MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803
XV. THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803
NOW we are tired of boisterous joy, Have romped enough, my little Boy! Jane hangs her head upon my breast, And you shall bring your stool and rest; This corner is your own. There! take your seat, and let me see That you can listen quietly: And, as I promised, I will tell That strange adventure which befell A poor blind Highland Boy. 10 A ‘Highland’ Boy!–why call him so? Because, my Darlings, ye must know That, under hills which rise like towers, Far higher hills than these of ours! He from his birth had lived. He ne’er had seen one earthly sight The sun, the day; the stars, the night; Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, Or woman, man, or child. 20 And yet he neither drooped nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind; For God took pity on the Boy, And was his friend; and gave him joy Of which we nothing know. His Mother, too, no doubt, above Her other children him did love: For, was she here, or was she there, She thought of him with constant care, And more than mother’s love. 30 And proud she was of heart, when, clad In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, And bonnet with a feather gay, To Kirk he on the Sabbath day Went hand in hand with her. A dog too, had he; not for need, But one to play with and to feed; Which would have led him, if bereft Of company or friends, and left Without a better guide. 40 And then the bagpipes he could blow– And thus from house to house would go; And all were pleased to hear and see, For none made sweeter melody Than did the poor blind Boy. Yet he had many a restless dream; Both when he heard the eagles scream, And when he heard the torrents roar, And heard the water beat the shore Near which their cottage stood. 50 Beside a lake their cottage stood, Not small like ours, a peaceful flood; But one of mighty size, and strange; That, rough or smooth, is full of change, And stirring in its bed. For to this lake, by night and day, The great Sea-water finds its way Through long, long windings of the hills And drinks up all the pretty rills And rivers large and strong: 60 Then hurries back the road it came– Returns, on errand still the same; This did it when the earth was new; And this for evermore will do As long as earth shall last. And, with the coming of the tide, Come boats and ships that safely ride Between the woods and lofty rocks; And to the shepherds with their flocks Bring tales of distant lands. 70 And of those tales, whate’er they were, The blind Boy always had his share; Whether of mighty towns, or vales With warmer suns and softer gales, Or wonders of the Deep. Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, When from the water-side he heard The shouting, and the jolly cheers; The bustle of the mariners In stillness or in storm. 80 But what do his desires avail? For He must never handle sail; Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float Ill sailor’s ship, or fisher’s boat, Upon the rocking waves. His Mother often thought, and said, What sin would be upon her head If she should suffer this: “My Son, Whate’er you do, leave this undone; The danger is so great.” 90 Thus lived he by Loch Leven’s side Still sounding with the sounding tide, And heard the billows leap and dance, Without a shadow of mischance, Till he was ten years old. When one day (and now mark me well, Ye soon shall know how this befell) He in a vessel of his own, On the swift flood is hurrying down, Down to the mighty Sea. 100 In such a vessel never more May human creature leave the shore! If this or that way he should stir, Woe to the poor blind Mariner! For death will be his doom. But say what bears him?–Ye have seen The Indian’s bow, his arrows keen, Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright; Gifts which, for wonder or delight, Are brought in ships from far. 110 Such gifts had those seafaring men Spread round that haven in the glen; Each hut, perchance, might have its own; And to the Boy they all were known– He knew and prized them all. The rarest was a Turtle-shell Which he, poor Child, had studied well; A shell of ample size, and light As the pearly car of Amphitrite, That sportive dolphins drew. 120 And, as a Coracle that braves On Vaga’s breast the fretful waves, This shell upon the deep would swim, And gaily lift its fearless brim Above the tossing surge. And this the little blind Boy knew: And he a story strange yet true Had heard, how in a shell like this An English Boy, O thought of bliss! Had stoutly launched from shore; 130 Launched from the margin of a bay Among the Indian isles, where lay His father’s ship, and had sailed far– To join that gallant ship of war, In his delightful shell. Our Highland Boy oft visited The house that held this prize; and, led By choice or chance, did thither come One day when no one was at home, And found the door unbarred. 140 While there he sate, alone and blind, That story flashed upon his mind;– A bold thought roused him, and he took The shell from out its secret nook, And bore it on his head. He launched his vessel,–and in pride Of spirit, from Loch Leven’s side, Stepped into it–his thoughts all free As the light breezes that with glee Sang through the adventurer’s hair. 150 A while he stood upon his feet; He felt the motion–took his seat; Still better pleased as more and more The tide retreated from the shore, And sucked, and sucked him in. And there he is in face of Heaven. How rapidly the Child is driven! The fourth part of a mile, I ween, He thus had gone, ere he was seen By any human eye. 160 But when he was first seen, oh me What shrieking and what misery! For many saw; among the rest His Mother, she who loved him best, She saw her poor blind Boy. But for the child, the sightless Boy, It is the triumph of his joy! The bravest traveller in balloon, Mounting as if to reach the moon, Was never half so blessed. 170 And let him, let him go his way, Alone, and innocent, and gay! For, if good Angels love to wait On the forlorn unfortunate, This Child will take no harm. But now the passionate lament, Which from the crowd on shore was sent, The cries which broke from old and young In Gaelic, or the English tongue, Are stifled–all is still. 180 And quickly with a silent crew A boat is ready to pursue; And from the shore their course they take, And swiftly down the running lake They follow the blind Boy. But soon they move with softer pace; So have ye seen the fowler chase On Grasmere’s clear unruffled breast A youngling of the wild-duck’s nest With deftly-lifted oar; 190 Or as the wily sailors crept To seize (while on the Deep it slept) The hapless creature which did dwell Erewhile within the dancing shell, They steal upon their prey. With sound the least that can be made, They follow, more and more afraid, More cautious as they draw more near; But in his darkness he can hear, And guesses their intent. 200 “Lei-gha–Lei-gha”–he then cried out, “Lei-gha–Lei-gha”–with eager shout; Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, And what he meant was, “Keep away, And leave me to myself!” Alas! and when he felt their hands—- You’ve often heard of magic wands, That with a motion overthrow A palace of the proudest show, Or melt it into air: 210 So all his dreams–that inward light With which his soul had shone so bright– All vanished;–’twas a heartfelt cross To him, a heavy, bitter loss, As he had ever known. But hark! a gratulating voice, With which the very hills rejoice: ‘Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly Have watched the event, and now can see That he is safe at last. 220 And then, when he was brought to land, Full sure they were a happy band, Which, gathering round, did on the banks Of that great Water give God thanks, And welcomed the poor Child. And in the general joy of heart The blind Boy’s little dog took part; He leapt about, and oft did kiss His master’s hands in sign of bliss, With sound like lamentation. 230 But most of all, his Mother dear, She who had fainted with her fear, Rejoiced when waking she espies The Child; when she can trust her eyes, And touches the blind Boy. She led him home, and wept amain, When he was in the house again: Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes; She kissed him–how could she chastise? She was too happy far. 240 Thus, after he had fondly braved The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved; And, though his fancies had been wild, Yet he was pleased and reconciled To live in peace on shore. And in the lonely Highland dell Still do they keep the Turtle-shell And long the story will repeat Of the blind Boy’s adventurous feat, And how he was preserved. 250