Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run, and cry, "Nay let us die, And let us die together." A Lake was near; the shore was steep; There never Foot had been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Nor ever more were seen. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The Solitude of Binnorie. The Stream that flows out of the Lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er' moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little Islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The Fishers say, those Sisters fair By Faeries are all buried there, Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The Solitude of Binnorie. To H. C., SIX YEARS OLD. O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; Thou Faery Voyager! that dost float In such clear water, that thy Boat May rather seem To brood on air than or an earthly stream; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; O blessed Vision! happy Child! That art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And grief, uneasy Lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. Oh! too industrious folly! Oh! vain and causeless melancholy! Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young Lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast Thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of tomorrow? |