Songs out of Doors Part 7

THE GLACIER

At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, The silver-crested waves no murmur make; But far away the avalanches wake The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream; Their momentary thunders, dying, seem To fall into the stillness, flake by flake, And leave the hollow air with naught to break The frozen spell of solitude supreme.

At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls Of all the ocean-blue creva.s.ses ring With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls; As if a poet's heart had felt the glow Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.

Zermatt, 1872.

II

THE SNOW-FIELD

White Death had laid his pall upon the plain, And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead; The vault of heaven was glaring overhead With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain; And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain For sign or trace of life, my spirit said, "Shall any living thing that dares to tread This royal lair of Death escape again?"

But even then I saw before my feet A line of pointed footprints in the snow: Some roving chamois, but an hour ago, Had pa.s.sed this way along his journey fleet, And left a message from a friend unknown To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.

Zermatt, 1872.

III

MOVING BELLS

I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells, To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells Go chiming after her across the fair And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells, And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells Of peace are woven through the purple air.

Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems To walk before the dark by falling rills, And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; She opens all the doors of night, and fills With moving bells the music of my dreams, That wander far among the sleeping hills.

Gstaad, August, 1909.

A SNOW-SONG

Does the snow fall at sea?

Yes, when the north winds blow, When the wild clouds fly low, Out of each gloomy wing, Silently glimmering, Over the stormy sea Falleth the snow.

Does the snow hide the sea?

Nay, on the tossing plains Never a flake remains; Drift never resteth there; Vanishing everywhere, Into the hungry sea Falleth the snow.

What means the snow at sea?

Whirled in the veering blast, Thickly the flakes drive past; Each like a childish ghost Wavers, and then is lost; In the forgetful sea Fadeth the snow.

1875.

ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN

Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine The art that reared thy costly shrine!

Thy carven columns must have grown By magic, like a dream in stone.

Yet not within thy storied wall Would I in adoration fall, So gladly as within the glen That leads to lovely Hawthornden.

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green And vine-clad pillars, while between, The Esk runs murmuring on its way, In living music night and day.

Within the temple of this wood The martyrs of the covenant stood, And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer, From Nature's solemn altar-stair.

Edinburgh, 1877.

THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND

The heavenly hills of Holland,-- How wondrously they rise Above the smooth green pastures Into the azure skies!

With blue and purple hollows, With peaks of dazzling snow, Along the far horizon The clouds are marching slow.

No mortal foot has trodden The summits of that range, Nor walked those mystic valleys Whose colours ever change; Yet we possess their beauty, And visit them in dreams, While ruddy gold of sunset From cliff and canyon gleams.

In days of cloudless weather They melt into the light; When fog and mist surround us They're hidden from our sight; But when returns a season Clear shining after rain, While the northwest wind is blowing, We see the hills again.

The old Dutch painters loved them, Their pictures show them fair,-- Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, Van Goyen and Vermeer.

Above the level landscape, Rich polders, long-armed mills, Ca.n.a.ls and ancient cities,-- Float Holland's heavenly hills.

The Hague, November, 1916.

FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS

IN HOLLAND

The laggard winter ebbed so slow With freezing rain and melting snow, It seemed as if the earth would stay Forever where the tide was low, In sodden green and watery gray.

But now from depths beyond our sight, The tide is turning in the night, And floods of colour long concealed Come silent rising toward the light, Through garden bare and empty field.

And first, along the sheltered nooks, The crocus runs in little brooks Of joyance, till by light made bold They show the gladness of their looks In shining pools of white and gold.

The tiny scilla, sapphire blue, Is gently seeping in, to strew The earth with heaven; and sudden rills Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through, Spread into lakes of daffodils.

The hyacinths, with fragrant heads, Have overflowed their sandy beds, And fill the earth with faint perfume, The breath that Spring around her she And now the tulips break in bloom!

A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea, A splendour and a mystery, Floods o'er the fields of faded gray: The roads are full of folks in glee, For lo,--to-day is Easter Day!

April, 1916.