I left them all in flush of pleasure's sport, Some knights with damoiselles gone forth to woo, Some listing gleemen in the ballion court, Some deep in ombre, some at lanterloo, Some gone a-hawking with the merlyon, Some at their noon-meat sipping Spanish wine, Some conning old romances on the lawn, And all to meet in hall at hour of dine.
II.
Down in Dalmossie dell I sought a nook Beneath a thick and widely-spreading tree, And there I sat to con my little book, My book of old black-letter grammarie. All stillness in that deep and lonely dell Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing, Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell, While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.
Lo! come from yonder sheiling by the burn An aged pair whom Time claimed as his own-- Their clothes all brown, and sere and sadly worn, But brushed and clean, and tentily put on. I noted well the signs of their great eild, Their shrunken limbs, their locks of snowy hair, The wobbling walk, the bowing, bending bield, The wrinkled cheeks, and looks of dule and care.
I thought on hapless man--with changing face, Each day more furrowed as he wears along. He looks into the glass to cry Alace! Alace for that spring time that's past and gone! He looks askance, and sees young eyes that lour On him, so comely once, unsightly grown: The faded roses make a scented bower, But aged man seems spurned by man alone.
Yet happy he who, changing with advance, Has bright and golden hopes beyond the sun; He can give back their saucy, pitying glance, Who set such wondrous price their youth upon. _Their_ night will come in turn, yea, comes apace, Without, mayhap, the hope of brighter day, When age-worn looks will don their native grace, And feel no more this world's despised decay.
III.
That aged pair sat down upon the green, While each the other helped to softest seat, I watched their ways, myself by them unseen, And heard their quivering words, so kindly sweet, As still of golden days when they were young, Of youth's green summer time they spoke and wept, And soft in wailing song there came along These words, which I in memory long have kept:
THE SONG OF AGE.[A]
"The trees they are high, John, the leaves they are green, The days are awa that you and I have seen; The days are awa that we have seen; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.
"There was joy at our marriage--a dance on the green, They a' roosed the light of my bonnie blue een, My bonnie blue een, where tears may now be seen; And oh! that we were to be married again, Married again, married again, And oh! that we were to be married again.
"The grass it is wet, John, the wind it is keen, Our claes they are worn, and our shune they are thin; Our shune they are thin, and the waters come in; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.
"There was joy in our youth, John, at wish's command, We danced and we sang, and we ilka gate ran, But now dule and sorrow's on ilka hand; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.
"There's graves in yon howf, John, and hillocks o' green, Where our bairns lie sleeping that left us alane, And they're waiting for us till we gae to creep in; And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again."
When _she_ had crooned her chant, I heard _him_ say, With sobbing voice and deep heart-heaving sigh, "Dry up thae tears, my Jean, for things away, Time's but a watch-tick in eternity; We darena sing of earth, but lift our prayer To Him whose promises are never vain, That we may dwell in yonder Eden fair, And see youth's summer blooming green again."
Then rose a prayer to Bethel's Lord and King That He would lead them through this vale of woe, And to the promised land his children bring, Where Babel's streams in living waters flow. They left: again all silence in the dell Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing, Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell, While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.
[Footnote A: Some readers may recognise in the old woman's song portions of an ancient ditty that used to be chanted in a wailing cadence in several parts of Scotland. I suspect the song as a whole is lost--the more to be regretted for its sweet simplicity and melodious wail (so far as judged in the fragments), which in a modern song would be viewed as weakness or affectation. Indeed, the modes of thought and feeling that belong to what is called advanced civilisation are impatient of these things except as rude relics of yet untutored minds; and the pleasure with which they are accepted has in it perhaps a grain of pity for those that didn't know better than produce them. Yet, as regards mere poetical feeling at least, the nearer the fountainhead the purer the water.]
IV.
And is not youth, thought I, a vulgar thing, When lording over WISDOM'S ancient reign? What may avail the brilliancy of spring If autumn yields no hoards of garnered grain? Experience is the daughter of old Time, Mother of Wisdom, last and noblest born, Who comes as Faith to help our waning prime, To cheer the night of age and light the morn.
I sought at eve the castle on the height, The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee, Oh! contrast great! gay scene of youth's delight-- The spinette, galliard, mirth's galaverie! I thought upon the couple in the wood, And how that singing, dancing, laughing train Would one day sigh in Time's avenging mood, "Alas! for youth's green summer time again."
XI.
THE LEGEND OF CRAIGULLAN.[A]
[Footnote A: This legend has been referred to several Scotch families--one in Fife in particular, the name of which it would be imprudent to mention.]
Yonder the halls of old Craigullan! To weird doom for ever true; The moaning winds are sad and sullen, The screech-owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo! The lazy burn-clock drones around, The wing-mouse flaps the choking air, The croaking frog hops on the ground, For weird fate is working there.
Each wing had once a goodly tower Of stately beild, both broad and high; In every tower a lady's bower, Bedecked with silken tapestry; In every bower a lovely maid, Her youth and beauty all in vain; And with each maid a keeper staid To watch the wanderings of her brain.
'Twas said that those who went that way Would hear some shrill and piercing wail Come from these towers, and die away As borne upon the passing gale; Yet none could say from whom it came, Far less divine the reason why; And Superstition, with her dream, Could only whisper mystery-- Unholy spirits haunting nigh, And screaming in the midnight hour, Presage of vengeance from on high For deeds done in Craigullan's tower.
If Superstition has her dream, She also has her waking hour; Nor ever man, howe'er supreme, Can free him from her mystic power. And it was told, in whispering way, That once Craigullan led his hounds Out forth upon a Sabbath day Within the church bells' sacred sounds; And as he rode, by fury fired, A woman, pregnant, overthrown Beneath his horse's hoofs, expired, And, dying, shrieked this malison: _From this day forth, till time shall cease, May madness haunt Craigullan's race_!
The words struck on a sceptic's ear: Would woman's curse his pleasure stay? He blew his horn both loud and clear, And with his hounds he hied away. He conned no more the weird reve Which all conspired to prove untrue, For he had healthy daughters five, Who up in maiden beauty grew-- Clorinda, Isobel, and Jane-- Such was the order of their birth-- And Florabel and Clementine, All lovely, gay, and full of mirth.
But man is blind, with all his power, And gropes through life his darksome way; Nor ever thinks the evil hour May come within the brightest day.
As custom went, a noble throng Hath filled Craigullan's ancient hall, Amidst th' inspiring dance and song, Clorinda is admired of all. The sun with his enlivening light Brings out the viper and the rose, And joy that cheers will oft excite Dark Mania from her long repose. Amidst the dance and music there-- The dance which she so proudly led-- A maniac shriek has rent the air-- Clorinda falls, her reason fled.
In vain shall passing time essay To soothe the dire domestic pain; Fair Isobel becomes the prey Of that same demon of the brain. When autumn winds were sighing low, When birds were singing on the tree, Amidst their song she met the foe, And sank beneath the fell decree.
Nor yet the sibyl leaf all read, Dark Nemesis is grim and sullen; She bends again her vengeful head-- Woe! woe! to old Craigullan. The next by fatal count of Time, The next by her foreboding fears--- Jane falls, like those in early prime-- She falls amidst a mother's tears.
Nor finished yet the weird spell, Wrought out by some high powers divine. The victim next is Florabel, The fairest of Craigullan's line. The shadow fell upon her bloom, Grew darker as the period neared, As if the terror of her doom Wrought out the issue which it feared.