistle by his pillow lay,
And at its sound she entered patient, sad,
Her soothing love to minister, her hope
To nourish to its fading. But his breath
Grew weaker ever; and his dry pale lips
Closing upon the little instrument,
Could not produce a faintly audible note!
A little bell, the plaything of a child,
Now at his bedside hung, and its clear tones
Tinkled the weary summons. Thus his time
Narrowed to a completion, and his soul,
Immortal in its nature, thro’ his eyes
Yearning, beheld the majesty of Him
Great in His mystery of godliness,
Fulfiller of the dim Apocalypse!

Twelve years have passed since then, and he is now
A happy memory in the hearts of those
Who knew him; for to know him was to love.
And oft I deem it better, as the fates,
Or God, whose will is fate, have proven it;
For had he lived and fallen (as who of us
Doth perfectly? and let him that is proud
Take heed lest he do fall) he would have been
A sadness to them in their aged hours.
But now he is an honour and delight;
A treasure of the memory; a joy
Unutterable: by the lone fireside
They never tire to speak his praise, and say
How, if he had been spared, he would have been
So great, and good, and noble as (they say)
The country knows; although I know full well
That not a man in all the parish round
Speaks of him ever; he is now forgot,
And this his natal valley knows him not.—
And this his natal valley knows him not?
The well-belovëd, nothing?—the fair face
And pliant limbs, poor indistinctive dust?
The body, blood, and network of the brain
Crumbled as a clod crumbles! Is this all?
A turf, a date, an epitaph, and then
Oblivion, and profound nonentity!
And thus his natal valley knows him not.
Trees murmur to the passing wind, streams flow,
Flowers shine with dewdrops in the shady glens,
All unintelligent creation smiles
In loving-kindness; but, like a light dream
Of morning, man arises in fair show,
Like the hued rainbow from incumbent gloom
Elicited, he shines against the sun—
A momentary glory. Not a voice
Remains to whisper of his whereabouts:
The palpable body in its mother’s breast
Dissolves, and every feature of the face
Is lost in feculent changes. O black earth!
Wrap from bare eyes the slow decaying form,
The beauty rotting from the living hair,
The body made incapable thro’ sin
God’s Spirit to contain. Earth, wrap it close
Till the heavens vibrate to the trump of doom!

This is not all: for the invisible soul
Betrays the soft desire, the quenchless wish,
To live a purer life, more proximate
To the prime Fountain of all life. The power
Of vivid fancy and the boundless scenes
(High coloured with the colouring of Heaven),
Creations of imagination, tell
The mortal yearnings of immortal souls!
Now, while around me in blind labour winds
Howl, and the rain-drops lash the streaming pane;
Now, while the pine-glen on the mountain side
Roars in its wrestling with the sightless foe,
And the black tarn grows hoary with the storm;—
Amid the external elemental war,
My soul with calm comportment—more becalmed
By the wild tempest furious without—
Sits in her sacred cell, and ruminates
On Death, severe discloser of new life.
When the well-known and once embraceable form
Is but a handful of white dust, the soul
Grows in divine dilation, nearer God.
Therefore grieve not, my heart, that unsustained
His memory died among us, that no more,
While yet the grass is hoary and the dawn
Lingers, he shyly thro’ untrodden fields
Brushes his early path: that he no more
Beneath the beech, in lassitude outstretched,
Ponders the holy strains of Israel’s King;
For in translated glory, and new clothed
With Incorruptible, he purer air
Breathes in a fairer valley. There no storm
Maddens as now; no flux, and no opaque,
But all is calm, and permanent, and clear,
God’s glory and the Lamb illumine all!

Now ends this song—not for self-honour sung,
But in the Luggie’s service. It hath been
A crownëd vision and a silver dream,
That I should touch this valley with renown
Eternal, make the fretting waters gleam
In light above the common light of earth.
The shoreless air of heaven is purer here,
The golden beams more keenly crystalline,
The skies more deeply sapphired. For to me,
About these emerald fields and lawny hills,
There linger glories which you cannot see,
And influences which you cannot feel,
Delight and incommunicable woe!
My home is here; and like a patient star,
Shining between untroubled Paradise
And my own soul, a mother shines therein,
The sole perfection of true womanhood:
A father—with the wisdom which pertains
To grey experience, and that stern delight
In naked truth, and reason which belongs
To the intense reflective mind—hath told
His fifty winters here. And all the hopes
Which gild the present; all the sad regrets
Which dull the past, are present to my soul
In the external forms and colourings
Of this dear valley. Therefore do I yearn
To make its stream flow in undying verse,
Low-singing thro’ the labyrinthine dell!

And let forgiving charity preclude
Harsh judgments from the singer: not that he
Fearfully would forestal the righteous word,
Blameworthy, spoken in kindness, and that truth
Which sanctions condemnation. Yet, dear Lord,
A youthful flattering of the spirit, touched
With a desire unquenchable, displays
My hope’s delirium. Oh! if the dream
Fade into nothing, into worse than nought,
Blackness of darkness like the golden zones
Of an autumnal sunset, and the night
Of unfulfilled ambition closes round
My destiny, think what an awful hell
O’erwhelms the conquer’d soul! Therefore, O men
Who guard with jealousy and loving care
The honour of our sacred literature,
Read with a kindness born of trustful hope,
Forgiving rambling schoolboy thoughts, too plain
To utter with a spasm, or clothe in cold
Mosaic fretwork of well-pleasing words,
Forgiving youth’s vagaries, want of skill,
And blind devotional passion for my home!