A Pastoral Poet's Dream.

She hath risen up from her morning prayer,
And chained the waves of her golden hair,
Hath kissed her sleeping sister's cheek,
And breathed the blessing she might not speak,
Lest the whisper should break the dream that smil'd
Round the snow-white brow of the sinless child
Her radiant Lamb and her purpling Dove
Have ta'en their food from the hand they love;
The low deep coo and the plaintive bleat
In the morning calm, how clear and sweet!
Ere the Sun has warmed the dawning hours,
She hath watered the glow of her garden flowers,
And welcomed the hum of the earliest Bee
In the moist bloom working drowsily;
Then up the flow of the rocky rill
She trips away to the pastoral Hill;
And, as she liftSher glistening eyes
In the joy of her heart to the dewy skies,
She feels that her sainted Parents bless
The life of their Orphan Shepherdess.

'Tis a lonely Glen! but the happy Child
Hath friends whom she meets in the morning-wild!
As on she trips, her native stream,
Like her hath awoke from a joyful dream,
And glides away by her twinkling feet,
With a face as bright and a voice as sweet
In the osier bank the Ouzel sitting,
Hath heard her steps, and away is flitting
From stone to stone, as she glides along,
Then sinks in the stream with a broken song
The Lapwing, fearless of his nest,
Stands looking round with his delicate crest,
Or a lovelike joy is in his cry,
AShe wheels and darts and glances by
Is the Heron asleep on the silvery sand
Of his little Lake? Lo! his wings expand
As a dreamy thought, and withouten dread,
Cloudlike he floats o'er the Maiden'Shead
She looks to the birch-wood glade, and lo!
There is browzing there the mountain-roe,
Who lifts up her gentle eyes, nor moves
As on glides the form whom all nature loves.
Having spent in Heaven an hour of mirth,
The Lark drops down to the dewy earth,
And as silence smooths his yearning breast
In the gentle fold of his lowly nest,
The Linnet takes up the hymn, unseen
In the yellow broom or the bracken green
And now, as the morning-hours are glowing,
From the hillside cots the cocks are crowing,
And the Shepherd's Dog is barking shrill
From the mist fast rising from the hill,
And the Shepherd's-self, with locks of gray,
Hath blessed the Maiden on her way!
And now she seeSher own dear flock
On a verdant mound beneath the rock,
All close together in beauty and love,
Like the small fair clouds in heaven above,
And her innocent soul at the peaceful sight
Is swimming o'er with a still delight.

And how shall sweet Edith pass the day,
From her home and her sister so far away,
With none to whom she may speak the while,
Or share the silence and the smile,
When the stream of thought flows calm and deep,
And the face of Joy is like that of sleep?
Fear not — the long, still Summer-day
On downy wings hath sailed away,
And is melting unawares in Even,
Like a pure cloud in the heart of Heaven,
Nor Weariness nor Woe hath paid
One visit to the happy Maid
Sitting in sunshine or in shade.
For many a wild Tale doth she know,
Framed in these valleys long ago
By pensive Shepherds, unto whom
The sweet breath of the heather-bloom
Brought inspiration, and the Sky
Folding the hill-tops silently,
And airs so spirit-like, and streams
Aye murmuring through a world of dreams
A hundred plaintive tunes hath she —
A hundred chaunts of sober glee —
And she hath sung them o'er and o'er, —
As on some solitary shore,
'Tis said the Mermaid oft doth sing
Beneath some cliffs o'ershadowing,
While melteth o'er the waters clear
A song which there is none to hear!
Still at the close of each wild strain
Hath gentle Edith lived again
O'er long-past hours — while smiles and sighs
Obeyed their own loved Melodies
Now rose to sight the hawthorn-glade,
Where that old blind Musician played
So blithely to the dancing ring —
Or, in a fit of sorrowing,
Sung mournful Songs of other years
That filled his own dim eyes with tears
And then the Sabbath seemed to rise
In stillness o'er the placid skies,
And from the small Kirk in the Dell
Came the clear chime of holy Bell,
Solemnly ceasing, when appeared
The grey-haired Man beloved and feared —
The Man of God — whose eyes were filled
With visions in the heavens beheld,
And rightfully inspired fear,
Whose yoke, like Love's, is light to bear
— And thus sole-sitting on the Brae,
From human voices far away,
Even like the flowers round Edith's feet,
Shone forth her fancies wild or sweet;
Some in the shades of memory
Unfolding out reluctantly,
But breathing from that tender gloom
A faint — etherial — pure perfume;
Some burning in their full-blown pride,
And by the Sun's love beautified;
None wither'd — for the air is holy,
Of a pure spirit's melancholy;
And God's own gracious eye hath smiled
On the sorrows of this Orphan Child;
Therefore, her Parents' Grave appears
Green, calm, and sunbright through her tears,
Beneath the deep'ning hush of years.

An Image of young Edith's Life,
This one still day — no noise — no strife —
Alike calm — morning — noon — and even —
And Earth to her as pure aSheaven.

Now night comes wavering down the sky:
The clouds like ships at anchor lie,
All gathered in the glimmering air,
After their pleasant voyage: there
One solitary bark glides on
So slow, that its haven will ne'er be won.
But a wandering wind hath lent it motion,
And the last Sail hath passed o'er the heavenly ocean.
Are these the Hills so steeped by day,
In a greenness that seemed to mock decay,
And that stole from the Sun so strong and light,
That it well might dare th' eclipse of night?
Where is the sound that filled the air
Around — and above — and every where?
Soft wild pipes hushed! and a world of wings
All shut with their radiant shiverings!
The wild bees now are all at rest
In their earthen cell — or their mossy nest —
Save when some lated labourers come
From the far-off hills with a weary hum,
And drop down 'mid the flowers, till morn
Shall awaken to life each tiny horn
Dew sprinkles sleep on every flower,
And each bending stalk has lost its power —
No toils have they, but in beauty blest,
They seem to partake in Nature's rest
Sleep calms the bosom of the Earth,
And a dream just moves it in faintest mirth.

The slumber of the Hills and Sky
Hath hushed into a reverie
The soul of Edith — by degrees,
With half-closed eyes she nothing sees
But the glimmer of twilight stretched afar,
And one bright solitary star,
That comes like an angel with his beams,
To lead her on through the world of dreams,
She feels the soft grass beneath her head,
And the smell of flowers around her shed,
Breathing of Earth, — as yet, she knows
Whence is the sound that past her flows,
(The flowery fount in its hillside cell)
But a beauty there is which she cannot tell
To her soul that beholds it, spread all around;
And she feels a rapture, oh! more profound
Than e'er by a dream was breathed, or driven
Through a bosom, all suddenly filled with heaven.

Oh! come ye from heaven ye blessed Things,
So silent with your silvery wings
Folded in moonlight glimmerings?
— They have dropt like two soft gleams of light,
Those gracious Forms, on the verdant height
Where Edith in her slumber lies,
With calm face meeting the calm skies,
Like one whose earthly course is o'er,
And sleepeth to awake no more!
Gazing upon the Child they stand,
Till one with small soft silent hand
Lifts from that brow the golden hair —
" Was ever mortal face so fair?
God gives to us the sleeping maid! "
And scarcely are the kind words said,
Than Edith's lovely neck is wreathed
With arms as soft as zephyrs breathed
O'er sleeping lilies, — and slowly raised
The still form of the child, amazed
To see those visages divine,
And eyes so filled with pity, shine
On her, a simple Shepherdess,
An orphan in the wilderness!

" O, happy child! who livest in mirth
And joy of thine own on this sinful Earth,
Whose heart, like a lonely stream, keeps singing,
Or, like a holy bell, is ringing
So sweetly in the silent wild —
Wilt thou come with us, thou happy child,
And live in a land where woe and pain
Are heard but as a far-off strain
Of mournful music, — where the breath
Of Life is murmuring not of Death;
And Happiness alone doth weep,
And nought but Bliss doth break our sleep
Wilt thou come with us to the Land of Dreams? "
— A kiss as soft as moonlight seems
To fall on Edith's brow and cheek —
As that voice no more iSheard to speak;
And bright before her half-closed eyes
Stand up these Shapes from Paradise,
Breathing sweet fear into her heart!
— She trembleth lest their beauty part,
Cloudlike, ere she be full awake,
And leave her weeping for their sake,
An orphan Shepherdess again,
Left all by herself in that lonely glen!

" Fear not, sweet Edith! to come along
With us, though the voice of the Fairy's Song
Sound strange to thy soul thus murmuring near —
Fear not, for thou hast nought to fear!
Oft hast thou heard our voice before,
Hymnlike pass by thy cottage door.
When thou and thy sister were at prayers, —
Oft hast thou heard it in wild low airs,
Circling thy couch on the heathery hill, —
And when all the stars in heaven were still,
As their images in the lake below,
That was our voice that seemed to flow,
Like softest waters through the night,
The music breathed from our delight.
Then, come with us, sweet Edith! come
And dwell in the Lake-Fairy's home;
And happier none can be in heaven,
Then we in those green vallies, given
By Nature's kind beneficence
To us, who live in innocence;
And on our gentle missions go,
Up to the human world of woe,
To make by our music mortal Elves
For a dream as happy as ourselves;
All flitting back e'er the morn arise,
To our own untroubled Paradise. "

" O waft me there, ere my dream is gone,
For dreams have a wild world all their own!
And never was vision like to this —
O waft me away ere I wake from bliss!
But where is my little sister? Where
The child whom her mother with dying prayer
Put into my bosom, and bade us be
True to each other, as on the sea
Two loving birds, whom a wave may divide,
But who float back soon to each other's side!
Bring Nora here, and we two will take
Our journey with you deep down the Lake,
And let its waters for ever close
O'er the upper world of human woes,
For young though we be, and have known no strife,
Yet we start at the shadows of mortal life;
And many a tear have we two shed
In each other's arms, on an orphan bed, —
So let Nora to my heart be given,
And with you will we fly, and trust in Heaven. "

A sound of parting wings iSheard,
As when at night some wandering bird
Flits by us, absent from its nest
Beyond the hour of the Songster's rest.
For, the younger Fairy away hath flown,
And hath Nora found in her sleep alone,
Hath raised her up between her wings,
And lulled her with gentlest murmurings,
And borne her over plain and steep
With soft smooth glide that breaks not sleep,
And laid her down as still as death
By Edith's side on the balmy heath,
And all ere twice ten waves have broke
On the Lake's smooth sand, or the aged oak
Hath ceased to shiver its leaves so red
Beneath the breeze that just touched itShead
The heath-flowers all are shining bright,
And every star has it own soft light,
And all the quiet clouds are there,
And the same sweet sound is in the air,
From stream and echo mingling well
In the silence of the glimmering dell, —
But no more is seen the radiant fold
Of Fairy-wings bedropt with gold,
Nor those sweet human faces! They
Have melted like the dew away,
And Edith and Nora never more
Shall be sitting seen on the earthly shore?
For they drift away with peaceful motion,
Like birds into the heart of ocean,
Some silent spot secure from storms —
Who float on with their soft-plumed forms
Whiter than the white sea-foam,
Still dancing on from home to home;
Fair Creatures! in their lonely glee
Happier than Stars in Heaven or Sea.

Long years are past — and every stone
Of the Orphans' cot is with moss o'ergrown,
And wild-stalks beautiful and tall
Hang o'er the little garden-wall,
And the clear well within the rock
Lies with its smiling calm unbroke
By dipping pitcher! There the Hives!
But no faint feeble hum survives —
Dead is that Cottage once so sweet,
Shrouded as in a winding-sheet —
Nor even the sobbing of the air
Mourns o'er the life that once was there!

O happy ye! who have flown afar
From the sword of those ruthless men of war,
That, for many a year, have bathed in blood
Scotland's green glens of solitude!
Orphans were ye — but your lips were calm
When together ye sang the evening psalm;
Nor sound of terror on the breeze,
E'er startled you up from your humble knees,
When on the dewy daisied sod,
In heaven ye worshipp'd your Father's God,
After the simple way approved
By men whom God and Angels loved
Dark — dark days come — when holy prayers
Are sinful held, and snow-white hairs
By ruffian hands are torn and strewed,
Even where the Old Man bows to God!
Sabbath iSheavy to the soul,
When no kirk-bell iSheard to toll,
Struck dumb as ice — no bridal show
Shines cheerful through these days of woe;
Now are the blest baptismal rites
Done by lone streams, in moonless nights;
Now every lover loves in dread;
Sleeps flies from cradle and from bed;
The silent meal in fear is blest;
In fear the mother giveSher breast
To the infant, whose dim eyes can trace
A trouble in her smiling face
The little girl her hair has braided,
Over a brow by terror shaded;
And virgins, in youth's lovely years,
Who fear not death, have far worse fears.
Wailing iSheard o'er all the land,
For, by day and night, a bloody hand
A bloody sword doth widely wave,
And peace is none, but in the grave.

But Edith and Nora lead happy hours
In the Queen Lake-Fairy's palace-bowers,
Nor troubles from the world of ill
E'er reach that kingdom calm and still,
A dream-like kingdom sunk below,
The fatal reach of waking woe!
There, radiant water-drops are shed,
Like strings of pearl round each Orphan'Shead,
Glistening with many a lovely ray,
Yet, all so light, that they melt away,
Unfelt by the locks they beautify —
The flowers that bloom there never die,
Breathing for ever through the calm
A gentle breath of honeyed balm;
Nor ever happy Fairy grieves
O'er the yellow fall of the Forest leaves;
Nor mourns to hear the rustling dry
Of their faded pride in the frosty sky;
For all is young and deathless there,
All things unlike — but all things fair
Nor is that saddest beauty known
That lies in the thoughts of pleasure flown;
Nor doth joy ever need to borrow
A charm to its soul from the smiles of sorrow.

Nor are the upper world and skies
Withheld, when they list, from these Orphans' eyes —
The shadow of green trees on earth
Falls on the Lake — and the small bird's mirth
Doth often through the silence ring
In sweet, shrill, merry jargoning —
So that the Orphans almost think
They are lying again on the broomy brink
Of their native Dee — and scarcely know
If the change hath been to bliss or woe,
As, 'mid that music wild, they seem
To start back to life from a fairy dream
So all that most beautiful is above
Sends down to their rest its soul of love;
Nor have they in their bliss forgot
The walls, roof, and door, of their native cot;
Nor the bed in which their Parents died,
And they themselves slept side by side!
They know that Heaven hath brought them here,
To shield them from the clouds of fear;
And therefore on their sinless breasts
When they go to sleep the Bible rests,
The Bible that they read of old,
Beside their lambs in the mountain-fold,
Unseen but by one gracious eye,
That blest their infant piety!

On what doth the wondering shepherd gaze,
As o'er Loch-Ken the moonlight plays,
And in the Planet's silvery glow,
Far shines the smooth sand, white as snow?
In Heaven or Lake there is no breeze,
Yet a glimmering Sail that Shepherd sees,
Swanlike steer on its stately way
Into the little Crescent bay;
Now jocundly its fair gleam rearing,
And now in darkness disappearing,
Till 'mid the water-lilies riding
It hangs, and to the green shore gliding
Two lovely Creatures silently
Sit down beneath the star-light sky,
And look around, in deep delight,
On all the pure still smiles of night.
As they sit in beauty on the shore,
The Shepherd feelShe has seen before
The quiet of their heavenly eyes:
" 'Tis the Orphans come back from paradise,
Edith and Nora! They now return,
When this woe-worn Land hath ceased to mourn
We thought them dead, but at Heaven's command,
For years they have lived in Fairy Land,
And they glide back by night to their little cot,
O absent long, but by none forgot! "

The boat with its snow-white sail is gone,
And the Creatures it brought to shore are flown
Still the crowd of water-lilies shake,
And a long bright line shines o'er the Lake,
But nought else tells that a bark was near;
While the wildered Shepherd seems to hear
A wild hymn wandering through the wood,
Till it dies up the mountain solitude;
And a dreamy thought, as the sounds depart,
Of Edith and Nora comes o'er hiSheart.

At Morning's first pure silent glow,
A band of simple Shepherds go
To the Orphans' Cot, and there they behold
The Dove so bright, with its plumes of gold,
And the radiant Lamb, that used to glide
So spirit-like by fair Edith's side
Fair Creatures! that no more were seen
On the sunny thatch or the flowery green,
Since the lovely Sisters had flown away,
And left their Cottage to decay!
Back to this world returned again,
They seem in sadness and in pain,
And coo and bleat is like the breath
Of sorrow mourning over death.

Lo! smiling on their rushy bed,
Lie Edith and Nora — embraced — and dead!
A gentle frost has closed their eyes,
And hushed — just hushed — their balmy sighs.
Over their lips, yet rosy red,
A faint, pale, cold decay is shed;
A dimness hangs o'er their golden hair,
That sadly tells no life is there;
There beats no heart, no current flows
In bosoms sunk in such repose;
Limbs may not that chill quiet have,
Unless laid ready for the grave.
Silence lies there from face to feet,
And the bed she loves best is a winding-sheet.

Let the Coffin sink down soft and slowly,
And calm be the burial of the holy!
One long look in that mournful cell —
Let the green turf heave — and then, farewell!
No need of tears! in this church-yard shade
Oft had the happy Orphans played
Above these quiet graves! and well they lie
After a calm bright life of purity,
Beneath the flowers that once sprung to meet
The motion of their now still feet!
The mourners are leaving the buried clay,
To the holy hush of the Sabbath-day,
When a Lamb comes sadly bleating by,
And a Dove soft wavering through the sky,
And both lie down without a sound,
In beauty on the funeral mound!
What may these lovely creatures be?
— Two sisters who died in infancy,
And thus had those they loved attended,
And been by those they loved befriended!
Whate'er — fair Creatures! might be their birth,
Never more were they seen on earth;
But to young and old belief was given
That with Edith and Nora they went to Heaven.