Page:The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich - Clough (1848).pdf/31

 And the great peaks look abroad over Skye to the westermost islands? There is it? there? or there? we shall find our wandering hero? Here, in Badenoch, here, in Lochaber anon, in Lochiel, in Knoydart, Croydart, Moydart, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan, Here I see him and here: I see him; anon I lose him! Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain to mountain, Leaving the crest of Benmore to be palpable next on Benvohrlich, Or like to hawk of the hill which ranges and soars in its hunting, Seen and unseen by turns, now here, now in ether eludent. Wherefore like cloud of Benmore or hawk overranging the mountains, Wherefore in Badenoch drear, in lofty Lochaber, Lochiel, and Knoydart, Croydart, Moydart, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan, Wandereth he, who should either with Adam be studying logic, Or by the lochside of Rannoch on Katie his rhetoric using; He who, his three weeks past, past now long ago, to the cottage Punctual promised return to cares of classes and classics, He who smit to the heart by that youngest comeliest daughter, Bent, unregardful of spies, at her feet, spreading clothes from her wash-tub? Can it be with him through Badenoch deary, Lochaber, Lochiel and Knoydart, Croydart, Moydart, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan, Can it be with him he beareth the golden-haired lassie of Rannoch? This fierce furious walking—o'er mountain-top and moorland, Sleeping in shieling and bothie, with drover on hill-side sleeping, Folded in plaid, where sheep are strewn thicker than rocks by Loch Awen, This fierce furious travel unwearying,—cannot in truth be Merely the wedding tour succeeding the week of wooing! No, wherever he Katie, with Philip she is not; I see him, Lo, and he sitteth alone, and these are his words in the mountain. Souls of the dead, one fancies, can enter and be with the living; Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her! Spirits escaped from the body can enter and be with the living, Entering unseen, and retiring unquestioned, they bring, do they feel too? Joy, pure joy, as they mingle and mix inner essence with essence; Would I were dead I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her! Joy, pure joy, bringing with them, and when they retire leaving after No cruel shame, no prostration, despondency; memories rather Sweet, happy hopes bequeathing. Ah! wherefore not thus with the living? Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her! Is it impossible, say you, these passionate fervent impulsions, These projections of spirit to spirit, these inward embraces,