Thomas Aird Poems

“No, princely Titus! On my head amain
Just Heaven exhaust the armoury of pain!”
Othuriel said, as down a valley they
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High stood (he sang) the Sons of Light,
Exultant o'er our wondrous birth.
And through the alternate day and night
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Cape on the waves! In sucking caves
The seething pots of ocean boil:
Good ship and true, they suck not you,
Home plunging in your honest toil.
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His wild penumbra dimly seen
Through shattered glooms and scuds of sleety sheen,
Bold from yonder Norland height
Winter blows his windy horn.
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Day far into the west is gone:
Weary the Beggar wanders on,—
On where the infant river gushes
The dreary fruitless moorlands through,
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Hearts fail when Winter roars
On the blown seas.

Red blood for pale! Spring pours
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Drear, at the droop of day,
The nettle-wands, all wintry bare,
Sigh in our kirkyard old and lone!
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Babes to their rest!
Friends by the fire in ring and row;—
Quiet eyes to quiet eyes,
The saucy toss, the gay surprise,
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Blue breathing Night, down from her styptick noon,
Makes her young ice; the pools all plated gleam.
Bold speed defies her: down the dashing stream
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Yon Alp, he lifts his snowy horn
To catch the virgin rose of morn.

Clouds in towering tumult loom:
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