by John Buchan
Tarik, the moor, with all his warrior train
Gave thee his name; now the Saracen
Fled the Castillean, and in Fortunes’ scales
By master charge, till the strong North prevails.
And Spain can Southward turn her page to thee
And know her empires’ fortressed boundary.
From perils Mediterranean, East to West
They ceaseless sail on their unending quest,
Plenished with fruit of shore and fruit of sea
The high hills’ birth, the gift of wood and lea
Easing the dower of earth, the toil of hands
To Rome, the enthroned lady of the lands.
Beneath its shade the Carthaginian sped
O’ersea to Spain and his dark spearmen led
Through the gaunt pass of the untrodden snow
To rich compassion needs, where soft and low
The sea winds sigh and the first roses blow.
Oft the proud Ceasars in their new-found sway
Led his mailed men to thee, when into the fray
The stout Herians rose, on Discords’ wings
Flew off the walls of Mauritanian kings.
Anon they, too, the irremeable stream
Were ferried o’er, and like a sick mans’ dream
The slow successors pass till that late hour
When in the settling of a sovran power
Then sawest the fleet bear the last leprous home
Toward the Northmen from the towers of Rome
Then through the summers of the hasting age
Comes the long train of toil-worn vassalage
Merchant and warrior, alone, and apart
Keen-eyed and thin, from labour in the mart
Of the worlds’ cities, came the faithful hand
Who bore the immortal hope from land to land
Their will, their aid; girt with conquering sword
Couriers of peace, the envoy of the Lord.
Beneath thy brow the eternal tide of things
Bearing the cloak of war, pomp of kings
Flowed ceaseless, Northmen in heated galleys saw
Thy face at sunrise, and in lust and awe
Steered from the vexed Atlantic to the sea,
New hope and great their perplexity.
On the green current led the embattled lines
Of sun-browned moors to the soft land vines
The plain Castilian at the twilights’ fall
Some dark sea-coves ‘neath thy seaward wall
On slumbering town sailed like the whirlwinds’ breath
And all thy rocks ring with the wail of death.
When the slow centuries brought the earth repose
And from the wreck of nature nations rose
And all men turned their eyes in tim’rous quest
From alien East to the untrodden West.
Then the tired seamen worn with pendrous years
Brought tidings marvellous to expectant ears
How o’er the desert of impetuous sea
A new world lay, unaltered, virgin, free
A land of gold, where Plenty, with full horn
Smiled at the eve, and ushered in the mom,
The old earth joyed at the speech of fresh-ploughed sod
And hailed the garden, wilderness of God
Then thy vexed straits saw the far-stretching fleets
Of men adventurous haste with straining sheets
With a fair wind behind, and whiles ver’lie how
The thunderous surging sea strained far and low,
The earnest of their toils. In the long train
Which, as the years fled and were calm again
Still ceaseless passed, the poor man and the great
Trod the same deck, the unbranded ship of state
Scared in the storms, and to the far-off ken
What layers of things, and strife of merchantmen.
Ah! who shall tell of the first sight of thee
Which dawned on way-worn exiles from o’ersea
Returning, all fractious with tempest strain
Or sick with gleam of green Mediterranean plain.
The long low level of the surgeless main.
When o’er the straits he saw thy barrier stand
And knew the watcher of his fatherland
Or haply the great galleons staggering on
Laden with spice and gold of Arizon
With all their faith thick-cloaked with stormy wrack
And a few English pirates at their back
While their great side shook to the North seas shock
Saw through the mist the brow of some high rock
And thanked their guardian saints and bore away
To the sure haven of thy o’er-shadowed bay.
And now the centuries brought thee alien kings
A folk who dwelled where the white ocean sings
The Northern tribes, a people great in war
The vagrants of the South, who near or far
By Arctic ice a’neath the southern star,
In desert muster or on the high hills’ dome
Have set their play and called the wilds their home
A race of freemen, who through wind and wave
Were sworn to strive to glory or a grave.
Then all day long the toilsome battle rang
About thy base, and the shrill bullet sang
Around thy startled front, till the dread close
When o’er thy barrier leapt the alien foes,
And, fighting hard, set high their play on thee
Then, the embattled point of liberty
And soon, in turn, they too in after day,
Faced the attack of fleets, till all the bay
Was strewn with uncharted wrecks, or far away
Down the suns’ path the shattered freemen sway
And the haunted eve broods upon the day.
But years have flown since the brave front of war
Looked on thy brow, and the hot bullets’ scar
Washed with the dent of storms; slow years of peace
Laden with plentious dower of rich increase
Have passed and smiled upon thy tranquil lands
Now only artists do favour at their hands,
Lo thy bare face feels the winds and suns of Spring
Are vain as Winters’ bouquet menacing,
The shock of war as the soft summers’rule
The pains of death as Fortune bountiful.
The earth is sick with toil and haste and heat
The dust of ages clog mans’ hurrying feet.
He flits like Ariel forth o’er land and sea
And give no bounds to high timerity.
The ships go forth like locusts on the main,
Then sailors say they would return and seek again
Once more with unquenched hope and changeless zest
To face fresh toils, in all there is no rest,
For the whole earth must render up her hold.
Of close-held wealth, her secrets all are told
Her power in thrall, her beauty bright with gold.
Nay, yet not all, for the high hills are free
No law can lay its’ bridle on the sea,
No winds which blow from the great roof of God
March the vain craft of man, the masters’ rod.
No little passion stir the placid skies
Or the fame stains’ inevitable eyes
‘Tis but below the earth is thrall to man
And bears the markings of his little plan.
Strength, peace, disdain, and ever deep repose
Clothe the sharp eyes and veil the eternal snows.
So now thy dear lifes’ noisy fervour flow.
No chattering huckster and the martial show
Colour and riot, toil and death or pain
Are thrust beneath as sad autumnal rain
But as the lone still mom when a red sun
; Dawns on a moorland measureless where none
Hath dwelt, or shall dwell, and the air is thin
With utter silence, so a peace akin
Sits in thy ageless forehead. All may hope
Our little lessons, whence the feeble grope
To think he wots not; all the feverish lore,
Which he must seek and lose for evermore;
Was seen by thee in this eternal place
No dissent winds are brushed upon thy face.
Breathed on till mom, kissed of the West-wind low
Thou knowest the wisdom which no mortals know;
Thy scarred sea-front times’grim epitome,
Mistress of quiet in battle, silent, free.
Even as some guerdon, when the gods befriend,
Wrestles through strife to his appointed end.
And the high point of vantage gained, looks forth
And sees the world rash on, and knows the worth
Of its’ frail honour, and himself can show
Safety or succour to the weak below
And there endures, in new lands common lot
No aid untried, no benefit forgot.
And while the toilers scan but his high seat
He in the watch-tower of his lone retreat
Looks from the clamour of terrestial wars
To the great peace which dwells among the stars.
John Burnet of Barns
1898
“Oh, if my love were sailor-bred,
And fared afar from home,
In perilous lands, by shoal and sands,
If he were sworn to roam,
Then, oh, I’d hie me to a ship,
And sail upon the sea,
And keep his side in wind and tide,
To bear him company.
“And if he were a soldier gay,
And tarried from the town,
And sought in wars, through death and scars,
To win for him renown,
I’d place his colours in my breast,
And ride by moor and lea,
And win his side, there to abide,
And bear him company.
“For sooth a maid, all unafraid,
Should by her lover be,
With wile and art to cheer his heart,
And bear him company.”
“First shall the heavens want starry light,
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sun, the sun want bright,
The night want shade, and dead men graves;
The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee,
To thee, to thee.”
“First shall the tops of highest hills
By humble plains be overpry’d;
And poets scorn the Muses’ quills,
And fish forsake the water-glide;
And Iris lose her colour’d weed
Before I fail thee at thy need.”
“First direful Hate shall turn to Peace,
And Love relent in deep disdain;
And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,
And Envy pity every pain;
And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.”
“First Time shall stay his stayless race,
And Winter bless his brows with com;
And snow bemoisten July’s face,
And Winter, Spring and Summer mourn.”
“First shall the heavens want starry light,
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sun, the sun want bright,
The night want shade, and dead men graves;
The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.”
To the Adventurous Spirit of the North
1898
Bom of the grey sea-shroud,
Bom of the wind and spray,
Where the long hills sink to the morning cloud
And the mist lies low on the bay:
Child of the stars and the skies,
Child of the dawn and the rain,
The April shining of ladies’ eyes,
And the infinite face of pain!
Seal on the hearts of the strong,
Guerdon, thou, of the brave,
To nerve the arm in the press of the throng,
To cheer the dark of the grave. —
Far from the heather hills,
Far from the misty sea. —
Little it irks where a man may fall
If he fall with his heart on thee.
To fail and not to faint,
To strive and not to attain,
To follow the Path to the end of days
Is the burden of thy strain.
Daughter of hope and tears,
Mother, thou of the free,
As it was in the beginning of years
And evermore shall be.
From the Pentlands Looking North and South
1898
Around my feet the clouds are drawn
In the cold mystery of the dawn:
No breezes cheer, no guests intrude,
No mossy, mist-clad solitude:
When sudden down the steeps of sky
Flames a long, lightening wind. On high
The steel-blue arch shines clear, and far,
In the low lands where cattle are,
Towns smoke. And swift, a haze, a gleam,
The Firth lies like a frozen stream,
Reddening with mom. Tall spires of ships,
Like thorns about the harbour’s lips,
Now shake faint canvas, now, asleep,
Their salt, uneasy slumbers keep;
While, golden-grey, o’er kirk and wall
Day wakes in the ancient capital.
Before me lie the lists of strife,
The caravanserai of life,
Whence from the gates the merchants go
On the world’s highways; to and fro
Sail laden ships; and in the street
The lone foot-traveller shakes his feet,
And in some corner by the fire
Tells the old tale of heart’s desire.
There, there, from alien seas and skies
Comes the far-quested merchandise: —
Wrought silks of Khassa, Mocha’s ware
Brown-tinted, fragrant, and the rare
Thin perfumes which the roses’ breath
Has sought, immortal in her death:
Gold, gems and spice, and haply still
The red, rough largess of the hill,
Which takes the sun and bears the vines
In the blue misty Apennines.
And he who treads the cobbled street
To-day in the cold North may meet,
Come month, come year, the dusky East,
And share the Caliph’s secret feast:
Or in the toil of wind and sun
Bear pilgrim-staff, forlorn, fordone,
Till o’er the steppe, athwart the sand,
There gleam the gates of Samarcand.
The ringing quay, the weathered face,
Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race,
The palm-girt isle, the ice-bound shore,
Gales and hot suns the wide world o’er,
Grey north, red south, and burnished west,
The goals of the old tireless quest,
Leap in the smoke, immortal, free,
Where shines yon morning fringe of sea.
I turn, and lo! the moorlands high
Lie still and frigid to the sky.
The film of mom is silver-grey
On the red heather, and away
Dim, distant, set in ribs of hill,
Green glens are shining, stream and mill,
Clachan and kirk and garden-ground,
All silent in the hush profound
Which haunts alone the hills’ recess,
The antique home of quietness.
; Nor to the folk can piper play
The tune of ‘Hills and Far Away,’
For they are with them. Mom can fire
No peak of weary heart’s desire,
Nor the red sunset flame behind
Some ancient ridge of longing mind.
For Arcady is here, around,
In lilt of stream, in the clear sound
Of lark and moorbird, in the old
Gay glamour of the evening gold.
And so the wheel of seasons moves
To kirk and market, to mild loves
And modest hates, and still the sight
Of brown kind faces, and when night
Draws dark around with age and fear
Theirs is the simple hope to cheer.
A land of peace where old romance
And ghostly shine of helm and lance
Still dwell by castled scarp and lea,
And the lost homes of chivalry.
And the good fairy folk, my dear,
Who speak for cunning souls to hear,
In nook of glen and bower of hill
Sing of the Happy Ages still.
O Thou to whom man’s heart is known,
Grant me my morning orison.
Grant me the rover’s path — to see
The dawn arise, the daylight flee,
In the far wastes of sand and sun!
Grant me with venturous heart to run
On the old highway where in pain
And ecstasy man strives amain,
Conquers his fellows, or, too weak,
Finds the great rest which wanderers seek.
Grant me the joy of wind and brine,
The zest of food, the taste of wine,
The fighter’s strength, the echoing strife,
The high tumultuous lists of life —
May I ne’er lag, nor hapless fall,
Nor weary at the battle-call.
But when the even brings surcease
Grant me the happy moorland peace;
That in my heart’s depth ever lie
That ancient land of heath and sky;
Where the old rhymes and stories fall
In kindly, soothing pastoral.
There in the hills grave silence lies,
And Death himself wears friendly guise,
There be my lot, my twilight stage,
Dear city of my pilgrimage.
The Pilgrim Fathers
1898
Behold your heritage, your land of quest!
Long have ye sought, near comes the hour of rest.
Go, children, forth with scrip and staff, and far
