When First I Saw The Tweed

When first I saw the Tweed, the light
Of autumn, tender, sad and grey,
Lay on the Eildon's triple height,
And lent a sadness to the day.

It fell on field and wood around,
Soft as a single leaf may fall;
It mingled with the river's sound,
And gave a meaning unto all.

And, as I slowly walked, I felt
An unseen presence step with me,
That gave to field and woodland belt
A universal memory.

I heard the Tweed, but in its voice
That came to me another rang;
I lent myself to dreams by choice—
I knew the mighty minstrel sang.

And, lo, as at a trumpet call,
I saw knights, grim of look, and bold,
Crash through the lists, or, dying, fall
Within their harness as of old;

I saw the royal pageant glide
In pennoned and in plumed array,
And barons in their armoured pride,
And silken ladies, glad and gay;

Grim warders on each Border keep,
To cry the foray when it nears—
I saw the rough-clad troopers sweep,
The moonlight gleaming on their spears,

All this, as in a mirror, passed,
A dim old world of sunken things,
To waken, as it did at last,
When one great Wizard touched the strings.

He sleeps beside the Tweed to-day,
Whose music mingles with his dream;
And this is why my footsteps stray,
And why I linger by the stream.

Thou river of the minstrel's heart,
Whose latest murmur reached his ear,
Thou soundest, as though far apart—
His only is the voice I hear.

Flow, then, around his sacred dust,
Through the long years that are to be,
And leave the Eildons to their trust,
To sentinel his memory.