Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.
Glen-Messen
By Robert Leighton (18221869)A
Some quiet heart maintains itself alone—
Or grass-grown alley off the trampled street—
Glen-Messen lies unknown.
With many a far-famed scene within their ken;
But even their books of travel do not know
This almost nameless glen.
Who loves to brood on beauty near at home,
And, haply, garners more, when all is done,
Than those who farther roam.
From shore to shore, was all one molten flame;
The Holy Loch, stilled with the swollen tide,
Was hallowed as its name.
I heard the measured dip of unseen oar,
And even the prattling children as they played
Upon the further shore.
Bosomed the summer beauty of the skies,
I reached its upper shores, then took the heath,
For there Glen-Messen lies.
The hills shut out the world with all its noise,
Shut in the murmur of the hidden stream;
And only once a hawk, with sudden poise,
Uttered a sudden scream.
But soon a muffled rumble, soft and deep,
And then the cataract’s imperious rush
Awoke it from its sleep.
Beneath the shelving rocks, and where it stayed
In quiet crystal pools, the speckled trout
In dimpling eddies played.
There, round and round in boiling caldron wheeled;
And up the cataract, like a flashing sword,
The silvery salmon spieled.
Stood on a stone the solitary hern;
While all around the purple heather bloomed,
And waved the feathery fern.
I lingered there; but years have gone since then,
And many a pilgrimage in thought I ’ve made,
To wander in the glen.
She takes her spell-bound lover by the hand,
And makes him one with that mysterious heart
That beats through sea and land.