Lochwinnoch: A Descriptive Poem
But what, my friend, would all these scenes avail,
The walks meandering, or the stretching dale,
The wood-clad mountain, or the sounding streams,
The harvest waving in the glowing beams;
What all the pomp of nature or of art,
If Heaven had hardened the proud owner's heart?
And is it so, ye ask? Ah, no, my friend,
Far other motives swell his generous mind.
He lives, he reigns, beloved in every soul;
Our wants and hardships through his bosom roll.
Those he alleviates with a parent care,
And these by him spread forth, disperse in air.
When late pale Trade, wrapt up in yellow weeds,
With languid looks, seemed to forsake our meads:
When, for her sons, stern Paisley sole confined
The web to finish, or the woof to wind,
Through all the village desolation reigned,
And deep distress each cheek with sorrow stained;
Oh! may these eyes ne'er gaze on such a scene,
Ne'er may I listen to such woes again.
Here mourned a father for his labour gone,
Surveyed his babes and heaved the bitter groan;
The weeping maid, tho' blest with blooming charms,
Saw now her lover forced to quit her arms,
While silence hung, and melancholy gloom,
Through each lone shop, and o'er each useless loom.
Our mis'ries reached his ear, his manly breast
Felt for our woes, nor e'en the tear supprest.
He bade us hope, nor were our hopes in vain;
Soon welcome news surprised each grateful swain.
Hope smiled propitious—every shop resumed
New heart and soul, though late to ruin doomed.
The sounding shuttle sweeps from side to side,
Swift o'er the beam the finished flow'rings glide;
Songs soothe our toil, and pour the grateful flame,
And ev'ry tongue reveres the patriot's name.
From scenes like these, let Pride disdainful turn,
And Malice hiss, and squinting Envy burn;
Yet, when entombed, the worthy patriot lies,
And his rapt soul has gained her native skies,
Such deeds as these shall aggrandize his name,
While they lie buried in eternal shame.
From Clyde's fair river to the western shore,
Where smoky Saltcoats braves the surge's roar,
A range of hills extend, from whose each side,
Unnumbered streams in headlong fury ride,
Aloft in air their big blue backs are lost,
Their distant shadows blackening all the coast;
High o'er their proudest peaks oft hid in showers,
The imperious Misty-Law superior towers;
Spiry at top, o'erclad with purpling heath,
Wide he looks round o'er Scotia's plains beneath.
The Atlantic main that opens on the west,
Spotted with isles that crowd its liquid breast;
Hills heaped on hills support the northern sky,
Far to the east the Ochills hugely lie.
How vast around the boundless prospect spreads,
Blue rivers rolling through their winding beds;
Black waving woods, fields glowing on the eye,
And hills whose summits hide them in the sky.
Still farther would I gaze with rapture blest,
But bending clouds hang down and hide the rest.
Descending from the hill's o'erhanging head,
Bare moors below uncomfortably spread.
Here stray the hardy sheep in scattered flocks,
Nibbling through furze and grim projecting rocks,
Strangers to shelter from bleak Winter's form,
His loudest blasts they brave and bitterest storm,
By human hands untouched save when the swain,
Drives to the crowded but the bleeting train;
Shears off the matted fleece with gleeful haste,
And sends them naked to the lonely waste.