[Skip Navigation]

Poetry Archives

A continuing selection of classic and contemporary poems.

An Ode On The Popular Superstitions Of The Highlands Of Scotland, Considered As The Subject Of Poetry

William Collins

   Home, thou return’st from Thames, whose naiads long
     Have seen thee ling’ring with a fond delay
     ’Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.
     Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth
Whom, long endear’d, thou leav’st by Lavant’s side;
     Together let us wish him lasting truth,
And joy untainted, with his destin’d bride.
     Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast
My short-liv’d bliss, forget my social name;
     But think far off how, on the southern coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal flame!
     Fresh to that soil thou turn’st, whose ev’ry vale
Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand:
     To thee thy copious subjects ne’er shall fail;
Thou need’st but take the pencil to thy hand,
And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.

   There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
     ’Tis Fancy’s land to which thou sett’st thy feet;
     Where still, ’tis said, the fairy people meet,
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill.
There, each trim lass that skims the milky store
     To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage door,
     While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
There every herd, by sad experience, knows
     How, wing’d with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly,
When the sick ewe her summer food forgoes,
     Or, stretch’d on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie.
Such airy beings awe th’ untutor’d swain:
     Nor thou, though learn’d, his homelier thoughts neglect;
Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain;
     These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
That add new conquests to her boundless reign.
And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain.

   Ev’n yet preserv’d, how often may’st thou hear,
     Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run,
     Taught by the father to his list’ning son,
Strange lays, whose power had charm’d a Spenser’s ear.
     At ev’ry pause, before thy mind possest,
Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around,
     With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest,
Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown’d:
     Whether thou bidd’st the well-taught hind repeat
The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave,
     When ev’ry shrieking maid her bosom beat,
And strew’d with choicest herbs his scented grave;
     Or whether, sitting in the shepherd’s shiel,
Thou hear’st some sounding tale of war’s alarms;
     When at the bugle’s call, with fire and steel,
The sturdy clans pour’d forth their bony swarms,
And hostile brothers met to prove each other’s arms.

   ’Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,
     In Sky’s lone isle, the gifted wizard seer,
     Lodged in the wintry cave with [fate’s fell spear,]
Or in the depth of Uist’s dark forest dwells:
     How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,
With their own visions oft astonish’d droop.
     When, o’er the wat’ry strath, or quaggy moss,
They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.
     Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,
Their [piercing] glance some fated youth descry,
     Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen,
And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.
     For them the viewless forms of air obey;
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair:
     They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare
To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

[Twenty-five lines in this section are missing from available
 manuscripts]

       What though far off, from some dark dell espied,
His glimm’ring mazes cheer th’ excursive sight,
     Yet turn, ye wand’rers, turn your steps aside,
8Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light;
     For watchful, lurking, ’mid th’ unrustling reed,
At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,
     And listens oft to hear the passing steed,
And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes,
If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

   Ah, luckless swain, o’er all unblest indeed!
     Whom late bewilder’d in the dank, dark fen,
     Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then!
To that sad spot [his wayward fate shall lead]:
     On him, enrag’d, the fiend in angry mood,
Shall never look with pity’s kind concern,
     But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood
O’er its drown’d bank, forbidding all return.
     Or, if he meditate his wish’d escape,
To some dim hill that seems uprising near,
     To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape,
In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear.
     Meantime the wat’ry surge shall round him rise,
Pour’d sudden forth from ev’ry swelling source.
     What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs?
His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force,
And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless, corse.

   For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,
     Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
     For him in vain at to-fall of the day,
His babes shall linger at th’ unclosing gate.
     Ah, ne’er shall he return! Alone, if night
Her travell’d limbs in broken slumbers steep,
     With drooping willows dress’d, his mournful sprite
Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:
     Then he, perhaps, with moist and wat’ry hand,
Shall fondly seem to press her shudd’ring cheek,
     And with his blue-swoln face before her stand,
And, shiv’ring cold, these piteous accents speak:
     “Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,
At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;
     Nor e’er of me one hapless thought renew,
While I lie welt’ring on the osier’d shore,
Drown’d by the kelpie’s wrath, nor e’er shall aid thee more!”

   Unbounded is thy range; with varied style
     Thy Muse may, like those feath’ry tribes which spring
     From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle.
     To that hoar pile, which still its ruin shows:
In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found,
     Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,
And culls them, wond’ring, from the hallow’d ground!
     Or thither, where, beneath the show’ry west,
The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid:
     Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,
No slaves revere them, and no wars invade:
     Yet frequent now, at midnight’s solemn hour,
The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,
     And forth the monarchs stalk with sov’reign pow’r,
In pageant robes, and wreath’d with sheeny gold,
And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

   But, O! o’er all, forget not Kilda’s race,
     On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,
     Fair Nature’s daughter, Virtue, yet abides.
Go, just, as they, their blameless manners trace!
     Then to my ear transmit some gentle song,
Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,
     Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,
And all their prospect but the wintry main.
     With sparing temp’rance, at the needful time,
They drain the sainted spring; or, hunger-prest,
     Along th’ Atlantic rock undreading climb,
And of its eggs despoil the solan’s nest.
     Thus blest in primal innocence, they live,
Suffic’d and happy with that frugal fare
     Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.
Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;
Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

   Nor need’st thou blush that such false themes engage
     Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest;
     For not alone they touch the village breast,
But fill’d in elder time th’ historic page.
     There Shakespeare’s self, with ev’ry garland crown’d,
[Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen],
     In musing hour, his wayward sisters found,
And with their terrors drest the magic scene.
     From them he sung, when ’mid his bold design,
Before the Scot afflicted and aghast,
     The shadowy kings of Banquo’s fated line
Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass’d.
     Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told
Could once so well my answ’ring bosom pierce;
     Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold,
The native legends of thy land rehearse;
To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse.

   In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
     From sober truth, are still to nature true,
     And call forth fresh delight to Fancy’s view,
Th’ heroic muse employ’d her Tasso’s art!
     How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour’d;
     When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheav’d the vanish’d sword!
     How have I sat, when pip’d the pensive wind,
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung;
     Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind
Believ’d the magic wonders which he sung!
     Hence, at each sound, imagination glows;
[Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!]
     Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows;
Melting its flows, pure, num’rous, strong, and clear,
And fills th’ impassion’d heart, and wins the harmonious ear!

   All hail, ye scenes that o’er my soul prevail!
     Ye [spacious] friths and lakes, which, far away,
     Are by smooth Annan fill’d or past’ral Tay,
Or Don’s romantic springs at distance, hail!
     The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread
Your lowly glens, o’erhung with spreading broom;
     Or, o’er your stretching heaths, by fancy led;
[Or o’er your mountains creep, in awful gloom!]
     Then will I dress once more the faded bow’r,
Where Jonson sat in Drummond’s [classic] shade;
     Or crop, from Tiviot’s dale, each [lyric flower,]
And mourn, on Yarrow’s banks, [where Willy’s laid!]
     Meantime, ye Pow’rs, that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian’s plains, attend,
     Where’er he dwell, on hill, or lowly muir,
To him I lose, your kind protection lend,
And, touch’d with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!
Online text © 1998-2014 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From Proceedings | 1784
Add Keyword Tags

Separate each tag with a space. You may add as many tags as you'd like to each poem.

What are tags?
Tags, sometimes called “folksonomies,” are words that describe or categorize a poem, like “20th century modernism” or “Italian sonnet”. Tags can help you find poems that have something in common, based on how other people classify them.

More Info

This site will work and look better in a browser that supports web standards, but it is accessible to any Internet device.