Ballochmyle Poem by Alexander Anderson

A sweet love-song, whose early touch—
Ere yet the master-hand grew strong
To strike the chords that felt at such
The wondrous magic of his song—
Was with me, speaking soft and sweet
From leaf-clad tree, and from the smile
Of half-hid flowers among my feet,
That summer night in Ballochmyle.

The Ayr was hushed from bank to bank;
Its murmur, coming through the trees,
Was as of fairies when they prank
Their moonlight revels o'er the leas.
It mingled with the tender tone
Of lover's earnest plea and wile,
As I stood listening all alone,
That summer night in Ballochmyle.

There was no breath of wind to stir
The grass that grew beside my feet,
But silent as a worshipper,
When thought and silence are most sweet,
I stood: I felt my heart grow warm
With that soft dew of unshed tears
That comes, when, as beneath a charm,
We slip back into vanished years.

The spot was fair, but fairer still
In that high light which falls from song—
So fair that, bending to its will,
I only did this gentle wrong—
I plucked some grass, a token meet,
To take with me. No idle toil!
Since it perchance had kissed the feet
Of her, the 'Lass o' Ballochmyle.'

The night came on, and in the sky,
A little space of which was seen
Between the trees, upon the eye
One star shone out with wondrous sheen.
It wore the tender look of love,
As if some link to me unknown
Had bound it to this spot, and strove
To make this haunted place its own.

Sweet dream! for here love's very soul
Might dwell, and feel no taint of earth,
But wander to its passionate goal,
Or dream, and, dreaming grow to birth.
Here might his feet for ever stay,
And here his heart for ever dream,
Without one wish to roam or stray
Beyond the music of the stream.

The moon rose up, and, all at once,
From leafy branch and trembling grass,
A murmur, like a sweet response,
Came forth, and sweet to hear it was.
And with that murmur came the light,
That flung o'er all a tender smile;
And deepened still the fairy sight
That held me bound in Ballochmyle.

But is there not a softer gleam,
Which is not of the moon, that lies
On grassy bank and wood and stream,
And touching makes them sanctities—
A light that, shining far apart,
Is only for the inner eye,
That sees the glory of that art
Which speaks in burning melody?

Hush! do I wake or dream? for lo!
A spirit wanders up the glen,
And as he comes a deeper glow
Bathes all that lies within his ken.
He moves as in some mood of thought,
And in the glory which he throws
Around him his dark eye has caught
That frenzy which the poet knows.

He leans against a tree, he turns
His eye upon the shining stream,
And in its burning depths there yearns
The first sunrise of passion's dream.
Where have I seen that swarthy face
Which now is radiant with the light
Of that high look that wears no trace
Of earth or death to mortal sight?

Lo! yet another spirit comes
With lighter foot and fairer face,
Each leaf in murmurous music hums
As on she moves with pensive pace.
The Ayr grows hushed, and will not speak,
And only one sweet breath of wind
Kisses the roses on her cheek,
And sways the grass that throbs behind.

She pauses, slowly turns her eye
On him, the poet spirit, bent
In half-adoring ecstasy,
As to some angels heaven-sent.
Then with a low yet tender sigh
She beckons him: they both pass on,
And all the light grows dim, and I
Am left in Ballochmyle alone.

I wake up. Am I still beneath
The spell of all that early tone,
Whose music, like the spring's sweet breath,
Hath made this fairy spot its own?
The star shines through the open space,
The moonlight quivers all around,
And lays sweet hands of tender grace
Upon this consecrated ground.

Oh, early love-song haunting yet
The spot where the immortal trod,
And breathing, where his feet were set,
The music of the singing god.
Oh, maid for ever young! for who,
When caught and held by magic song,
Can feel the years that bear from view
The common lot that plods along?

Ah me! we pass. But through this wood
Our swarthy singer still will roam,
And muse in high poetic mood
Apart from all the years to come.
While she, his sister-spirit, strong
In her unfading beauty's smile,
Will move throughout the land of song,
'The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.'