Heath from the Highlands

Here, where the great hills fall away     To bays of silver sea,     I hold within my hand to-day     A wild thing, strange to me.     Behind me is the deep green dell     Where lives familiar light;     The leaves and flowers I know so well     Are gleaming in my sight.     And yonder is the mountain glen,     Where sings in trees unstirred     By breath of breeze or axe of men     The shining satin-bird.     The old weird cry of plover comes     Across 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 me     Except this bit of heath.     This touching growth hath made me dream     It sends my soul afar     To where the Scottish mountains gleam     Against the Northern star.     It droops this plant like one who grieves;     But, while my fancy glows,     There is that glory on its leaves     Which never robed the rose.     For near its wind-blown native spot     Were born, by crags uphurled,     The ringing songs of Walter Scott     That 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 leaf     Of lowland beauty grew,     Perhaps he met Clan Alpines chief,     The rugged Roderick Dhu.     Not far, perchance, this heather throve     (Above fair banks of ferns),     From that green place of stream and grove     That knew the voice of Burns.     Against the radiant river ways     Still waves the noble wood,     Where in the old majestic days     The Scottish poet stood.     Perhaps my heather used to beam     In robes of morning frost,     By dells which saw that lovely dream     The Mary that he lost.     I hope, indeed, the singer knew     The little spot of land     On which the mountain beauty grew     That withers in my hand.     A Highland sky my vision fills;     I feel the great, strong North     The hard grey weather of the hills     That brings men-children forth.     The peaks of Scotland, where the din     And 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 atmosphere     That William Wallace knew.     And under windy mountain wall,     Where breaks the torrent loose,     I fancy I can hear the call     Of grand old Robert Bruce.