Heath from the Highlands
Here, where the great hills fall awayTo bays of silver sea,I hold within my hand to-dayA wild thing, strange to me.
Behind me is the deep green dellWhere lives familiar light;The leaves and flowers I know so wellAre gleaming in my sight.
And yonder is the mountain glen,Where sings in trees unstirredBy breath of breeze or axe of menThe shining satin-bird.
The old weird cry of plover comesAcross 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 meExcept this bit of heath.
This touching growth hath made me dream—It sends my soul afarTo where the Scottish mountains gleamAgainst the Northern star.
It droops—this plant—like one who grieves;But, while my fancy glows,There is that glory on its leavesWhich never robed the rose.
For near its wind-blown native spotWere born, by crags uphurled,The ringing songs of Walter ScottThat 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 leafOf 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 groveThat knew the voice of Burns.
Against the radiant river waysStill waves the noble wood,Where in the old majestic daysThe Scottish poet stood.
Perhaps my heather used to beamIn robes of morning frost,By dells which saw that lovely dream—The Mary that he lost.
I hope, indeed, the singer knewThe little spot of landOn which the mountain beauty grewThat withers in my hand.
A Highland sky my vision fills;I feel the great, strong North—The hard grey weather of the hillsThat brings men-children forth.
The peaks of Scotland, where the dinAnd 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 atmosphereThat William Wallace knew.
And under windy mountain wall,Where breaks the torrent loose,I fancy I can hear the callOf grand old Robert Bruce.