"Alas, her hopes are transient as that blaze, / And direful images her fancy crowd"
— Graham, James (1765-1811)
Author
Work Title
Place of Publication
Edinburgh
Publisher
Printed by J. Pillans & Sons, for J. Ogle, M. Ogle, Glasgow; R. Ogle
Date
1809, 1812
Metaphor
"Alas, her hopes are transient as that blaze, / And direful images her fancy crowd"
Metaphor in Context
But not with night's approach the shepherd's toils
Are ended; through the deep and dreary glooms,
Without one guiding star, he struggling wades
The rising wreath; till, quite o'erspent, compelled
To leave his flock to time and chance, he turns
Homeward his weary and uncertain steps,
Much doubting of his way, foreboding much.
In vain he tries to find his wonted marks,--
The hill-side fountain, with its little plat
Of verdant sward around; the well-known cairn;
The blasted branchless oak; the ancient stone
Where murdered martyrs fell, and where they lie:
In vain he lists to hear the rushing stream,
Whose winding course would lead him to his home.
O'ercome at last, yielding to treacherous rest,
He sits him down, and folds within his plaid,
In fond embrace, the sharer of his toils,
The partner of his children's infant sports.
His children! thought of them wakes new resolves
To make one last despairing effort more.
Meanwhile they, crouching round the blazing hearth,
Oft ask their mother when he will return.
She on her rocking infant looks the while,
Or, starting, thinks she hears the lifted latch;
And oft the drift comes sweeping o'er the floor,
While anxiously she looks into the storm,
Returning soon to stir the dying brands,
That with their blaze her sinking hopes revive:
Alas, her hopes are transient as that blaze,
And direful images her fancy crowd,--
The dog returning masterless; the search
By friends and kinsmen wandering far o'er moss
And moor; the sad success,--his body found
Half buried in a wreath; the opening door
To let the bearers in! ... The door is opened:
Shook from poor Yarrow's fur, a sleety mist
Is scattered round, and in his master steps.
What joy! what silent tearful joy pervades
The late despairing groupe! Round him they cling;
One doffs his stiffened plaid, and one his shoes;
Kneeling, one chafes his hands and feet benumbed:
The sleeping babe is roused to kiss its sire,
Restored past hope; and supper, long forgot,
Crowns the glad board: Nor is their evening prayer
This night omitted; fervent, full of thanks,
From glowing hearts in artless phrase it flows!
Then, simply chaunted by the parent pair,
And by the lisping choir, the song of praise,
Beneath the heath-roofed cottage in the wild,
Ascends more grateful to the heavenly throne,
Than pealing diapason, and the loud
Swelling acclaim of notes by art attuned.
Are ended; through the deep and dreary glooms,
Without one guiding star, he struggling wades
The rising wreath; till, quite o'erspent, compelled
To leave his flock to time and chance, he turns
Homeward his weary and uncertain steps,
Much doubting of his way, foreboding much.
In vain he tries to find his wonted marks,--
The hill-side fountain, with its little plat
Of verdant sward around; the well-known cairn;
The blasted branchless oak; the ancient stone
Where murdered martyrs fell, and where they lie:
In vain he lists to hear the rushing stream,
Whose winding course would lead him to his home.
O'ercome at last, yielding to treacherous rest,
He sits him down, and folds within his plaid,
In fond embrace, the sharer of his toils,
The partner of his children's infant sports.
His children! thought of them wakes new resolves
To make one last despairing effort more.
Meanwhile they, crouching round the blazing hearth,
Oft ask their mother when he will return.
She on her rocking infant looks the while,
Or, starting, thinks she hears the lifted latch;
And oft the drift comes sweeping o'er the floor,
While anxiously she looks into the storm,
Returning soon to stir the dying brands,
That with their blaze her sinking hopes revive:
Alas, her hopes are transient as that blaze,
And direful images her fancy crowd,--
The dog returning masterless; the search
By friends and kinsmen wandering far o'er moss
And moor; the sad success,--his body found
Half buried in a wreath; the opening door
To let the bearers in! ... The door is opened:
Shook from poor Yarrow's fur, a sleety mist
Is scattered round, and in his master steps.
What joy! what silent tearful joy pervades
The late despairing groupe! Round him they cling;
One doffs his stiffened plaid, and one his shoes;
Kneeling, one chafes his hands and feet benumbed:
The sleeping babe is roused to kiss its sire,
Restored past hope; and supper, long forgot,
Crowns the glad board: Nor is their evening prayer
This night omitted; fervent, full of thanks,
From glowing hearts in artless phrase it flows!
Then, simply chaunted by the parent pair,
And by the lisping choir, the song of praise,
Beneath the heath-roofed cottage in the wild,
Ascends more grateful to the heavenly throne,
Than pealing diapason, and the loud
Swelling acclaim of notes by art attuned.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "fancy" and "crowd" in HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
Text from British Georgics: By James Grahame., The second edition (Edinburgh: Printed by J. Pillans & Sons, for J. Ogle, M. Ogle, Glasgow; R. Ogle, 1812).
Date of Entry
03/08/2006
