Poems (Campbell)/The Valley of Tow
THE VALLEY OF TOW.[1]
In an isle of the North, where the keen ocean breeze Whistles shrilly and wild o'er the heath-cover'd hills,Where the rude cliffs are wash'd by the merciless seas, Where bleak are the valleys, and scanty the rills; Yet, where sometimes ye mark, the bare mountains among, A green fertile vale spreading fair to the view;Where the mountain stream rushes in beauty along, Like the murmuring burn through the valley of Tow.
On the banks of this burn, when the moonshine was bright On the green fields of corn, and the cottages round,Poor William! alone, in the silence of night, Mix'd his tears with the dew-drops that spangled the ground.He gaz'd on the mountains, the valley, the burn As it flow'd on to mix with the ocean's wave blue;And cried, in despair—"I shall never return To wander again through the valley of Tow!
Oh! why did I look on the cottage with scorn? Why glow'd this proud bosom for glory and fame?Why left I the isle where my grandsires were born, To toil for the splendour that waits on a name?How blithely the lark call'd me up from my rest, How sweet too at night was the soft falling dew,When the sun had scarce sunk in the clouds of the West, But ting'd with his gold beams the mountains of Tow!
How dear are the days of the past to my soul, How sweet are the scenes of my childhood and youth!Roll back, ye blest moments of innocence, roll— When the bosom was glowing with nature and truth! Awaken around me, ye shades of the dead, Dear guardians of infancy gladden my view!—Alas! in the cold grave, for ever is laid, All, all that was dear in the valley of Tow.
And this is the path-way along the burn-side, Where I wander'd with Ellen, sweet flow'r of the vale!Dear, innocent Ellen! my long promis'd bride, How cold is thy dwelling! thy beauty how pale!When the rising waves dash'd on the echoing shore, And over the surges the loud tempest blew,Didst thou listen with anguish and dread to the roar, And think upon William—far distant from Tow?
And when the white sail pass'd by Mousa's green isle, Didst thou hail, my blest Ellen! thy sailor's return?Did thy lovely face beam with a tear and a smile, As pensive you wander'd alone by the burn?Yes, day after day disappointment you bore, For never again did the bark meet your view,Nor the fair southern gale waft your love to the shore, Till you faded and died in the valley of Tow.
And I, my belov'd one, would seek thy cold grave, To share it, and join thee again in the sky;But honour forbids, that a son of the wave Should shrink like a coward when battle is nigh!And battle is near, and to-morrow we go— Ye scenes of delight, an eternal adieu!Soon, soon from this bosom the life-blood shall flow, And these dim eyes be clos'd—but far distant from Tow!
The blood-tinctur'd sea-wave my pillow shall be, The wild bird shall shriek o'er its desolate prey,And my woes find a tomb in the depths of the sea— Far, far from thy grave, dearest Ellen! away."The north wind was high, and the billow's rude swell, While he heard at a distance his messmates' halloo;And there stream'd in his last look a fatal farewell, As he left, with a sigh, the sweet valley of Tow.
- ↑ A beautiful and romantic valley in Conningsburgh, Zetland; the property of A. Duncan, esq.