AT your Dungavel, solitary and high, That looks o'er vales of tilth to mountains barren, And faintly sees against the western sky The dark, far brows of Arran, -- There first I heard his voice, 'mid moorsides lone, And last in haunts of the soft southland weather, Where daily your fair children and my own Played on your lawns together. His ageless eyes burned with unsquandered power; His countenance, when that magic smile came o'er it, Was like a sea-crag breaking into flower Though all the tempests gore it. Famed, feared, and loved: with no proud riches, save A purer wealth than heaped and warded treasure: The rare and noble friendship that you gave In most abounding measure; -- Such did I see him, such did he stand forth, Catching the light of your own gentler presence, On those grave uplands of the stormy North, Or 'mid your southern pleasance. And I behold him still -- though but in dream: Fighting the thunderous battle his fate denied him: Fighting for England her dread fight supreme, With her great soul beside him. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PATIENCE TAUGHT BY NATURE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING FRAGMENT THIRTY-SIX by HILDA DOOLITTLE THE SPIRES OF OXFORD by WINIFRED MARY LETTS THE SAILOR BOY by ALFRED TENNYSON THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY by WALT WHITMAN PASTEL by MARSDON GILFORD ALBRITTON |