NEW POEMS
CLXXIV
THE indefensible impulse of my blood[1]
Surround me sleeping in this isle; and I
Behold rain falling and the rainbow dawn
On Lammermuir; and hearkening heard again,
In my precipitous city, beaten bells
Winnow the keen sea wind. So this I wrote
Of my own race and place: which being done,
Take thou the writing. True it is, for who
Burnished the sword, breathed on the damp coal,
Held still the target higher, chary of praise
And prodigal of censure—who but thou?
So here in the end, if this in the least be well,
If any deed be done, if any fire
Live in the imperfect page, the praise be thine!
CLXXV
WHO would think, herein to look,
That from these exiguous bounds,
I have dug a printed book
And a cheque for twenty pounds?
Thus do those who trust the Lord
Go rejoicing on their way
And receive a great reward
For having been so kind as lay.
Had the fun of the voyage
- ↑ These lines are found in the manuscript of Weir of Hermiston. They suggest a projected dedication of the book to Mrs. Stevenson.
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