ON TWEEDSMUIR.
Down in the valley, sheltered by the hill,
Fanned by the breeze, and watered by the rill,
Lies sweet Tweedsmuir—a village wrapt and lone,
No tutored township of the sculptured stone,
But a fair hamlet—wild and sweet to view,
Smiling beneath a canopy of blue.
The Tala, running in a wayward stream,
Keeps murmuring like the music of a dream;
Leaping and rushing onward, still it flows
With a sweet cadence in that deep repose.
Fair Tweed, descending from the neighbouring height,
Meandering on through meadows greenly bright,
Greets the lone Tala with a swift embrace,
And, gushing downward with their silvery trace,
Together now, they sweep along the expanse,
Lending a beauty to the peaceful manse.
On a small hillock stands the house of God—
A little church, the landmark of the sod,
An ancient edifice of years gone by,
Telling of souls now "passed into the sky,"
And weaving thoughts of man's eternity.
The quiet old churchyard lies so sweetly there,
It seems a place of slumber from life's care;
Yet years ago, as I am told in story,
Dark deeds were done by hands all red and gory,
And martyrs suffered in religion's cause,
Who lived for God, and not conventional laws:
Man's meaner tribute to the church and state
Found but resistance, and the martyr's fate
But stamped the seal of glory on the brow
That sings a song of triumph then as now.
The martyr's grave is there, though time hath chased
Wellnigh the lettered history, and effaced
What once in love and reverence was placed.
There is a beauty in that mountain land,
Where shepherds tend their flock with careful hand,
And all is peaceful in the passing day,
While strife and war have fled in dire dismay,
Scarce leaving aught to tell of their decay.
There is a beauty in the cottage life,
Telling of love beyond the world's strife;
If no ambition haunts the peasant heart,
And no vain strivings at an unknown mart
Surround the inmost lurkings of his soul,
Oh! surely his calm fate will onward roll
With less of misery than the man who knows
Enough of life to wreck his soul's repose.
Ah! who that dwells amid the city's din,
With all its conflict of enduring sin,
Its myriad cares, its many hopes and fears,
Its days of turmoil, and its busy years,
But who would gladly seek some mountain home,
Where he in blessed peacefulness might roam—
Contented reign in some secluded spot,
The world forgetting—by the world forgot?
A pastor's life, in such a scene as this,
Should be a life of godliness and bliss;
Guiding with grace each weary soul to heaven
(The wandering lamb into the sheepfold driven),
Until he finds a shelter far above,
Where all is tempered with undying love.
A cherished memory of that wild sweet scene
Comes with its beauty from the past, I ween,
Breathing a fragrance through the summer air,
Telling of love and peace that linger there,
In that far home, amid the silent wood,
The stir of life, in that sweet solitude.
For hearts beat there, whose voice of joy will rise,
With a soft cadence, to the ambient skies,
As life's emotions thrill through many a heart,
That in that life's vain struggle bears no part,
But lives and gushes forth its own sweet song,
Pleased with the little world it moves among;
Contented ever, that its daily strife
Is all-consistent with our checkered life.
Now let my thoughts return to days of yore,
And scenes I love to picture o'er and o'er;
May those who, with me, worship nature's spell,
Say to this sunny "Tweedsmuir," Fare-thee-well!
Fanned by the breeze, and watered by the rill,
Lies sweet Tweedsmuir—a village wrapt and lone,
No tutored township of the sculptured stone,
But a fair hamlet—wild and sweet to view,
Smiling beneath a canopy of blue.
The Tala, running in a wayward stream,
Keeps murmuring like the music of a dream;
Leaping and rushing onward, still it flows
With a sweet cadence in that deep repose.
Fair Tweed, descending from the neighbouring height,
Meandering on through meadows greenly bright,
Greets the lone Tala with a swift embrace,
And, gushing downward with their silvery trace,
Together now, they sweep along the expanse,
Lending a beauty to the peaceful manse.
On a small hillock stands the house of God—
A little church, the landmark of the sod,
An ancient edifice of years gone by,
Telling of souls now "passed into the sky,"
And weaving thoughts of man's eternity.
The quiet old churchyard lies so sweetly there,
It seems a place of slumber from life's care;
Yet years ago, as I am told in story,
Dark deeds were done by hands all red and gory,
And martyrs suffered in religion's cause,
Who lived for God, and not conventional laws:
Man's meaner tribute to the church and state
Found but resistance, and the martyr's fate
But stamped the seal of glory on the brow
That sings a song of triumph then as now.
The martyr's grave is there, though time hath chased
Wellnigh the lettered history, and effaced
What once in love and reverence was placed.
There is a beauty in that mountain land,
Where shepherds tend their flock with careful hand,
And all is peaceful in the passing day,
While strife and war have fled in dire dismay,
Scarce leaving aught to tell of their decay.
There is a beauty in the cottage life,
Telling of love beyond the world's strife;
If no ambition haunts the peasant heart,
And no vain strivings at an unknown mart
Surround the inmost lurkings of his soul,
Oh! surely his calm fate will onward roll
With less of misery than the man who knows
Enough of life to wreck his soul's repose.
Ah! who that dwells amid the city's din,
With all its conflict of enduring sin,
Its myriad cares, its many hopes and fears,
Its days of turmoil, and its busy years,
But who would gladly seek some mountain home,
Where he in blessed peacefulness might roam—
Contented reign in some secluded spot,
The world forgetting—by the world forgot?
A pastor's life, in such a scene as this,
Should be a life of godliness and bliss;
Guiding with grace each weary soul to heaven
(The wandering lamb into the sheepfold driven),
Until he finds a shelter far above,
Where all is tempered with undying love.
A cherished memory of that wild sweet scene
Comes with its beauty from the past, I ween,
Breathing a fragrance through the summer air,
Telling of love and peace that linger there,
In that far home, amid the silent wood,
The stir of life, in that sweet solitude.
For hearts beat there, whose voice of joy will rise,
With a soft cadence, to the ambient skies,
As life's emotions thrill through many a heart,
That in that life's vain struggle bears no part,
But lives and gushes forth its own sweet song,
Pleased with the little world it moves among;
Contented ever, that its daily strife
Is all-consistent with our checkered life.
Now let my thoughts return to days of yore,
And scenes I love to picture o'er and o'er;
May those who, with me, worship nature's spell,
Say to this sunny "Tweedsmuir," Fare-thee-well!
THE END.