Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A WOUNDED PTARMIGAN, by DAVID MACBETH MOIR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A WOUNDED PTARMIGAN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Haunter of the herbless peak
Last Line: Painted but—in air.
Alternate Author Name(s): Delta
Subject(s): Animals; Birds; Hunting; Wilderness; Wings; Hunters


I.

HAUNTER of the herbless peak,
Habitant 'twixt earth and sky,
Snow-white bird of bloodless beak,
Rushing wing, and rapid eye,
Hath the Fowler's fatal aim
Of thy freeborn rights bereft thee,
And, 'mid natures curb'd or tame,
Thus encaged, a captive left thee?—
Thee, who Earth's low valleys scorning,
From thy cloud-embattled nest
Wont to catch the earliest morning
Sunbeam on thy breast!

II.

Where did first the light of day
See thee bursting from thy shell?
Was it where Ben-Nevis grey
Towers aloft o'er flood and fell?
Or where down upon the storm
Plaided shepherds gaze in wonder,
Round thy rocky sides, Cairngorm,
Rolling with its clouds and thunder?
Or with summit, heaven-directed,
Where Benvoirlich views, in pride,
All his skyey groves reflected
In Loch Ketturin's tide?

III.

Boots it not—but this we know
That a wild free life was thine,
Whether on the peak of snow
Or amid the clumps of pine;
Now on high begirt with heath,
Now, decoy'd by cloudless weather,
To the golden broom beneath,
Happy with thy mates together;
Yours were every cliff and cranny
Of your birth's majestic hill;—
Tameless flock! and ye were many,
Ere the spoiler came to kill!

IV.

Gazing, wintry bird, at thee,
Thou dost bring the wandering mind
Visions of the Polar Sea—
Where, impell'd by wave and wind,
Drift the icebergs to and fro,
Crashing oft in fierce commotion,
While the snorting whale below,
In its anger tumults ocean;—
Naked, treeless shores, where howling
Tempests vex the brumal air,
And the famish'd wolf-cub prowling
Shuns the fiercer bear:—

V.

And far north the daylight dies—
And the twinkling stars alone
Glitter through the icy skies,
Down from mid-day's ghastly throne;
And the moon is in her cave;
And no living sound intruding,
Save the howling wind and wave,
'Mid that darkness ever brooding;
Morn as 'twere in anger blotted
From Creation's wistful sight,
And Time's progress only noted
By the Northern Light.

VI.

Sure 'twas sweet for thee, in spring,
Nature's earliest green to hail,
As the cuckoo's slumberous wing
Dreamt along the sunny vale;
As the blackbird from the brake
Hymn'd the Morning Star serenely;
And the wild swan o'er the lake,
Ice-unfetter'd, oar'd it queenly;
Brightest which?—the concave o'er thee
Deepening to its summer hue,
Or the boundless moors before thee,
With their bells of blue?

VII.

Then from larchen grove to grove,
And from wild-flower glen to glen,
Thine it was in bliss to rove,
High o'er hills, and far from men;
Wilds Elysian! not a sound
Heard except the torrents booming;
Nought beheld for leagues around
Save the heath in purple blooming:
Why that startle? From their shieling
On the hazel-girded mount,
'Tis the doe and fawn down stealing
To the silvery fount.

VIII.

Sweet to all the summer time—
But how sweeter far to thee,
Sitting in thy home sublime,
High o'er cloud-land's soundless sea;
Or if morn, by July drest,
Steep'd the hill-tops in vermilion,
Or the sunset made the west
Even like Glory's own pavilion;
While were fix'd thine ardent eyes on
Realms, outspread in blooming mirth,
Bounded but by the horizon
Belting Heaven to Earth.

IX.

Did the Genius of the place,
Which of living things but you
Had for long beheld no trace,
That unhallow'd visit rue?
Did the gather'd snow of years
Which begirt that mountain's forehead,
Thawing, melt as 'twere in tears,
O'er that natural outrage horrid?
Did the lady-fern hang drooping,
And the quivering pine-trees sigh,
As, to cheer his game-dogs whooping,
Pass'd the spoiler by?

X.

None may know—the dream is o'er—
Bliss and beauty cannot last;
To that haunt, for evermore,
Ye are creatures of the past!
And for you it mourns in vain;
While the dirgeful night-breeze only
Sings, and falls the fitful rain,
'Mid your homes forlorn and lonely.
Ye have pass'd—the bonds enthral you
Of supine and wakeless death;
Never more shall spring recall you
To the scented heath!

XI.

Such their fate—but unto thee,
Bleeding bird! protracted breath,
Hopeless, drear captivity,
Life which in itself is death:—
Yet alike the fate of him
Who, when all his views are thwarted,
Finds earth but a desert dim,
Relatives and race departed;
Soon are Fancy's realms Elysian
Peopled by the brood of Care;
And Truth finds Hope's gilded vision
Painted but—in air.





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