. Lyrics from a library . TO WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) The waves about Iona dirge, The wild winds trumpet over Skye; Shrill around Arrans cliff-bound vergeThe gray gulls cry. Spring wraps its transient scarf of green,Its heathery robe, round slope and scar; And night, the scudding wrack between,Lights its lone star. But you who loved these outland isles, Their gleams, their glooms, their mysteries,Their eldritch lures, their druid wiles,Their tragic seas, Will heed no more, in mortal guise,The potent witchery of their call, If dawn be regnant in the skies,Or evenfall. Yet, though where sun
. Lyrics from a library . TO WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) The waves about Iona dirge, The wild winds trumpet over Skye; Shrill around Arrans cliff-bound vergeThe gray gulls cry. Spring wraps its transient scarf of green,Its heathery robe, round slope and scar; And night, the scudding wrack between,Lights its lone star. But you who loved these outland isles, Their gleams, their glooms, their mysteries,Their eldritch lures, their druid wiles,Their tragic seas, Will heed no more, in mortal guise,The potent witchery of their call, If dawn be regnant in the skies,Or evenfall. Yet, though where suns Sicilian beamThe loving earth enfolds your form, I can but deem these coasts of dreamAnd hovering storm Still thrall your spirit—that it bidesBy far Ionas kelp-strewn shore, There lingering till time and tidesShall surge no more. 30 J&. In a dim nook beneath the streetWhere Pine and noisy Nassau meet,This little book of song I foundIn a scarred morocco quaintly musty and bemildewed leafBespeaks long years of grime and grief;Long years,—for on the title-pageA dim date tells the volumes age. Ah, who was he, the bard that sungIn that dead centurys stately tongueIn those evanished days of yore?—An empty name—I know no more!Yet, as I read, will fancy formA face whose glow is fresh and warm,A frank, clear eye wherein I viewA nature open, genial, true. Mayhap he dreamed of fame, but fateEas barred to him that temples gate;He loved,—was loved,—for one divinesAn answered passion in his lines;He died, ah, yes, he died, but whenHe ceased to walk the ways of men,Or where his clay with mother clayCommingles sweetly, who can say!
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