Other Poems (1871-82). Heath from the Highlands
Here, where the great hills fall away To bays of silver sea, I hold within my hand to-day A wild thing, strange to me. Behind me is the deep green dell Where lives familiar light; The leaves and flowers I know so well Are gleaming in my sight. And yonder is the mountain glen, Where sings in trees unstirred By breath of breeze or axe of men The shining satin-bird. The old weird cry of plover comes Across the marshy ways, And here the hermit hornet hums, And here the wild bee strays. No novel life or light I see, On hill, in dale beneath: All things around are known to me Except this bit of heath. This touching growth hath made me dream— It sends my soul afar To where the Scottish mountains gleam Against the Northern star. It droops—this plant—like one who grieves; But, while my fancy glows, There is that glory on its leaves Which never robed the rose. For near its wind-blown native spot Were born, by crags uphurled, The ringing songs of Walter Scott That shook the whole wide world. There haply by the sounding streams, And where the fountains break, He saw the darling of his dreams, The Lady of the Lake. And on the peaks where never leaf Of lowland beauty grew, Perhaps he met Clan Alpine's chief, The rugged Roderick Dhu. Not far, perchance, this heather throve (Above fair banks of ferns), From that green place of stream and grove That knew the voice of Burns. Against the radiant river ways Still waves the noble wood, Where in the old majestic days The Scottish poet stood. Perhaps my heather used to beam In robes of morning frost, By dells which saw that lovely dream— The Mary that he lost. I hope, indeed, the singer knew The little spot of land On which the mountain beauty grew That withers in my hand. A Highland sky my vision fills; I feel the great, strong North— The hard grey weather of the hills That brings men-children forth. The peaks of Scotland, where the din And flame of thunders go, Seem near me, with the masculine, Hale sons of wind and snow. So potent is this heather here, That under skies of blue, I seem to breathe the atmosphere That William Wallace knew. And under windy mountain wall, Where breaks the torrent loose, I fancy I can hear the call Of grand old Robert Bruce.
Henry Kendall’s other poems:
