Poems (Baldwyn)/Colma
COLMA.
From "Songs of Selma."—Ossian.
'Tis night, and on the stormy hill,
When winds delight to mourn aloud,
I wander sad, while sorrows fill
The faithful heart,—which nought can shroud.
The wind upon the mountain roars,
The torrent from the rocky steep,
And here forlorn my spirit pours
Its grief 'mid floods that fill the deep.
Rise, moon, nor hide behind the cloud;
Star of the solemn night, arise;
Let gloom no more my pathway shroud;
Lead me to where my lov'd one lies.
There rests he from the chase alone,
His bow unstrung, his hunters near,
While still beside the mossy stone
Of this lone stream, I linger here.
The stream, the wind, loud roar around;
That voice so lov'd I may not hear:
My spirit yearns to hear that sound;
My heart is torn with grief and fear.
My Salgar, chief of this proud hill,
Here is the rock, and here the tree;
Why dost thou not thy word fulfil?
Thou here didst promise, thou to me;
Here is the roving streamlet too.
Thou saidst with night thou wouldst be here,
And I this night will fly with jam,
Far from my father, brother, dear.
Our race with thine was long a foe;
Such strife our hearts can never know.
When winds delight to mourn aloud,
I wander sad, while sorrows fill
The faithful heart,—which nought can shroud.
The wind upon the mountain roars,
The torrent from the rocky steep,
And here forlorn my spirit pours
Its grief 'mid floods that fill the deep.
Rise, moon, nor hide behind the cloud;
Star of the solemn night, arise;
Let gloom no more my pathway shroud;
Lead me to where my lov'd one lies.
There rests he from the chase alone,
His bow unstrung, his hunters near,
While still beside the mossy stone
Of this lone stream, I linger here.
The stream, the wind, loud roar around;
That voice so lov'd I may not hear:
My spirit yearns to hear that sound;
My heart is torn with grief and fear.
My Salgar, chief of this proud hill,
Here is the rock, and here the tree;
Why dost thou not thy word fulfil?
Thou here didst promise, thou to me;
Here is the roving streamlet too.
Thou saidst with night thou wouldst be here,
And I this night will fly with jam,
Far from my father, brother, dear.
Our race with thine was long a foe;
Such strife our hearts can never know.
Oh, cease a little while, thou wind!
Stream, hush thy voice, let mine arise,
That I my wanderer may find;—
Salgar! it is Colma cries!
Here is the tree, yet unforgot,
The rock that shades this desert spot.
Oh, Salgar, dearest, I am here;
Why linger, why not now appear?
Stream, hush thy voice, let mine arise,
That I my wanderer may find;—
Salgar! it is Colma cries!
Here is the tree, yet unforgot,
The rock that shades this desert spot.
Oh, Salgar, dearest, I am here;
Why linger, why not now appear?
Lo, calmly through the mournful sky
The moon glides silently; the flood
Streaming through yonder vale doth lie
Beauteous in light; the rocks have stood
Gray on the steep, where melting rays
Reveal the barren height to me;
But, ah, the light,—the light betrays
No glimpse of him I fain would see.
His dogs, who erst did joyous give
Some token that he now was near,
No tidings bring, and I must live
Distracted, lone, this hour here.
The moon glides silently; the flood
Streaming through yonder vale doth lie
Beauteous in light; the rocks have stood
Gray on the steep, where melting rays
Reveal the barren height to me;
But, ah, the light,—the light betrays
No glimpse of him I fain would see.
His dogs, who erst did joyous give
Some token that he now was near,
No tidings bring, and I must live
Distracted, lone, this hour here.
(No answer came to that sad heart;
The moon still glided bright above,
Like some fair spirit to impart
The tale of grief, the smile of love.)
The moon still glided bright above,
Like some fair spirit to impart
The tale of grief, the smile of love.)
'Who on the heath beside me rest?—
Are they the dearest of my soul?
Hear they the sighs that fill this breast?
Oh, speak, and make this bosom whole.
They speak not; no reply they give
To Colrna, sad and faithful maid.
Oh speak, and tell me that ye live;
I am alone, I am afraid.
Ah, they are dead; their swords are red
With blood. Oh, my brother, brother,
My Salgar's blood why hast thou shed?
Why Salgar, why slay each other?
Are they the dearest of my soul?
Hear they the sighs that fill this breast?
Oh, speak, and make this bosom whole.
They speak not; no reply they give
To Colrna, sad and faithful maid.
Oh speak, and tell me that ye live;
I am alone, I am afraid.
Ah, they are dead; their swords are red
With blood. Oh, my brother, brother,
My Salgar's blood why hast thou shed?
Why Salgar, why slay each other?
Dear were ye both to me; your praise
I still will mingle in my heart.
What shall this feeble voice now raise?
Ah, each shall claim his own true part.
Thou on the hill where thousands shone
Wert fair; he on the battle rose,
Terrible in might. Oh, mine own,
Speak to me,—hear my woes.
Hear me, ye whom I do love.—
Oh, they are silent forever:
Cold, cold is their breast, and may not move;
They are silent forever.
I still will mingle in my heart.
What shall this feeble voice now raise?
Ah, each shall claim his own true part.
Thou on the hill where thousands shone
Wert fair; he on the battle rose,
Terrible in might. Oh, mine own,
Speak to me,—hear my woes.
Hear me, ye whom I do love.—
Oh, they are silent forever:
Cold, cold is their breast, and may not move;
They are silent forever.
Oh, from the rock that crowns the hill,
From the top of the windy steep,
Speak, and the wild blast kindly fill
With loving word and deep.
I shall not fear, ghosts of the dead;
Speak! whither, whither have ye gone?
In what cave? Ah, whither have ye fled?
My voice is on the gale alone.
No answer, swept in the ruthless storm
Far from the broken heart,
Comes sweet to calm her wild alarm;
Is it thus, belov'd, we part?
I sit in my grief while I wait
For the morn in mine own sad tears.
Rear ye the tomb, the tomb in state,
My friends of my happier years:
Close it not until Colma come.
My life now departs like a dream;
Oil, why should I ere stay at home?
I will rest with them by the stream,—
The stream where the echo resounds,
And, when night on the hill descends
And winds rise to visit their bounds,
I will mourn o'er the death of my friends.
I will stand in the raving blast:
The hunter from his booth shall hear
When my voice is floating past;
He will love it though he fear,
For sweet to my friends my voice
Shall arise on the stormy gale;
Ye were the friends of her choice,
And long will know Colma's tale.
From the top of the windy steep,
Speak, and the wild blast kindly fill
With loving word and deep.
I shall not fear, ghosts of the dead;
Speak! whither, whither have ye gone?
In what cave? Ah, whither have ye fled?
My voice is on the gale alone.
No answer, swept in the ruthless storm
Far from the broken heart,
Comes sweet to calm her wild alarm;
Is it thus, belov'd, we part?
I sit in my grief while I wait
For the morn in mine own sad tears.
Rear ye the tomb, the tomb in state,
My friends of my happier years:
Close it not until Colma come.
My life now departs like a dream;
Oil, why should I ere stay at home?
I will rest with them by the stream,—
The stream where the echo resounds,
And, when night on the hill descends
And winds rise to visit their bounds,
I will mourn o'er the death of my friends.
I will stand in the raving blast:
The hunter from his booth shall hear
When my voice is floating past;
He will love it though he fear,
For sweet to my friends my voice
Shall arise on the stormy gale;
Ye were the friends of her choice,
And long will know Colma's tale.
Note.—That Colma should speak so much when overwhelmed with such excessive grief, seems unnatural; but I have of course, adhered to the original.