Ah me, my Highland lassie! though in winter drear and long Deep arose the heavy snows, and the stormy winds were strong, Though the rain, in summer’s brightest, it were raining every day, With worldly comforts few and far, how glad were I to stay! I fall to sleep with dreams of life in some black bothie spent, Coarse poortith’s ware thou changing there to gold of pure content, With barefoot lads and lassies round, and thee the cheery wife, In the braes of old Lochaber a laborious homely life; But I wake—to leave thee, smiling, with the kiss upon the brow, And the peaceful benediction of—Ὁ Θεὸς μετὰ σοῦ! _WIRKUNG IN DER FERNE._ When the dews are earliest falling, When the evening glen is grey, Ere thou lookest, ere thou speakest, My beloved, I depart, and I return to thee,— Return, return, return. Dost thou watch me while I traverse Haunts of men, beneath the sun— Dost thou list while I bespeak them With a voice whose cheer is thine? O my brothers! men, my brothers, You are mine, and I am yours; I am yours to cheer and succour, I am yours for hope and aid: Lo, my hand to raise and stay you, Lo, my arm to guard and keep, My voice to rouse and warn you, And my heart to warm and calm; My heart to lend the life it owes To her that is not here, In the power of her that dwelleth Where you know not—no, nor guess not— Whom you see not; unto whom,— Ere the evening star hath sunken, Ere the glow-worm lights its lamp, Ere the wearied workman slumbers,— I return, return, return. _ἐπὶ Λάτμῳ._ On the mountain, in the woodland, In the shaded secret dell, I have seen thee, I have met thee! In the soft ambrosial hours of night, In darkness silent sweet I beheld thee, I was with thee, I was thine, and thou wert mine! When I gazed in palace-chambers, When I trod the rustic dance, Earthly maids were fair to look on, Earthly maidens’ hearts were kind: Fair to look on, fair to love: But the life, the life to me, ’Twas the death, the death to them, In the spying, prying, prating Of a curious cruel world. At a touch, a breath they fade, They languish, droop, and die; Yea, the juices change to sourness, And the tints to clammy brown; And the softness unto foulness, And the odour unto stench. Let alone and leave to bloom; Pass aside, nor make to die, —In the woodland, on the mountain, Thou art mine, and I am thine. So I passed.—Amid the uplands, In the forests, on whose skirts Pace unstartled, feed unfearing Do the roe-deer and the red, While I hungered, while I thirsted, While the night was deepest dark, Who was I, that thou shouldst meet me? Who was I, thou didst not pass? Who was I, that I should say to thee Thou art mine, and I am thine?