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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

■ f

/^hte^^L^^ >^L f»^ <■

r^3.

A CLUSTER OF POETS

Scottish and American.

Wnu Tiiograt^hiciil .///,/ Critical Notice'..

JOHN D. ROSS, LL. D.

'*"'%''dectf""and "%!>«? nf'^rA'f' ''Rfndom Sketches on Scottish

Ciuojects, ana hditpr of ''Celebrated Songs of Scotland."

''Round Burns^ Grave" "Highland Mary:' u^^//

about Burns," "The Burns Scrap Book,"

"Burnstana," "Burns' Clarinda,"

etc., etc.

The grandest chariot wherein King thoughts^*'Xde._ALEX. Smith.

NEW YORK :
WALTER W REID, Publisher.

1897.

DEDICATED TO

CHAUNCBY M. DEPEW, LL. D.,

A LOVER OF UTERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART,
A WARM-HEARTED GENTI^EMAN

AND ONE OF THE

FOREMOST REPRESENTATIVE AMERICANS

OF OUR TIME.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

— Anderson, Rkv Duncan, m. A --q

Anderson, Wiixiam .

' * * • • 35*

Bruce, Hon. Waij.ace ...

C01.1.INS, Hon. Chas. H. . <^

■* Imrie, John

•^ 225

*• James, Wii^ijam T. . . „

Law, James D.

• • 204

Leggktt, Benjamin ^. Ph. D o

- ivUCKHART, Rev. Arti'ur John .

* • • • ^3^

^ Lockhart, Rev. Burton VV., I) D

273

MacCuij,och, Hunter . .

• • • . I 07

*-- Macfari^ane, John

•^ 309

Macpherson, Hector . . ^,

■ • • • • 290

MacPherson, Patrick

... 30

«- Martix, George .

152

Reekie, Chari.es

362

*- Reid, Robert .

247

— Ross, Rev. Archibald . o

Ross, Peter, L. L. D g^

Shaw, Ralph H.

112

^ Smith, Rev. William Wvi; .

324

"• Smvthe, Albert P). s.

340

Williamson, George .

• • 97

L_ (a^ny^^

Chx,

HON. WALLACE BRUCE.

Distinguished on the roll of American poets of
the present century stands the name of Wallace
Bruce. An accomplished scholar, a brilliant orator,
a voluminous reader and an able critic, he combines
with these artistic qualities the feelings and taste
and imagination of a true poet, and many of his pro-
ductions through their exquisite beauty have lent a
lustre to the poetical literature of our country, and
are destined to live, and thus become a monu-
ment to his genius long after he has passed to his
final reward.

His is indeed a muse of surpassing sweetness and
excellence and power, and, to his credit be it said,
there is not a line or a verse which he has penned
that he need ever wish to blot out. As we glance
leisurely through his poems we find here and there
realistic touches of the fascinating beauty of Tenny-
.son, the quaint simplicity of Wordsworth, the ex-
uberant humor of Butler, the dramatic strength of
Shakespeare, the divine loftiness of Milton, the
sturdy independence of Burns, the weird charms of
Coleridge, the gentleness of Whittier, the melody of
Moore, the picturesqueness of Chaucer, and the
vivid descriptive power of Byron. His language is
choice and appropriate, the expression dignified, the

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

similies striking, the versification harmonious, while
the subjects are invariably interestinjj and instructive.
Truly an orij^^inal and pleasing and inspired singer
in all respects. Where all is so uniformly good it
becomes a difficult matter to select pieces for quota-
tion, especially when these pieces must necessarily
be short ones and our author's talents are always
displayed to better advantage in his longer composi-
tions. Here is one however that will serve as an
introduction :

THK SNOW ANGEI,.

The sleigh-bells danced that winter night ;

Old Brattlcborough rniig with glee ;
The windows overflowed with light ;

Joy ruled each hearth and Christmas tree.
But to one the bells and tnirth were naught ;
His soul with deeper joy was fraught.

He waited until the guests were gone,

He waited to dream his dream alone ;
And the night wore on.

Alone he stands in the silent night ;

He piles the snow in the village square ;
With spade for chisel, a statue white

From the crystal quarry rises fair.
No light, save the stars, to guide his hand,
But the image obeys his soul's command.

The sky is draped with fleecy lawn,

The stars grow pale in the early dawn.
And the lad toils on.

HON. WALLACE BRUCE.

And lo ! in the morn the people came

To gaze at the wondrous vision there ;
And they called it "The Angel," divining its name,

For it came in silence and unaware.
It seemed no mortal hand had wrought
The uplifted face with prayerful thought ;

But its features wasted beneath the sim ;

Its life went out ere the day was done ;
And the lad dreamed on.

And his dream was this : In the years to be

I will carve the angel in lasting stone ;
In another land ; beyond the sea,

I will toil in darkness, will dream alone ;
While others sleep I will find a way
Up through the night to the light of day.

There's nothing desired beneath star or sun

Which patient genius has not won ;
And the boy toiled on.

The years go by. He has wrought with might ;

He has gained renown in the land of art ;
liut the thought inspired that Christmas night

Still kept its place in the sculptor's heart ;
And the dream of the boy, that melted away
In the light of the sun that winter day.

Is emlx)died at last in enduring stone,

Snow /ingel in marble — his purpose won ;
And the man toils on.

"Wallace Bruce touches smoothly and sweetly
chords that have an echo on both sides of the
Atlantic," said the Edinburgfh Scotsman in reviewing
his poems, and the (ilasgow Herald concluded an

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

extended notice of his merits by saying^, '* His verse
thrills with fine, free-flowing, vigorous spirit, which
imparts to it that feeling of reality and freshnesss
that gives to the poetry of Burns its permanent
attraction." " Keenly alive to the beautiful," says
the Birmingham Gazette, " whether in art or nature
or in home life," while the Saturday Review declares
that there is to be found in his writings ''freshness
and power and a certain open-air flavor at no time
common to writers of verse." The Rev. Henry
Ward Beecher claimed that his poetry, " by its merit
and beauty made its way to all eyes and hearts," and
Mr. Gladstone, acknowledging the receipt of one cf
his volumes, wrote : " The outward form is beauti-
ful, and my first acquaintance with the contents is in
harmony therewith."

As a poet, Mr. Bruce is endowed with a great
command of language and abundance of rhyme.
His verses flow naturally and mu.sically, and we be-
come interested in them at once. The following
poem, entitled "The protest of the Immortals,"
may be given as a specimen of this. It was recited
by Mr. Bruce at a banquet of the Edinburgh Pen
and Pencil Club, and was not only well received
then but was much spoken of and quoted by the
Scottish press at the time :

A singular meeting the other night !

Did you hear of it up at Parliament Hall ?
Just twelve o'clock the moon shone bright ;

HON. WALLACE BRUCE,

A strange, weird brilliancy flooded all

The rich-stained windows ; the portraits there
The spectral radiance seemed to share

I followed the crowd, a ghastly throng,

A curious group of former days ;
As through the portal it surged along
Familiar faces met my gaze,
As if the library down below
Had yielded its worthies for public show.

In close procession, a hundred or more ;

But it seemed so strange, no voice or word.
No footfall on the oaken floor ;
An old time Provost proffered a word,
A motion forsooth, for then and there
Sir Walter responded and took the chair.

He seemed full pale as he rose to speak,

And bowed his head to the eager crowd.
But a flush forthwith illumed his cheek.
Erect his form, which erst was bowed ;
Intent on the Wizard seemed to be
That strange, peculiar company.

I noted expressions of scorn and pride

Vividly flashed from face to face ;
The minstrel dashed a tear aside,
Ai^ptaling, it seemed, to the Scottish race ;
Aye more, each gesture seemed to be
For his darling city a loving plea.

I saw him point to the legend there

Emblazoned upon the windows high ;
To the Crown that Scotia used to wear

It <

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

When her heroes dared to do or die :
And he seemed to say, '• Edina's crown
Shall not for gold be trampled down."

All hands went up at the table round,

Where sat Kit North with flowing quill,
And the sentences seemed to leap and bound
Like living sparks from his sturdy will —
A protest deep, a trumpet word
Straight from the heart, for his soul was stirred.

A moment's pause ; they were asked to sign ;

But who would lead that famous band ?
Who on the roll of auld lang syne,
Prince or peasant, thus dared to stand ?
With one accord the gathering turns.
And straightway summoned Robert Burns.

He came, and proudly wrote his name,
The clear, bold hand, beloved by all.
And there seemed to burst a loud acclaim
That shook the roof of the stately hall.
His plain sign-manual seemed to say —
We guard "Auld Reekie " from wrong to-day.

Shoulder to shoulder, in steady file,

I noted them all as they passed along —
Dugald Stewart and stern Carlyle,
Riddell and Lockhart, of Border song.
Professor Aytoun and dear John Brown,
Brougham and Erskine, in wig and gown ;

Hugh Millar and Pollok, Mackenzie, Blair,

Cockburn, Jeffrey, and David Hume,
Hogg and Ramsay — a curious pair.

HON. WALLACE BRUCE.

De Quincey, " Delta " in noni-de-plume,
Drummond of Hawthornden, Boswell, Home,
Fergusson, Allison — still they come.

They stood in groups, the roll was done ;
The chairman rose, they listened all ;
St. Giles pealed out the hour of one,
They took their way from the silent hall ;
Over the parchment alone I bent —
It seemed like the League and Covenant.

I read it there in the fading light,

A message strange from the shadowy past,
With storied names for ever bright
While Scotland's fame and glory last ;
The ink on that parchment shall never fade
Till Arthur's Seat in the Forth is laid.

" Stand by your city and guard it well —

That street is more than a common wynd
For smoking chimneys and sooty smell ;
Has Plutus made your guardians blind ?
What god your senses has so beguiled
That Art and Nature shall be defiled ?"

So said Kit North : and I read with joy —
" Stand by your city and guard it well ;
For a mess of pottage, or base alloy.
Who dare your birthright or beauty sell ?
Never ! ah, never ! Edina mine,
Shall force or foliy thy virtue tyne.

'* Stand by your city and guard it well ;

Burrow in rocks for your tunnelled ways,
TaL.t not the soil with carbon fell,

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

The flowers of the sod where the sunlight plays."
No wonder the hall with wild applause
Greeted the reading of every clause.

" Stand by your city and guard it well ;

Greed is mighty, but truth prevails ;
Let not your children's children tell
How beauty was bartered for iron rails."
Such was the meeting in Parliament Hall —
" Nemo impune !" Guard us all.

The entire poem proves that Mr. Bruce has a very
sincere regard for Scotland, the home of his ancestors.
He delights to talk and lecture on her heroes, her
poets, her statesmen and her preachers, and he loves
her old traditions, her ballads, her songs, her litera-
ture and her customs, with a love that is hardly sur-
passed even by a native-born Scotsman. This love
for Scotland and all things Scottish is visible in
nearly all his writings and it was therefore a gratify-
ing and appropriate compliment to Mr. Bruce when
President Harrison appointed him United States
Consul at Edinburgh.

I now take pleasure in appending another poem
on a Scottish subject and one which I think all
readers will admire. The poem is thoroughly Scot-
tish in tone and expression, besides being so well
written that any Scottish poet would be pleased
could he say that he was the author of it.

HON. WALLACE BRUCE,

INCH-CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND.

[The islaud burial-place of Clan Alpine, resembling, from Rossdhu, a re-
clining body with folded amis.]

No more Clan Alpine's pibroch wakes'

Loch Lomond's hills and waters blue ;
" Hail to the Chief" no longer breaks

The quiet sleep of Roderick Dhu ;
Enwrapped in peace the islands gleam

Like emerald gem in sapphire set,
And, far away, as in a dream,

Float purple fields where heroes met.

Inch-Cailliach — islaud of the blest !

Columbia's daughter, passing fair.
With folded arms upon her breast.

Rests soft in sunset radiance there ;
A vision .sweet of fond Elaine,

And floating barge of Camelot,
Upon her brow no trace of pain,

And on her heart ' ' Forget me not. ' '

Forget thee, saintly guardian ? Nay,

From the distant lands across the sea
To this lone Isle I fondly stray

With song and garland fresh for thee ;
I trace the old inscriptions dear.

Fast fading now from mortal ken,
And through the silver lichens peer

To read McAlpine's name again.

My mother's name, a sacred link
Which binds me to the storied past ;

A rainbow bridge from brink to brink
Which spnns with light the centuries vast.

rl CLUSTER OF POETS.

Two-hundred years ! Clan Alpine's pine

Has struck its roots in other lands ;
My pulses thrill to trace the sign

And touch the cross with reverent hands.

All ruin here ! — the shrine is dust,

The chapel wall a shapeless mound ;
But Nature guards with loving trust,

And ivy twines her tendrils round
The humble slab, more fitting far

Than gilded dome for Scotia's line ;
The open sky and northern star

Become the chieftains of the pine.

The light streams out from fair Rossdhu

Across the golden-tinted wave ;
That crumbling keep, that ancient yew,

StiU mark a worthy foeman's grave ;
But warm the hearts that now await

Our coming at the open door.
With love and friendship at the gate.

And beacon-lights along the shore.

Dear Scotia ! evermore more dear

To loyal sons in every land ;
Strong in a race that knew no fear,

And for man's freedom dared to stand ;
Ay, dearer for thy songs that float

Like thistle-down o'er land and sea,
And strike the universal note

Of love, and faith and liberty.

Mr. Rowland B. Mahany, writing of Mr. Bruce
in The Magazine of Poetry says : •' It is as a poet,
however, that his genius shines with the greatest

HON. WALLACE BRUCE.

lustre. Disregarding the mannerisms and conceits
of the present school, whose productions are at best
but ephemeral, he has held fast to old standards, and
struck a tone whose echo is destined to vibrate in the
hearts of listeners, now and hereafter. No American
poet of this generation, not even Whittier, has set
to sweeter music the tender memories of home.
Without the broad effects of Will Carleton or the
stilted moralizing of Longfellow, Wallace Bruce's
"Old Homestead Poems," have that delicacy of
fancy, sincerity of expression, and depth of feeling
which give fitting utterance to the vague sanctity
with which we hallow the past. The same truthful-
ness of motive is characteristic of all his verses, even
when his abounding humour ripples into song. This
nobility of purpose and excellence of execution are
the qualities which make those familiar with his
work enthusiastic admirers. His shorter lyrics,
published in the leading magazines, have always been
widely praised and copied ; and the fervent patriotism
that pulsates through his poems has caused his selec-
tion as poet on many distinguished occasions, notably
at the Newburgh Centennial, over which President
Arthur presided, and at which Senator Evarts and
Senator Bayard were the chief orators. The success
of **The Long Drama," read by Mr. Bruce, was by
common consent the triumph of the celebration."
Patriotism is certainly another predominating fea-
ture in many of Mr. Bruce's poems. It is introduced
and interwoven into his verses with gre it skill and

jy>

A CI. I V TER OF I\ )H TS.

always commands our admiration. Nor are his
efforts in this direction confined to America alone.
Wherever the bugle has sounded in the cause of
liberty and right, that country has become sacred
ground to him. But his patriotism is never boister-
ous or unpoetical. It is set forth clothed in the finest
of language and very guarded in expression, so as
to give offence to no one. The follov»ring poem, be-
sides being one of his best, will give a good idea of
this particular fejiture of his muse : —

"UNO DE MIIvLE."

[One April day in 1890 I saw a steamer draped in
black bring home to Como for burial a soldier of the
immortal One Thousand of Garibaldi. By a strange
and dramatic coincidence his comrade, an eloquent
scholar of Como, died a few hours later at his desk,
while preparing for the morrow a tribute to his
friend's memory, and on the next day the boat bore
his own body to his own kindred. — W. B.J

Another gone of the thousand brave ;
Across Lake Como borne to his grave.
" Uno de Mille." they softly say,
Waiting there by the quiet bay ;
A crowdetl plaza, a weeping sky —
Hu.sli ! the steamer is drawing nigh,

•' Uno de Mille !" Who is he ?
A soldier, they whisper, of liberty ;
One of the thousand from College hall

HON. WALLACE HRVCE.

»/

Who rallied nt Garibaldi's call :

His voyage finisliLMl, the anchor cast,

Home at Como to sleep at last.

Home, by her rippliii)^ waters blue,
Mir Hiring skies of tender hue ;
Home, where a kinsman's lioart-felt tear
Hallows a brother soldier's bier ;
Home, where a noble comrade now
Plaits a chaplet to grace his brow.

Strew with roses the hero's way.
Over the sleeping warrior i)ray ;
Home, from journeying far and wide,
Welcome him here with stately pride ;
The night, my brother, comes to me,
The morn, Italia, to thee !

Strew with roses the hero's way.
Over the .sleeping warrior i)ray ;
Wake, Italia ! speak for me,
Reunited from sea to sea,
I'lace a garland ui>on his bier,
" Uno de Mille " is lying here.

Thus mused his comrade through the night,
Weaving a chaplet fresh and bright,
Sorrowing for a brother dead,
Summoning hours forever fled ;
The light burns dim, the dawning day
Touches the mountains cold and gray.

The pen has fallen from his grasp,
His head is bowed, his hands unclasp ;
The sunlight pierces the casement there ;

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

He greets the morning with stony stare ;
The day, Italia, breaks for thee !
The night, my brother, comes to me.

Not as he flecmed. He little thought

The morrow's work would be unwrought,

Little he dreamed the boat that bore,

His comrade dead to Como's shore.

Dark -draped its homeward course would keep

To bear him, too, where his kinsmen sleep.

Hushed again the crowded square,
Sky and lake the stillness share ;
Over the mountains a fading glow, —
*' Duo de Mille," they murmur low :
One, with tapers in yonder dome.
One, 'neath the starlight, going home.

And so they parted, not in tears,
Wedded in death through coming years ;
Sleeping remote by the sunny shore,
Reunited for ever more !
Ivake Como sings one song to me —
" The morn, Italia, to thee !

Here also is a touching- little poem on the death
of Generol Grant, and in which the same quiet
patriotic feeling will be noticed. The poem is
founded on the following- incident. It is said that
when Grant was dying a ray of sunlight through the
half-closed shutters of his room fell upon Lincoln's
picture, leaving the general's portrait, which himg
beside it, in deep shadow. After lingering for a
moment on the brow of the martyred President it

HON. WALLACE HRUCE.

passed at the instant of death and played upon the
portrait of the j^reat soldier.

THE Sir^RNT SOLDIKR.

Prom gulf to lake, from sea to sea,
The land is draped — a nation weeps,

And o'er the bier bows reverently
Whereon the silent soldier sleeps.

The mountain top is bathed in light.
And eastern cliff with outlook wide ;

Its name shall live in memory bright —
The Mount MacGregor, where he died !

A monument to stand for aye.

In sumtner's bloom, in winter's snows,

A shrine where men shall come to pray,
While at its base the Hudson flows.

A humble room, the light burns low.
The morning breaks on distant hill,

The falling pulse is beating slow.
The group waf, motionless and still.

Two portraits hang upon the wall.
Two kindred pictures side by side —

Statesman and soldier, loved by all —
Lincoln and Grant, Columbia's pride.

A single ray through lattice streams,
And breaks in rainbow colours there ;

On Lincoln's brow a glory gleams.
As wife and childr-^n kneel in prayer.

8!;

^'Z

^ CLUSTER OF POETS.

A halo round the martyr's head,

It lights the sad and solemn room,
Above the living and the dead,

The soldier's portrait hangs in gloom.

In shadow one, and one in light ;

But look ! the pencil-ray has past,
And on the hero's picture bright

The golden sunlight rests at last.

And so, throughout the coming years.
On both the morning beam shall play,

When the long night of bitter tears
Has melted in the light away.

A liio^hly moral and religious sentiment pervades
all of Mr. Bruce's work, and this characteristic makes
his writings all the more acceptable to readers of
intelligence and refinement. Indeed, many of his
smaller poems are on religious subjects entirely, and
each of them gives strong evidence that their author
is a man who has a sincere reverence for his Maker
and for all things holy. A brief specimen may be
given :

THR STRANGER.
AN EASTERN l,KGKND.

An aged man came late to Abraham's tent ;

The sky was dark, and all the plain was bare.
He asked for bread ; his strength was well nigh spent.

His haggard look implored the tenderest care.
The food was brought. He sat with thankful eyes,

But spake no grace, nor bowed he toward the east.
Safe-sheltered here from dark and angry skies,

HON. WALLACE BRUCE,

»5

The bounteous table seemed a royal feast.
But ere his hand had touched the tempting fare,

The Patriarch rose, and, leaning on his rod,
" Stranger," he said, dost thou not bow in prayer ?

Dost thou not fear, dost thou not worship God ? "
He answered, "Nay." The Patriarch sadly said :

"Thou hast my pity. Go ! eat not my bread."

Another came that wild and fearful night.

The fierce winds raged, and darker grew the sky ;
But all the tent was filled with wondrous light,

And Abraham knew the Lord his God was nigh.
" Where is that aged man ?" the Presence said,

" That asked for shelter from the driving blast ?
Who made thee master of thy Master's bread .?

What right hast thou the wanderer forth to cast ?"
"Forgive me, l<ord," the Patriarch answer made,

With downcast look, with bowed and trembling knee.
" Ah me ! the stranger might have with me stayed,

But, O my God, he would not worship Thee :
"I've borne him long," God said, " and still I wait :

Could'st thou not lodged him one night in thy gate ?"

From a pamphlet recently issued by the Bryant
Literary Union we glean the following interesting
particulars regarding Mr. Bruce and his career.

Wallace Bruce, whose name bespeaks his Scot-
tish ancestry, was born at Hillsdale, Columbia
County, New York. As a lad he was distinguished
for zeal in scholarship and love of literature. At
the age of thirteen he translated a portion of the
first book of the -^neid into English verse. He
entered Claversack College at sixteen, where he took
the valedictory. Went to Yale University, where

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

ii:

he distinguished himself as scholar, writer, and
speaker, winning six literary honours, including first
prizes in English composition and public debate.
Was made editor of the Yale Literary Magazine by-
unanimous vote of his class. In 1869 was admitted
to practice law. In 1870 went to Great Britain and
France ; was in Paris the night Napoleon was capt-
ured at Sedan ; walked over a large part of Scotland
and England, studying the characteristics and cus-
toms of the people. On his return to the Hudson he
adopted literature as his life-work, and was received
with marked favour on the lecture platform. In 187 1
went to Poughkeepsie, N. Y., where he resided for
eighteen years. In 1872 was invited to lecture on
the Poughkeepsie Lyceum. It was a brilliant
course, consisting of John B. Gough, Robert Coll-
yer, De Witt Talmage, Daniel Dougherty, etc., but
Mr. Bruce was awarded the palm of the winter en-
tertainment, and his fame as a lecturer was estab-
lished in the Hudson Valley. From this happy
opening in the Queen City of the Hudson his fame
widened throughout the State, and within two years
he had all the appointments he was able to fill.
Since that time he has appeared ten times on the
Poughkeepsie Lyceum, always giving his new lecture
as the opening or closing lecture of the course. Un-
like many orators his fame began at home, and in
the lecture field he has not been without honour " m
his own country and in his own house. " Between
187 1 and 1889, in addition to orations and poems on

HON. WALLACE BRUCE.

public occasions, Mr. Bruce has lectured in almost
every town and city in New Enj^land, the Middle
and Western States, aggregating over two thousand
appointments between New York and San Francisco.
Mr. Bruce was appointed United vStates Consul to
Ebinburgh, July i, 1889, from which post, after an
honourable career, he retired on September i, 1893.
During his four years in Scotland he was invited to
appear on almost every lecture course in the realm,
and for four years in succession before the Edinburgh
Literary Institute. He also gave several lectures in
England, and was enthusiastically greeted by the
Parkside Institute of London.

While in Scotland he was made Poet Laureate of
Lodge Canongate Kilwinning, Edinburgh, as a
successor to Robert Burns, Scotia's national poet, and
James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, besides being
elected honorary corresponding member of the Scot-
tish Society of Literature and Art, to succeed the
poet John Greenleaf Whittier. He accepted the
invitation to write the poem for the unveiling of the
Burns monument at Ayr. Over forty thousand
people were present when the poem was read and
it was pronounced the event of the day. He re-
sponded to ** Burns Clubs All Around the World," at
Edinburgh and Kilmarnock ; gave an address at the
unveiling of Symington's monument at Leadhills;
a poem at Linlithgow at the Riding of the Marches ;
an address on Washington Irving at the old grammar
school building of Stratford-on-Avon, and an oration

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

on the occasion of putting up the Scottish Standard
on the battlefield of Bannockburn. lie also gave
the dedicatory address at the unveiling of the Lincoln
monument in Edinburgh, the first erected to Lincoln
in Europe, the money for which was raised by his
exertions from American citizens as a memorial to
Scottish-American soldiers.

On his leaving he was honoured with a farewell
banquet by the Cap and Gown Society, a letter of
esteem from the Edinburgh Chamber of Commerce ;
was made honorary president of the Shakespeare
Society of the Scottish capitol, and was tendered
a complimentary farewell dinner by citizens gen-
erally. The Lord Provost and Town Council
of Edinburgh also presented him with a solid silver
loving cup, weighing seventy- five ounces, bearing
the following inscription :

Presented to

Hon. Wallace Bruce,

Consul of the United States of America,

by the

Lord Provost, Magistrates, and Town Council of

Edinburgh,
On His Retiring from Office in the City, as a mark of
Esteem, and Recognition of His Services to Scot-
tish Literature, September, 1893.

A grand reception awaited him on his return to
America, and his services have been much sought
after ever since. In the midst of this busy life a
poem now and then appears in Harper's or in Black-

HON. WALLACE BRUCE.

wood's Magasme^ like bookmarks in the story of a
successful literary and business career. His various
publications have been good ventures; his hand-book
of the Hudson having reached a sale of one hundred
and fifty thousand copies; and his poems, "The
Land of Burns," "The Yosemite," "The Hudson,"
"From the Hudson to the Yosemite," "Old Home-
stead Poems," "In Clover and Heather," "Here's
a Hand," " The Long Drama, " " The Candle Parade, "
and "Wayside Poems, "have aggregated twenty-five
thousand volumes. In brief, whatever Mr. Bruce
does he does well. He has made his way to the very
front of the lecture platform without sensation, and
has won his position by his qualifications as an orator,
a poet and a genial man of letters. His poetry and
oratory are both full of the sunshine and enthusiasm
of his own nature. For grace, scholarship and mag-
netic power, he stands to-day without a peer.

•^5^.r^

^"^^4.,

PATRICK MACPHERSON.

It has been my privilege for some years past to
present to the lovers of poetical literature at inter-
vals, short bioj^raphical sketches, accompanied by
brief criticisms of the musing's of a number of men,
on whose shoulders had fallen the coveted mantle of
poetic inspiration. And the reward of my labors
has been great and abundant in the knowledge ♦^hat
the few kind words thus .spoken have cheered and
encouraged those sweet singers and in many instances
inspired them to make greater fights in the realm of
poesy than what they had hitherto undertaken. It
is true, of course, that they have not all gained the
same pinnacle of success in those latter fights, yet
the attempt which they made and the results attained
have been creditable to each and all of them.

And so, when my evening lamp is lit there is noth-
ing that gives me greater delight than to take up the
writings of one of these gifted individuals — some
one with whom I am not already familiar — and to
note the pure thoughts that ring through his soul, or
the dainty expressions that come from his big honest
heart. I am a true optimist in all poetical matters,
and I have yet to open a new volume of poems, or
to run through a bundle of unpublished rhymes
without finding some good qualities — some tokens of

PATRICK MACPHERSON.

merit and interest — in them

To-nij^ht I have spent a couple of very enjoyable
hours with the poems of Mr. P. Macpherson, the
bard of the New York Caledonian Club. I am not
at present aware whether or not Mr. Macpherson
has yet appeared before the general public in book
form, but if not, I would strongly advise him to
gather a cluster of his pieces together immediately
and to issue them in permanent form, as by doing so,
he will please a great many of his friends and
admirers, besides making a valuable addition to the
Scottish-American poetical literature of our time as
well.

I find him to be a man largely imbued with true
poetic genius and instincts. His muse is strong and
impulsive, tender and pathetic, pure, patriotic, and
inspiring. There is no mistaking his meaning. His
language is terse, clear and to the point. You learn
to love him the moment you take up his poems, as you
find something in them that immediately interests
you. The very first poem that I examined, ** A
Nevv-Made Grave," at once conveyed the impression
that the author of it possessed ability of the right
sort and that there was nothing of the mere rhymster
about him. Apart from the simplicity and s*erling
beauty of this composition, there is considerable
philosophy embodied in it, and, short as it is, it is
worth a hundred of the namby-pamby so-called
poems that we find in many of the newspapers and
magazines of the day. Read it over slowly :

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

A NKW-MADR GRAVE.

A cool summer eve, a boy and his sire,
In the weird silent home of the dead —

Sculpured encomiums on slab, plinth and spire,
And some not a stone at the head!

'* A new-made grave without flowers," said the boy;

Who is it, papa, do you know ?
In death so forlorn! was life void of joy ?

The end lacks the semblance of woe."

My dear loving boy, two questions you ask —
He who slumbers in death was my friend;

'Twas not his good fortune in sunshine to bask,
The shadows were dark to the end."

" Papa, dear papa ! did your friend much repine
That fortune should pass by his door ?

Did he notice and envy the wealth that was thine
And sadly bewail being poor?"

"The friend, my dear boy, who has gone to his rest,
Had no craving for power or wealth ;

Whatever was sent he thought was the best —
The riches he wanted was health."

' ' Papa, dear papa, do you think it is fair

That the sick should also be poor ?
Their load of ill health is heavy to bear ;

What misery some must endure !"

'* My dear earnest boy, adrift on life's sea

Great dangers beset us and care ;
'Tis fate, the imperious, that gives the decree ;

So all we can do is to bear."

PATRirK MACPHERSON.

" Pfipa ! dear papa, if such is the case

Then iiau^ht we can do can be wrong ;
The favored by fate will win in the i-ace ;

vSo calmly let things drift along."

" My dear thinking boy, yon arc young yet in years;

Our contluct through life is the test ;
Reflections like those bring nothing but tears ;

lie prudent, and hope for the best."

Born in the land of the heather, it is only natural
that the theme of many of Mr. Mac])herson'.s poems
.should be Scotland. Indeed, the motherland is a
fotnitain from which his muse very often drinks its
inspiration. And when he strikes the lyre on this
particular subject, there is certainly no mistakiuji^
the sound. His enthusiasm, at such times, is bound-
less, and yet, minsj:ling with the ])atriotic sentiment.",
of these poems are man}'' sweet and ]-)atheLic lines
and similies. In America, there are numenjus Scr.t-
tish poets who frecjuently sing of auld Scotia, but I
question very much, if any of them has ever suno- of
it in a more patriotic tone or spirit, or, even in a
more pleasinjj manner than what Mr. Macphcrson
docs. Here is a specimen :

SCOTI^AND.

There's a land in the sea, by the Orient shore ;
Its aspect is rugged, stupendous and hoar ;
Its fauna, the red deer, the roe and the liare ;
For flora, the bluebell and daisy are there.

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Its mountains are draped with the birch and the pine ;
On its wave-battered rocks marine aljjae entwine ;
There, shadow and sunshine abound in full form —
The soft lullin;:? zephyr and the blast of the storm.

Ossian and Homer tuned the lyre to relate
The patriot's devotion in times out of date ;
Of heroes and jj;lory sang loud and sang long,
With the fancy of bards, in the dreamland of song.

No fiction is needed the 1 lurel to twine
On brows, bonnie Scotland, of heroes like thine ;
With valor undaunted Ihey fought and were free —
Your Wallace, your Rruce, Montrose and Dundee.

The pibroch, the quickstep, the reel, the strathspey,
Can weep with the mourner, can laugh with the gay —
Make the young and the old to feel gladsome and h.ale.
As they flow like a stream, from the pipes of the Gael.

To whom but to thee docs the title belong ? —
"The home of the Muses, the fountain of song ;" —
They may talk of parnassus as much as they will —
Land of Scott, Ranway, Hogg, Campbell, Burns, Tannahill !

Let ours be the aim to i>c worthy of thee.
Our stern loving mother, unconquercd and free :
Willi hearts light ftni 'italwart seek fortime and fnme,
Aye loyal and true to the dear Scottish name.

Then home of our sires, though oceans us sever,
Till death's chilly hand stills the heart's heaving swell ;
The wreath of old Scotland for ever and ever ! —
The thi,«5t.!c, the heather, and bonnie bluebell !

H1lL„

P.I TRICK MACrHERSON.

Scotland forever ! hurrah ! hurrah !
lie false to her tiever ! hurrah ! hurrah !
The pink of crtition— surpasses theui a', —
Ev'ry country aid nation, Hurrah ! luirrah !

But I came upon another ])Oom to-nip:ht in con-
nection with Scotland which very ;^rcatly pleased mc,
It is one entitled "Dark Cullodcn Day," and so
hio-hly was it ranked by competent jiulj^es at the
time of its comi^lelion that it secured for its author
a valuable prize from the New Yf)rk Caledonian Club.
It is a very excellent piece of poetical work in all
respects and I do not wonder at the warm reception
it met with when it was first issued. The subject
itself is one that every Scotsman is or should be fa-
miliar with. American readers, however, may not
at once recall the full particulars. Therefore, I
quote the following from Chambers' "History of the
Rebellion " for their special benefit :

"After the battle of Falkirk, the Highlanders
continued their retreat, and on the i8th of February,
1746, entered Inverness. On the 25lh of February,
the Duke of Cumberland's army entered Aberdeen,
and both sides engaged in petty skirmishes in their
district, till on the 18th of April, the duke marched
upon the northern capital. The Highland army ad-
vanced to Drummossic Moor, about five miles, to
meet him, and on the 16th of April, 1746, engaged in
the celebrated battle of Culloden, which resulted, as
is well known, in the complete defeat of the High-
land array. The battle of Culloden lasted little more

L
i^

i
1

! '

than forty minutes, most of which brief space of
time was spent in distant firint^, and very little in the
active struj';^le. It was as complete a victory as
possible on the part of the royal army, and any other
result would have been very discreditable to the
English army. Its numbers and condition of fight-
in,i»' were so superior, their artillery did so much for
them, and the plan of the battle was so much in their
favor, that to have lost the day would have argued
a degree of misbehavior for which even Pi*eston-pans
and Falkirk had not prepared us."

"Dark Culloden Day" is a somewhat lengthy
composition, but I quote it in full as it is now, and
must ever remain, one of Mr. Macphersons best
poems :

DARK CULLODEN DAY.
April 1 6, 1746.

Ye glorious sist.ers nine —
Melpomene divine !
A tragic theme is mine,

Inspire my mournful lay ;
The tale has oft been told
In tears, by patriarchs old ;
The interest ne'er gets cold,

In " Dark Ciillodcn Day."

The heavens, o'ercast with gloom ;
O'er all the wreck of doom ;
Dacli cairn a patriot's tomb ;
Let wailing pibrochs play !

'■"*-4,,

PA TRICK MACPIIKNSGN.

O'erwhiihned by d' .;>jest woe,
The tears of feeliii)^ flow ;
Our Royal line laid low,

On "Dark Culloden Day."

With death's funereal pcdl.
And cypress drape the wall ;
Deplore in cot and hall

The outcome of the fray.
In sorrow we bewail
Kach fallen loyal (iael ;
The brave, from hill and dale —

On "Dark Culloden Day."

The crimson Highland blood
Was poured out like a flood ;
In gory recking nmd,

The slaughtered clansmem lay.
They fell uplu)lding right.
The Prince they loved, iji sight,
Out numbered in the fight

On " Dark Culloden Day."

The vale of fair olencoe
Saw scenes of deepest woe ;
Trei!' hein;js were the foe —

Th-^ .truck midst feasting gay ;
Diike William in command
Wa'i worse— with sword and br ;\d,
Lc loot'e a nuirdering band

On "Dark Culloden Day."

O e : hill and dale they sped,
The fiend incarnate led,
A ?wath they strewed with dead,
Uke reapers liiov.'! < hav,

1V1

■■■■I

llilll j

i '

^ III.

W CLUSTER OF POETS.

The sun of Scotland's glory,
Her place in song and story.
Eclipsed were by this foray,
On " Dark Culloden Day."

The old, the young, the fair.
To wrongs beyond repair.
To death and violence were

Consigned by lordings gay.
The true historians tell,
The carnage that befell.
Where rode those imps of hell

On " Dark Culloden Day."

The mem'ry of the brave.
Who fought their Prince to save
From every treacherous knave,

Untarnished lasts fcr aye ;
Around the festive board,
Their names will be adorred,
Their foes will be ubhored

On "Dark Cullwlen Day."

The absent alien stock.

Who claim each foot of rock ;

Debased in hoof and hock.

Unloved have had their day.
Their sun has nearly set.
The claymore draw and whet ;
Arouse ! and don't forget

" Dark Culloden Day."

Then Scotland in her might.
The vampire bats will smite ;
Will rule her own aright
Exultant pibrochs play.

M i

PATRICK MACPHERSON.

The uiirk^' clouds will fade ;
The nations debt be paid ;
The howlin T spectre laid

Of " Dark Cullodeii Day."

Like all true Scotsmen, Mr. Macpherson is an
admirer of the national poet, Robert Burns. It
would certainly be strange were he otherwi.se. And
yet, I cannot say that any of his poems are modelled
after Burns. Far from it. His muse is free and in-
dependent, and follows its own inclination at all times.
It is related of him that in the town where he lived
fifty years ago, there was a Dr. Grant, a retired
naval officer, who knew Burns well. The doctor was
a very nice old gentleman, and would let people
shake the hand that had shaken the hand of Burns.
To this day Mr. Macpherson is proud of the fact that
he had on at least one occasion, warmly grasped the
old doctor's hand. And he sings of Burns in one or
! vo poems that are well worthy of quotation, as,
tp. XL from the subject, they contain a great deal of
merit. The following may be taken as a specimen
J! iiis powers in this direction :

SCOTIA'S BARD.

The classic bards of ancient Greece and Rome
Live but in name — like the *• Appian Way ;

On shelves unread rests many a pond'rous tome —
Museum fossils, the book-worms prey ;

In Inter times come Shakespeare, Dryden, Pope,

"nir

A CLUSTER OF POinS.

111

I i

And Milton's epic — sombre, hazy, weird —
Thou}.;]! ricli in fancy and of wond'rous scope,

It lacks vitality, is dead and vSered ;
Material presence we never feel —
A real personage is Burns's " I3eil."

When vScott essayeil Olympic heights to scale,
And fdl his goblet from the fount of song,

3^'^ stormed parnassus like a fearless Gael ; —

id ga':;od the sunnuit, for his flight w.as strong : —

Tli. .v'hen struck by Hyron's skillful hand —

To » . ■ >: attuned with mountains, rocks aiul rills —

Gave forth such music as entranced the land.
The beauties charm us and the pathos thrills ;

Whilst soriiing pinions to them both belong.

Burns reigns unrivaled in the realm of song.

Southey, Coleridge, Keats, Wordsworth and Tom Moore

Dazzle us no more — their light has failed —
The lyre they struck in rosoiuince was poor ;

'Twas measured music, neatly •>itched and scaled ;
The minor bards may startle loving friends

With driveled dullness, nor tune, nor time ;
Their balked ambition soon in failure eiuls —

Ignoring method while they strangle rhyme.
The struggling crowd of many blank decades
Just floundered on and clubbed their spavined jades.

Mackay and Swinburne may be rated high,

Compared to others of the rhyming brood ;
We grant it so, but do they e'er come uigh

To Burns in strength or in altitude ?
The muse of Tennyson was gentle, mild —

Distilling philters feminine — yet he
lias launched a pean, darksome, thrilling, wild,

A sample glorious of war's minstrelsy ;
'Tis really great, a living sketch, but say,
Can it compare with Burns' " Scots wha hae ?"

til

i4i

! t

tronj^ :-
id—
ul rills-

11s;

Tom Moore

scaled ;

le,

d jades.

rild,

?'•

PA TRICK AMC/VZ/'JA'SON.

Uncounted niilHons clmniied hear Burns's lay,

They list in ecstacy, 'tis from above,
So sweet its cadence, all their homage pay,

With reverence bowing in their faith and love ;
At home, or drifting on a foreign shore,

Of Scotia's bard we are ever proud ;
Our homage true to the inmost core.

Till life is ended and in our shroud •
With joy exultant when the day returns,
We'll meet to honour immortal Burns.

In these lines are sentiments and other sterling
qualities which stamp the author as a true poet.

In connection wdth Mr. Macpherson, I take
pleasure in quoting a brief biographical sketch of
his which appears in '* Modern Scottish Poets." He
was born on the 19th of December, 1829, at the
Dam of Dulsie, Nairnshire, Scotland. In 1836, his
mother, then a widow, removed to Forres, in Moray-
shire. Then our Highland boy new only Gaelic,
and for the amusement of his playmates he fre
quently had to repeat the Lord's prayer, in that
ancient language. After a year at school, however,
he knew as much "Forres English" as the other
boys, and ultimately took first prize for English read-
ing. About 1 84 1 he entered the services of a book-
seller, as a shop boy, and as his employer was form-
erly a schoolmaster, he taught the lad Latin and other
higher branches of learning. Here he also gained a
knowledge of bookbinding and land surveying.
After three years his master died and the business
was disposed of. Thus was closed our young High-

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

WiU

f'iiil

i lliili ll

lander's career as a bookseller, but the teaching of
the old bookseller and contact with his books and
the learned but eccentric people who frequented his
shop, became prime factors in determining Mac-
pherson's character and tastes. Our hero was next
apprenticed to a shoemaker, singing in the church
choir on Sundays and in his leisure moments in the
evening receiving musical lessons from an old soldier,
and ultimately became clarionet player in the local
instrument band. He also attended evening schools
for singing, dancing, elocution, etc., and was pre-
centor in Rafford Church for three years previous to
1 85 1, wiieiji he went to Edinburgh and followed his
calling in one of the leading bootshops in that city,
and from thence to London, and to New York in
1870.

While in London Mr. Macpherson was one of the
first to join the science classes in the new Royal
Polytechnic Institute, where he studied mathmatics,
chemistry and practical mechanics, and he afterward
passed with distinction in an examination held by
the Society of arts. It may be urged, he says that
such abstract studies could be productive of no
pecuniary benefit to a mechanic. Accumulating
wealth is not the sole object of human existence.
Such studies have a salutary effect in clearing and
strengthening the intellectual faculties. Many well-
meaning friends advised the abandonment of manual
labor for a more ethereal occupation. But this
specimen of the (alleged lazy) Highlanders kept at

PATRICK iMACPHERSON.

aching of
ooks and
Lented his
ing Mac-
was next
le church
its in the
d soldier,
the local
g schools
was pre-
evious to
owed his
that city,
York in

le of the
w Royal
hmatics,
fterward

held by
ays that
of no
[nulating
jcistence.
ring and
iny well-
: manual
5ut this

kept at

work, knew neither poverty nor riches, was never
sick, and found bootmaking, on the best class of
work, to yield as good an income as any calling with-
in reach. It also afforded absolute freedom of action
— was just the business for an erratic, rough-hewn
essayist and versifier. For twenty years he has been
in the sewing machine and musical instrument busi-
ness at 319 9th Ave., New York.

Since his i8th year Mr. Macpherson has been
writing articles, verses, etc. He is still stalwart in
body, vigorous in mind, ever progressive. Intensely
Scotch, he has been over twenty-five years a member
of the New York Caledonian Club. An interviewer
in one of the New York papers says: " In some re-
spects he is a remarkable man. He is certainly a
scholar of no mean attainments, a fine musician,
playing upon several different instruments, including
the bagpipes of his native Highlands. He has written
songs and set them to music and he does not hesitate
occasionally to harness his muse into the shafts of
business."

This reference to our author's lyrical powers is well
merited and recalls quite a number of those pieces
that I have had the pleasure of reading. Here is a
brief specimen. It is very musical :

THE THREE KATES.

The crowfeet and the furrows

Attest the lapse of years,
But yet there's a panacea

To mitigate our tears ;

li;' .

■il

I'll

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

% iiii

We think of Janes and Jessies,
Who influenced our fate —

I was gone on three completely,
And each of them was Kate.

There was bonnie Katie Fraser,

Amiable and fair.
And winsome Katie Kynoch —

Her ma was from Kildare —
And darling Katie Calder,

My affinity and joy,
She just was all perfection.

So clever, sweet and coy.

Our paths in life diverged —

Like me she crossed the seas —
I westward went, her goal was

The far antipodes ;
Beneath the "Southern Cross"

She chose a wedded life.
And pledged her love and troth

As a faithful, tender wife.

Gentle, kind and winning.

Pure as mountain air,
The frosts of three-score winters

May bleach her raven hair,
May blanch her rosy cheeks.

The dimples may efface,
Her youthful charms will linger.

She'll bear the years with grace.

There all my knowledge ceases
Of those charming, pretty girls.

We get what Fate decrees us
As the ball terrestrial whirls —

'A,

PATRICK MACPHERSON.

If still among the living,

I wish them every joy,
Time, their youth and beauty

To me, cannot destroy.

There is quite a large number of Mr. Macpherson's
poems and songs which I would like to touch upon
did space permit. But I am unable to do more than
mention the names of the best of them. They are
as follows: "Annie the Fair," '* I'm Scotch," " To
Scotland," "Tut the Towie," "Sandy," "Bonnie
Annie McQueen," " Eppie Tam," "Highland Hunt-
ing Song," "The Cyclone," " The Viking Rover,"
" McDonald on a Wheel," "The Highland Crofters,"
"Farewell," and "Usguebagh." These, along with
a few others, and the pieces which I have already
quoted in full, would make a very respectable looking
volume of poetry, and I hope Mr. Macpherson will
take the hint and ere long be able to annoimce that
his poems are "in the press." Another writer has
said of him : " As a poet and pose writer, Mr. Mac-
pherson traverses many interesting fields and teaches
many important truths with considerable descriptive
power and in clear and forcible language. His
patriotic songs are characterized by stirring senti-
ment, and show that while real to the land of his
adoption, his heart keeps warm to the tartan — the
sentiment of deep loyalty and admiration for the
heather hills that nourished his infancy and inspired
his earliest imagination." And here before taking
leave of Mr. Macpherson, I would like to quote a

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

!i*

4:1
III

little lyric, an especial favorite of its authors. The
title is '* Princess Louise of Lome," and it is as dainty
and patriotic and loyal a little song as ever was put
forth by one claiming to be a " Scotch- American :"

PRINCESS LOUISE OF LORNE.

We hear not the name of a Campbell,

Nor yet in Argyle were we born ;
But we love the land of the thistle,

And the Princess Louise of Lome.

The flower reappears in the blossom —

A blending of even and mom —
Like the Empress and Queen Victoria,

And the Princess Louise of Lome.

Some names we hold dear and cherish.
For those who have left us we mourn ;

With feeling we think of Prince Charlie,
With love, of the Princess of Lome.

Though far from the land of our fathers,
By fortune's rough hand we've been borne,

We can trace the Bruce's blood Royal
To the Princess Louise of Lome.

No recreant oath will enslave us —
To the Queen our fealty's sworn —

Our loyalty, roused from its slumber,
Stands fast to the Princess of Lome.

Long life to Empress Victoria !

For years may her honors be worn i
The other Princesses and Princes,

And the Marquis and Princess of Lome.

1 III

PATRICK MACPHERSON.

rhe
inty
put
in:"

In conclusion, let me assure Mr. Macpherson that
I am glad his poems came under my notice. I have
spent a pleasant time over them, and they have done
me good. And when one claiming to be a critic can
say of another's writings that a perusal of them has
done him good, the reader may be sure that there
must be considerable talent — something that will
live in them.

\'\[\

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

i!lP!

IT is seldom that theologians come prominently
before the literary world as writers of poetry.
While many of them are endowed with poetic j^ifts
of a high order, and while they undoubtedly exer-
cise those gifts more or less during their leisure
moments, it is only on certain occasions, or for spec-
ial reasons that their musings are ever allowed to pass
beyond, or even become known outside of the family
circle. Why this should be the rule instead of the
exception, we are at a loss to determine or explain
We confess ourselves confident that many of then
would ultimately attain a high rank among the poets
of their country were they to place their productions
within easy reach of such readers as delight in, and
acknowledge themselves interested in this particular
branch of literature. The Rev. Archibald Ross of
Brooklyn, N. Y., is a fair example of the kind of
poet preacher that we have reference to. While he
has been for many years a successful laborer in the
Master's vineyard, he has not neglected to cultivate
and make use of the poetical talents that he has been
blessed with, and his numerous poems are not only
intelligent and readable productions, but are in every
respect well worthy of preservation. There is in-
deed something to cherish and admire in all that he

RHY. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

III

■■'■*<.

■2i

tOgggta^M

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

has written. His muse is refined but vigorous, his
hmguage classical and terse, his rhythtn musical, and
his descriptive and argumentative powers keen and
active. In no instance is the s])irit of frivolity visi-
ble. We perceive at a glance that each of his poems
has been studiously brooded over and carefully
worked out, while an independent and earnest yet en-
couraging tone is conspicuous and makes itself felt
in almost every line. He rarely introduces or pic-
tures the darker side of life to us, but for the shams
and idle pretensions of the world he certainly has no
mercy, and he holds them up to ridicule and scoiti
in words of reproach and condemnation that con-
tinue to echo through our memory long after they
have been listened to or read. On the other hand,
however, and as may readily be surmised, his vener-
ation for all that is noble and ]yure and sincere in
life is equally intense and asserts itself at all times.
That he loves his fellowman, no one can doubt after
once reading his writings, but for the honest, liberal,
broad-minded Christian man he has an especial
regard and he extends the hand of fellowship and
good will to him on every possible occasion. He
looks upon the poet's office as high and noble, even
godlike; and the reader will not fail to be pleased,
in this connection, with an extract from "The
Poet," where the imagination is luxuriant, the diction
clear and expressive, and the thought magnificent
yet chaste and delicate :

:•' !J

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

THE POET.

He walks with men, and yet he is a king —

A right and royal one, and on his brow

Is stamped the impress of God's coronal.

He bears the aspect of a messenger,

And enters on his work with dignity.

He parleys not, nor wavers, for he knows

The Graces are around him to delight,

While soaring through his field, the universe.

Thus, conscious of his ancient title deeds,

And rich inheritance, he vindicates

Justice and order wisely, nor will swerve

A hairbreadth from the will within his hands.

To him all form and substance play a part

In perfect unison. The azure bound

Alive M'ith him, rejoices ; the bleak earth,

So cold and bare to millions, he transforms

To labyrinths of grandeur, where the walks

Of opal, garnet, and a thousand gems,

Blaze in the lustre of cerulean fires.

The vaporous clouds in his alembic eye

Like huge leviathans plough the serene,

Bearing the fleecy waters, from whose breasts

Drop welcome fatness, while the smiling earth

And jubilant heaven meet and assert their loves

With passion awful in its majesty.

To him the chaste, clear evening sky unfolds

A spangled vesture fit for deity.

He rides earth like a charioteer, observes

Her graceful sailing round the galaxies

Unharmed and undisturbed. He knoweth well

Disease is but derangement — maladies

But atoms in disorder, where the line

Is broken, and the air is full of death.

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

He is a priest of nature, wandering through

The alcoves of his garden, and avers

That as a poet he must teach, arouse,

And open out the beauties of his house.

Though the world laugh, his work goes bravely on.

He watches undercurrents, and while men

May think him nerveless, vapid and inane.

He pierces through their being like the spear.

Armed and accoutred at the fountain head,
He comes to earth prepared to speak to men.
The circumambient air, the marvelous light,
The subterranean fires : all hidden things
Declare his active presetice ; fruits and flowers.
As well as noxious vapors, and the warmth
Of sunshine, or the gloomy depths of night.
The adamantine rocks unloose their bands
Within his presence, while Bootes waits.
With Hercules and all the host of heaven,
To bid him welcome to their distant zones.
He mounts the tempest, flying etherward,
Or, silently, steals in the heart of man ;
For he knows human nature ; he can play
With infants, or hold converse with the peer
Of schools ; he meets with nature's commonest pets,
Buds, leaves and blossoms ; the huge oak and elm
To him are distant brothers, carrying on
Some holy ministration. When he sleeps.
His favorite monitor pours in his ear
Rare chords of melody known but to few.
He wakes : the tiniest grasses in the plain
Give solemn lessons for his lecture hour,
While insect matins and the song of birds
Reveal the glories of his paradise.

Who knoweth but the suns of other realms.
Whose beauties sparkle on the breast of Night,
May speak his parentage ; for this we see,

• '\'\V

II! 'li

yl CLUSTER OF POETS.

His ways are singular, his habits strange,
His soul subdued and pensive, or lit up
With eddies of delight that grave their lines
More deeply than in faces of the crowd,
Pleading as if he knew that our life here
Were but a school, while his intensive speech
And mode of utterance savor of abodes
Mayhap contiguous, if not of this world.

Welcome, thou visitant from other climes !
Stay with us, teaching us that to be wise
Is our great privilege, our brightest joy.
The earth cries out from villainy and wrong.
And in thy sacred mission souls will rise.
And learn to love their great Original.

h !

Mr. Ross has been a pretty keen observer in so-
ciety, and our readers may rest assured that Henry
Ward Beecher gave him great theme for contempla-
tion. When this extraordinary genius passed away,
the strange stagnation and adverse currents of opinicm
that followed in his wake were ably reflected in a
most brilliant poem by the author. The ire of the
narrow theologians was aroused ; tho commendation
of the Broad Christian Church was noble and out-
spoken ; and in the lull —

While some grow vengeful, waiting for a chance
To kiss Pelagius, and kick Augustine,
Others, conversely, chose more beaten paths.
That lead, they swear, from Paul's theology.
And so religious valor is at ebb.
And thought is squeamish from the want of fire.
And Zeal is purblind from the lack of faith.
And vile Suspicion gnaws one to the bone,

. I J. ii U i| llH 'l» . II W i W

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS,

And teachers, prisoned in the iron bands

Of narrow dogma, lie down in the mire.

Nor will they shake themselves till once they hear

A shout from Plymouth, that will make them turn

Their lazy selves — may it come speedily.

Both in Canada and the United States, Mr. Ross
has been an extensive traveler, and he could not fail
to be interested in the question of ventilation as a
sanitary precaution in our dwelling-houses and work-
shops. In the pulpit and the press he has spoken on
this theme to good advantage. In the following
picture from '* Gaza" (well styled from Samson's
prison house), the reader can see the workmen,
notice the filth in every direction, and hear the out-
bursts of infamy that accompany them. And this
of a workshop in New York. Thank Heaven, things
are mending by degrees, and God's pure air is more
and more allowed to permeate our dwellings and
shops every year.

\ i

GAZA,

Twelve days did I grind hard at Gaza prison.
Where the proud Philistines set up their tools
And implements of war, and the rooms reeked
With feculent odors, and the slimy floors
And purulent atmosphere smelt of grim death.
There stood the martyrs in their nauseous pens —
Where the hours rolled like an eternity —
So unaccustomed to the air of heaven,
That when God sent the light-winged zephyrs forth.
The windows shut to rapidly as if Hell

1 1

? 1

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

l!
I

■ii'-i

Were on the rampage ; and the hacking cough,
And pale and sombre visage, and dry tears.
With flakes of sputa floating in the gloom.
Midst ghastly laugh and noxious gases — all
Spoke of a race of white slaves yet on earth,
Cursed by King Mammon to disease and shame.
The cruel Philistines looked in and laughed
At the poor helots gasping for their breath,
And conjured how a further ten per cent.
Might be adroitly fleeced without suspicion.
There were young Jezebels attired in paint,
Hot in their maledictions, whose sly oaths
lyike scimetars would pierce the putrid air.
And men who erst showed on their pensive brows
Beauty and genius, now depraved and base
As Sodom in its fall.

"Life "is a most exquisite piece of reading". It
is a poem of over a thousand lines in long iambics,
and exhibits a thousand beauties. Here we find a
large pasture ground, forcing upon our attention, from
the monad to the stellar spheres, theme upon theme
for illustration. "The Heavens," "Sleep," "The
Rain," "The Snow," "Flowers," etc., are crystal-
ized throughout in the highest flights of sacred and
impassioned language. Morals, beauty, character,
are here. Is this not beautiful ?

Here, veiled in innocence, comes one.
Resplendent, radiant, like the sun.
Go where we may, do what we will.
Her sweetness shines upon us still.
Hope still holds queenship in the soul.
Still wields her sceptre of control —

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

A remnant of the happy time

Our parents passed in Eden's prime.

Iji the writer's opinion, "Theodemia, a glimpse
of the Divine Academy," is his masttirpiece. This
is a remarkable poem in many respects ; strong, im-
pulsive and full of genuine poetic power. It is ex-
ceedingly rich in valuable and beautifully expressed
thoughts and similes ; the tone is highly moral and
elevating, and there is an abundance of what, at first,
seems peculiar, but which proves to be good and
sound philosophical arguments. The author states
that "the object of the poem is to pay grateful
homage to useful minds, and to point out various
avenues where we may be led to improve more
rapidly in the midst of so many advantages in this
school of the world." It is impossible to properly
analyze or even to give a synopsis of the poem here,
so numerous and profound are the themes which it
embraces and discourses on, but we quote a few ex-
tracts from which the reader no doubt will be enabled
to form a general idea of its meritorious character :

Where, then, are all our teachers? People look
As they have right to do — for pabulum
To feed the intuitions, and we give
Them piles of chaff with but a grain of gold.
And sometimes not e'en that. They know some things,
And they expect their teachers should know more,
And so they may in such a favored school.
What then should we exact of those who l:each ?
But close adherence to the laws of right

\''-'\:

1 i

,-6

.-{ CLUSTER OF POETS.

As stamped within their being — earnest men,
In knowledge large, molded in modesty,
Careful in observation, choice in thought,
Rich in resources, fertile in the stores
Of illustration for unfolding truth.

******

To maintain
That we can make no progress in the line
Of spiritual knowledge would be libellous
Upon ourselves as minds ; our ethics stand
On footing where all innate truths agree
With revelation, as with nature also.
These innate springs exist — a wondrous proof
That power, subjective, personal, apart
From matter, acts infusing energy.
Here Hume and Locke — philosophers diverse
On Christian planes — are staggered, and declare
That knowledge must first pass the ordinary senses
Ere the will show its bias and demeanor ;
That these are warders of the human mind.
Or keys to all our world of acquisition —
A fallacy that keener knowledge pushed
Right to the wall as worthless and unsound.

*****

Nor hesitate to study well the plans
Of teachers, pure, illustrious in their lives.
As Pestalozzi or as Arnold — men
Who swept the depths of nature to enrich
The dawning genius of the younger mind.
But for enquiring men who must be answered.
Pierce everywhere for knowledge — nor be checked,
And make earth's friction your Bucephalus.
Grandest of records of the eloquent past
Is the great book of Job — this read and think.
Whether in fact or symbol, here is truth.

i>#

* ;-'£V>>:i^>w'«<^<S^^

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

Here is the richest living without surfeit ;

Here is abundance and a bracing harvest ;

Here Providence, freewill, necessity.

Speak for a hearing ; here the mark of law

Is shown as in the whisperings of the wind.

Here the demoniac wrong, the god-like truth

Face without friction ; here the blackest night

The brightest day look to one sovereignty.

Poet and prophet, sage and seer combined,

Job stands within a hallowed vestibule

Betwixt the earth and heaven — ^and sees them both ;

But in the garniture of primal truths

He will see things — nor thoughtlessly lets slip

One word for human nature — how he showed it :

" I will complain in the bitterness of my soul."

But rising to a loftier cadence sings,

•' God tries us that we may come forth as gold."

Take the following picture from the same poem :

Jealousy is a ^ow, insatiate fiend,

And an infernal one. We have watched men,

Spotted by this vile wretch at every turn,

And the more Jealousy spattered them with sin.

The readier grew they to be men of honor.

O reader, there are simpletons who say

God makes no use of evil. We have seen

The lusty blacksmith working at his forge ;

The cooper at his bench ; the printer, too,

Setting the type as if to save his soul —

Stop suddenly as if some thundering voice

Claimed their attention, and would have it too.

And as they listened, and by slow degrees

Felt the prophetic import that lay there.

They set themselves as students to their work —

Then suddenly swooped upon them foul-mouthed Slander,

;i I

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Envy and inuendo hedged them round,

While Falsehood and the whole ubiquitous crowd

Of hell-born villainies pelted them with stones,

To quiet them forever ; and the more

The enemy forced the battle the better for them.

And so with other evils — they are here.

It is not many, therefore, for the crowd

To censure providence for placing man

In midst of such a fire— the curse remains.

And man must shun it as a withering curse,

Yet that does not necessitate its fall

To pure negnition — it is used as a rod

To spur men to their duty — aye, to lash

Till the very blood, and sweat, and scalding tears

Perfect the soul for heaven. It is God's plan.

It always was His plan as far as we know.

Age after age — ^the Jew, Egyptian, Greek,

The bond, the free, all peoples of the earth,

Meet brotherhood here.

In the higher fields of metaphysical speculation,
our author stands on the threshold of the temple,
yet peers far within. He does not hesitate to say
that while he takes the strong side of apriority in this
discussion, he is intensely interested if not amused at
the antagonisms of the schools of mind.

With what keen sarcasm he touches on this :

Men who shun good evidence,
Lacking k priori sense,
Never can and never will
Teach the God-given principle
That innate powers rule the mind —
God's reflection on mankind.

'^ii^

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

Learned Spinoza gave them bread,
Yet they knocked him on the head,
Never recking their best creed
Was part outgrowth of his seed.
Berkeley raised their souls to tune,
When they called the man a loon.
And when Kant, with fine degrees
Of his famed antinomies,
Tried to please them as himself,
They soon placed him on the shelf,
Saying glibly-let him rot,
God is nowher^i in his thought.
Descartes, Leibnitz, Hume and Locke
Served some readers as a rock.
Where they gladly sate awhile.
Hoped to build their home, and smile,
When, lo, Ficht^, Schelling come,
Knock the head off their bass drum,
Who in turn are knocked about
By proud Hegel to a rout.
He sets all the world on fire,
Then gets branded as a liar.

•'The Vindication/' in iambic double rhyme
quatrains (which the author says rather handicapped
him) extends over two thousand lines, and embraces
the large field of being, purpose, duty, etc. The
sages of history are called upon in illustration. Our
intuitions, he says, are but celestial fires hidden in
the mind, but which manifest an occasional super-
radiance through environment and education. We
quote :

Mysterious voices, calm, subdued,
Break silence in the soul ;

A CLUSTER OF POETS,

No fascination, faith nor feud,

Can cease their solemn roll.
No known experience checks their sway,

No learning tints their tone ;
The mind pursues its wonted way.

Respectful of their zone.
Whence come they ? what their work on earth ?

Questions we fain would trace ;
For in them order has its birth,

Bxistence has its place.
The thoughtful crowd the varied schools,

Their cult to analyze ;
Philosophy projects new rules

To pierce within their skies.
Unknown, the multitude yet act,

Determined by their power ;
Without them life would lose its pact.

No nation live an hour.

"Cygnus" is a fine concise piece of reasoning
on the stability of the universe, and immortality
of the soul. The author states that the negations of
Bryant's ** Thanatopsis" urged him to the undertak-
ing. Order and purpose in the universe he lays
down as basal grounds. This poem with "Duty"
we take to be some of his best work. ** Duty" in-
deed is a masterpiece, and will bear extensive and
close reading. We are called to answer the question,
why we are here. The tone is cheerful as he prr -
ceeds, but we feel as we go onward that we ox'- « ^r-
ing sacred ground.

Deep themes require deep thinkers — like large seab,
Where only seamen of great skill may plough
The waves with pleasure as with triumph also.

REV, ARCHIBALD ROSS.

For eager crowds are waiting at the door.
Art thou a teacher ? Answer if thou canst
Their questionings. Our fickle age needs men —
Not pulish folk, tickling the ear with straws,
Nor those from cushions of opinion, soft
As silk ; nor those so feeble, they forget
They wield a purpose ; nor the virile throng
Who always furbish up, to batter dpwn,
If it be possible, the rugged walls
That keep men in the realm of character.

For look at man — those crowds who brush us by
In city life, like some strange tournament ;
Look at those pensive eyes — that iron brow —
That brazen furrow — that intensive seal
Upon the lips — that endless stream of tears
Speaking a language : there is appetite ;
There rages thirst, like some leviathan's
Out of his element. What want they all ?
What are those sighs and yearnings, but a thirst
For God and rest — for beauty, heaven and home ?
All men have some like qualities ; they speak
A single language though in varied frame.
And they all show allegiance to some king,
To God or antigod. They know their stay
Terrestrial binds them to a throne, and then
They walk as if within their cunning hand
They carry years and wisdom. What they need
Is will, and consciousness of rectitude
That prompt volition — purpose to declare
And act a life of duty — vehemence
To push the positive right to the goal.

So go and view the crowd, remembering
Thy path is upward. Were not Socrates,
Spinoza and Lord Bacon men thrice armed
For wide advance in knowledge ? So to them
Pay thou obeisance — but aim farther, higher.

A CLUSTER OF POhTS.

liv!
11* i

Seek not their level — there is consonance
In word and mission with the gifted past.
Life has its stairs, with giant steps afore
Like towering Andes ; view the apex then,
Nor halt till thou stand'st on it. Most take aim
So low, that children, slim in precedent.
Grow weak, exhausted ere the day grows warm,
And fall like feeble wax dollo near the fire.

Not he who writes or speaks, or flourishes
Tropes and enigmas, then, but he who thinks.
And makes men think — he is the noblest man
To nourish men. But where may such be schooled ?
Some men embrace the sore and torturing thought
That life is not worth living — that the hue
And make of our existence has no aim
But that of blind fatuity — and, worse
Than all, that man is but a wreck whose thought
Can not be trusted for the place he fills.
So life runs daily on. Some dig for gold.
Eat it, and die ; some potter afler fame.
And lie like devils to secure it ; some
Court sharp duplicity, to find a pot
Of manna hidden there — O bitter food !
All pursuivants of fortune, on the march,
All waiting revelations — not in vain.

Neither in the field of keen satire and grim humor
is Mr. Ross defective. He has shown this in "A
Planetary Visit/' — over a thousand lines in trochaic
verse. This piece of pleasantry is constantly bub-
bling over with caprices of a weird and versatile genius
Arcturus, a stranger from some stellar domain, pays
a visit to earth, and what with his flights from city
to city, his visit to the churches, to the brokers.

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

politicians, the nondescipt Tammany, and what not,
the reader's enthusiasm is kept up to the highest
pitch.

Among Mr. Ross's poems which we have read
with sincere pleasure are *' The Prophecy," ** John
Knox," *' Fifty- four," a good health tonic by the
way; ♦♦The Scotch -Irish Family,'' "William of
Ora.'ige," etc. His patriotic tnuse is firm and vigor-
ous, his love of freedom is intense ; as witness
his "Freedom," to the tune of "Scots wha hae,"
*' America,'s Redemption," which has had a large
sale in the United States, and "The Public School,"
which forms a characteristic feature of his writings.

Let us go with our author into the inner temple,
and learn something of the sacredness of his life.
Failing health a few years ago urged him to travel.
He says :

Earth gave to me its share of bliss and hale,
But when I analyzed this thing called Sin,
And its dire progeny, I cried for shame,
And left the lap of woe for joy's embrace.

He seeks in a healthy altruism, and in the path-
way of Christian heroism, gentleness and resignation
an antidote for every ill. How well he touches
upon this in the lines :

PATIENCE.

Thou beautiful ! fair as the sun,
And richer than all human wealth.

Dear love, the race that I have run
Is tinctured with thy hues of health.

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

;!|

How sad my lot, morose, unkind,
Till thy sweet presence fell on mine !

Then opened out the strength of mind,
Then glowed my path with light divine.

Then cheerfulness sang her refrain.

What active virtues roused my heart !
Far fled the agonies of pain.

And joys came in to share their part.

Thou child of God — where'er I go,

In all my visits to my kind,
I ask my Father to bestow

The radiance of thy heavenly mind.

O then what sunshine fills the home !

For faith and love are there to greet.
Dear Patience, glad that thou art come,

I lay this tribute; at thy feet.

GOD.

lifi HI'

God and His Record — truths enough for me

To ponder faithfully while dwelling here.

Some fence themselves with creeds, and live in fear,
Like children out upon an angry sea.
Who speaks within and opens there a feast

Of daintiest things — He is my I/)rd and Guest.
I«et Him be great, and let me be the least.

He made me of the dust, but, with a zest
Supremely wise. He breathed upon the clay,

And lo, I live ! And thus whene'er His hand
Knocks at the palace door my heart is gay,

Robed in a splendor earth cannot command.
For all His words are galaxies of grace.
And Christ, enthroned within, makes glad the holy place.

REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS.

EGO.

How wonderful it is to be !

To know that this is truth.
To feel thy pulse, eternity,

A never-ending youth.

While on my visit to the earth
Clothed as a human tree,

I read the splendors of my birth
That tell me I am free.

My spirit nowhere is confined ;

It spans the maze between.
Deep in the ocean of the mind

The infinite is seen.

How strangely grand the palace fair
That Providence designed !

And pre-established with such care
As wardrobe of the mind.

How gently gravitation holds

This fabric while I stay !
A few hours hence the flower unfolds

And then I fly away.

What fields of glory I may tread
Far in the vast unknown !

One lesson I have ever read,
I never am alone.

Within this garden of my God
There is no room for strife.

The day, the night, the suns abroad
Speak of eternal life.

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

The little floweret in the vase
That speaks a language pleasant —

E'en there I gladly see some phase
Of Thee, Thou ever Present.

And midst such symbols of Thy power,

Meek, tender, true and clear,
I lengthen out this little hour,

And never know a fear.

Some voice keeps ringing in my heart

That in my near translation
I may behold the sacred chart

That opens up creation.

ECCE VITA.

Let no man tell me this is death or woe

When once my mantle drops within the ground.

Love, nature, wisdom shame us at the sound.

There is eternity within the flow

Of my gradation in my upward climb,

Where years are never counted, nor the rhyme

Of suns and cycles weary as I go.

An inner anthem whispers of my life.

This is my heritage, that hierophants —

Who lack the wisdom even of the ants —

Dare to condemn beneath their load of strife.

While thus I live, upbuilding all the way.

And soar the galleries of my Father's house

With tread celestial, myiiads like the mouse

Go creeping in dark holes, and live their day.

Be this"_their embassy, it is not mine.

I give my heaven-born faculties full play.

There is no dissonance in their divine.

*aWtfuwM

REV. ARCH/BALD ROSS.

They bear the impress of the Master hand

That framed the earth 'mid music, whose grand thrill

Flashed into being man with God crowned will,

The coronet of the Divine command.

This, then, is life, yet man, how strange to tell.

Strives night and day to make this heaven a hell.

VINDICATORY.

I have not lived in vain.

No • never be it said
That I have plowed through sun and rain

My brother's blood to shed.
No ! Mercy's thousand voices cry :
For him I live, for him I die.

Away down in the deeps

Of sorrow let me go,
And light a smile where anguish creeps

Around the house of woe.
Where men are wont to groan and bleed —
There let me sow a righteous seed,

Nor weary feel nor faint ;

God is my life, my plea.
There is no penury, no attaint

In His eternity.
And thus each day I count my gain.
No, no f I have not lived in vain.

The Rev. Archibald Ross is a well known laborer
in the Methodist Church. He was born at Charlotte-
town, Prince Edward Island, in 1835, and was the
ninth child of a family of eleven, children. " I
came," he says, "of a hardy Scotch stock. On my

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

father's side, his people were farmers, and lived in
Ross-shire, Scotland. I know but little of my
mother's lineage : she was a MacGregor of Argyle,
who always reverenced the pine as an emblem of her
fealty, and carried about a large share of family
pride in consequence. One of her grand-uncles fell
at Prestonpans fighting for the Scottish pretender,
and another with Wolfe at the conquest of Quebec. "
After receiving a common school education, Mr.
Ross was apprenticed in his thirteenth year to a
printer in Montreal, but some years later he took a
course of theology in Queen's College, Kingston,
Canada, and labored successfully both in the pulpit
and the press prior to his arrival in Brooklyn in 1876.
He was married in 1856 to Miss E. A. Tempany of
London, England, a lady of pleasing address and
much intelligence. Three children are all that re-
main out of seven. Jessie Elizabeth, the eldest, well
fitted from excellent balance of temperament to do
well in the line she has chosen, conducts a private
school in Brooklyn. Archibald, aged thirty, is en-
gaged with prospects of good success in various lines
of music; while Frederick Edward, the youngest,
full of promise and possessed of some insight as to
the arcana of poetic philosophy, is now carrying on
in Minnesota successful work in the ministry.

HON. CHAS. H. COUJNS.

■mmi^

HON. CHAS. H. COLLINS.

"The New Year Comes My Lady," a daintily-
bound volume of poetry by the Hon. Charles H.
Collins, has reached me all the way from the pro-
gressive and pleasantly situated town of Hillsboro,
Ohio. I say poetry, because, as far as my judgement
goes in such matters, the forty or more pieces con-
tained in the little book are well worthy of having
this flattering and honorable distinction accorded to
them. They are exceedingly well written, happily
conceived and in excellent taste, while the sterling
merit that characterizes the majority of them proves
that their author possesses the heart and the feelings,
as well as the imagination of a true son of song. I
think it was Sydney Smith who said of Hanna More's
writings: "We hear testimony to her talents, her
good sense, and her real piety. There occur every
now and then in her productions very original and
profound observations. Her advice is often charac-
terized by the most amiable good sense, and conveyed
in the most brilliant and inviting style, " and the same
may in all sincerity be applied to the poems of Mr.
Collins, as there is not a line or a verse in them that
is not appropriate and chaste and entertaining. I
have indeed found them delightful reading, and have
lingered lovingly among them, as indeed will every
one who loves smooth and musical and unaffected

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■M

'■%

verse. A brief specimen of his charming style may
be found in the following:

CLERMONT DAYS.

We look from the front veranda

On the slopes against the sky,
Where the rays of sunshine glitter

On the clouds slow sailing by.
We watch the shadows trooping flit

O'er the distant hills away,
Like phantoms of the by -gone years

Where dreamy fancies stray ;
Of days in our youth in Clermont,

With life in all its charm,
Where never had risen shadow

On the Old Ancestral Farm.

The smoke of the village chimneys

Rises in the wintry air,
And the snow upon the beaten road

Is beautiful and fair.
There is sound of jingling sleigh bells.

Glad voices from the hill,
Come floating down the vistas

With well remembered thrill.
Back come the days of Clermont,

With life in all its charm,
On the East Fork of Miami

And the Old Ancestral Farm.

There was mystery in the future
While the passing hour was blest.

There was nothing of foreboding
That the heavens could suggest ;

There was never thought of troubles,
There was never cause for tears,

HON, ChAS. H. COLLINS.

There was never hint of failures
Or of sorrow in the years

In the days we lived in Clermont
With life in all its charm,

In Batavia's happy valley
On the Old Ancestral Farm.

There were friends in famous Clermont,

These friends were kind and true,
Where the East Fork of Miami

Gleamed in its sunny hue.
So at dawning and at twilight

With the skies aflame in gold,
We think of the years in Clermont,

In the youthful time of old.
And the fleeing clouds and shadows

Are penciled with a charm,
Just as when in Batavia

On the Old Ancestral Farm.

Quite a number of Mr. Collins' poems are on
simple, every-day subjects, but the themes in them
in every instance are treated so tenderly, and the
sentiments expressed are so natural, that they im-
mediately touch a responsive chord in our hearts,
and we learn to love the poems first on this account,
and next on account of their genuine simplicity.
Such a poem is the one entitled, "The Little
Children." There is no straining after effect here,
no grand display of fine sounding words, no mean-
ingless metaphors ; nothing but simple, easily under-
stood language, and yet what a crowd of golden
thoughts for the little ones are interwoven through

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the verses. Truly a poem of this kind, simple thoug^h
it be, is worthy of preservation :

Play on, dear children, have your fun,

Take pleasure while you may ;
No spots appear upon your sun,

No clouds obscure your day.
Your cheeks, like roses blushing red,

Life has for you no thorn ;
Then play till time to go to bed,

And play again at morn.

The years will stay these little feet,

Which now so blithely run ;
And footsteps lag upon the street

When weary day is done ;
Those little hands will rougher grow,

That now can only play,
And trouble then, the heart will know,

Where all is now so gay.

Those pretty eyes \dll lose their light,

The voice will change its tone,
The tropic tints which fill your sight

Will fade in frigid zone,
Play on, play on, this charming earth

Is made for such as you ;
For you its beauty, joy and mirth.

Its gleam of sunny hue.

Play on, play on, end do not mind
What cross old grannies say ;

Such people should be deaf and blind-
Play on, dear children, play.

•'' ' 1

HON. CHAS. H. COLLINS.

Play on, play on, for night will soon
Its sullen sceptre sway.

And evening close on childhood's noon-
Play on, play on, to-day.

To-morrow there will quiet reign.

Enthroned in silence, where
This childish music makes refrain.

This laughter fills the air.
To-morrow desolation's gloom

Broods o'er the empty hall,
No pattering footsteps in the room,

No children's voices call.

To-morrow, mute the little lips,

And still the restless feet !
The little hands, with marble tips.

On pulseless bosom meet.
O, where is then the merry glee,

The children's jocund play.
The joyous romping, glad and free ?—

Let children play to-day !

My hair is gray ! the years have set

Their signet on my brow,
But nmst I in old age forget

The little children now ?
'Tis true I cannot jump and run

December is not May,
Don't mind me, children, have your fun.

Dear children, play to-day.

Play on, play on, for time is brief,

To you that seems so long,
And coming age— the wrinkled thief,

Will hush your childish song.

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

L,ife is a game r^rhere clouds abound,

And falsehood wins the day ;
In childhood trust and truth are found —

Let children play to-day !

To return to Mr. Collm' book, I can say I was
surprised on first glancing over it at the variety of
subjects on which his muse had alighted. There are
poems in the book on " The Highland Hills," *' The
Emerald Isle," ** The Onole," "The Waning Year,"
"The Abbey of Saint Denis," "The Old Farm
House," " In the Hammock," " By Woodland Paths,"
"At Fort Douglas," " A Reminiscence of Manitou,"
"Pueblo," "Vespers," "Napoleon," "Midnight in
the Glen," etc., etc. All more or less beautiful and
all bearing the imprint of poetic genius in their com-
position and construction. As a poet, Mr. Collins'
rhymes are perfect, his descriptions graphic, his
language choice, and his fancy luxuriant and pleas-
ing. Here is a cluster of sweet thoughts culled at
random from his writings :

From "The Snow Flower:"

Thus in the dreariest spots in life,

The flowers of hope may spring ;
To banish grief from earthly lot,

A transient fitting thing.
For every one climbs mountain heights,

Each in our several way,
To find our visions of delight

Like snow flowers fade away :

t> ' >l

HON. CM AS. II. COLLINS.

From "Napoleon:"

Alone he stands upon the rugged shore,

Where beats the spray ; mid sullen breakers' roar.

The ocean waves dash o'er the rocks in foam,

And howling surge around his fsland home.

Far off are phantom sails whicii mock his sight

And glide away in endless lines of light.

Day follows day, and darkness comes and goes,

Alone he lives amid his hated foes.

Yet proud and stern, he gives no sign of pain,

The cruel jailer's taunts are all in vain.

Down, down where scoundrels in perdition lie

Let Lowe's base memory forever die.

While, as the eternal cyck-s roll along,

Napoleon still the theme of Gallic song.

Shall live triumphant on historic pages,

The greatest man of all recorded ages.

For Nature made but one, then broke the mold.

All else is silver, this was purest gold ;

And all the malice, spleen, and petty .spite

But show the hero in a brighter light.

To grow aiii' st/engthen as the years increase,

Nor fade or pale, till Time itself shall cease.

From "\e!.pors:"

O, blessed, blessed eventide,

When vesper hymns arise,
And labor lays its toils aside

And turns to God its eyes ;
Who has not felt in this sweet hour,

What'er his trials were,
That time would come, no earthly power

Could bring again despair ?

: '■ (■.:

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

■i

kiffiWi

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From '* Midnight in the Gien:"

But still the blue sky smiles above,

So saintly and so fair,
And wild flowers whisper as they hear

These voices of the air.
Soft voices chann to dreams unsought,

In Nature's temples then,
And in the valley all is peace.

At midnight in the glen.
There is an eye by day or night.

Its vigils still will keep.
On mountain crest and valley lone,

Where mortals never sleep ;
So thou but trust thine all to Him

And to His words be true,
Nor mountain sprite, nor midnight gnome,

Can harm bring unto you.

From " The Misanthrope:"

O, seek for pleasure in this life, as swiftly pass the years ;
Take interest in your fellow-men, their hopes, their plans,

their fears ;
Read of the men whose monuments are builded in the heart,
Their speculations, goodly schemes, where mankind took a

part.
In business, love, or politics, the golden moments fly ;
The busy man finds beauty still in earth, in air, in sky ;
Or, if you choose in fashion's throng, or churches' graver tone.
Go mingle with the human crowd who do not live alone.

From "Coming Home:"

And nearer, still nearer

Till bathed in the light.
The Star Spangled emblem

Is flashed on the sight.

HON. CHAS. H. COLLINS.

One moment we linger,
The tender has come.

Farewell to the ocean
And welcome our home.

From the poem that gives the t"tle to his latest
volume, "The New Year Comes My Lady:"

The New Year comes my lady,

At twelve the old year died.
Its burdens trailing after,

Its worries cast aside —
In the drapery ot silence,

In the shadows of the pall
Its troubles — its distresses

Are now beyond recall.

The morning dawns my lady.

The tints in eastern sky
Are tokens of the coming day

And hopes that must not die —
For the readings of the future

In the horoscope are bright ;
Forbodings and repinings

Have vanished with the night.

The sun is up my lady,

There's glory in his face
As he fills the earth with beauty

And crow?is the hills with grace ;
Now as we make our orisons,

Comes voice froM Galilee :
" Let the dead buty the dead ;

Do thou but follow me."

,1: :^

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

The work is waiting, lady,

An antidote to harm ;
Charity with its blessing.

Duties with their charm ;
For work makes life a pleasant thing,

There is no time for woe ;
And bitter thoughts are banished

Because we will it so.

And the following from a poem entitled,
Henry W. Hope's," Paint Creek, Ohio.

((

Green in the forest, blue in the sky.
Calm in the spirit, as waters flow by ;
The azure above, the currents low tone,
Gives token that man, is with nature alone.

The soul drifts away, from hurry and clatter,
The ear is not vexed by unmeaning chatter ;
The music we hear as we lie at our ease,
Is murmur of stream and rustle of trees.

Around us spreads far the land of the fay,
Who guards us by night and cheers us by day,
Mid the portals of glory with nature we stand.
And nature extends us a welcoming hand.

Mr. Collins is a lawyer with an extensive practice,
and resides in Hillboro, Ohio. He was born in May-
ville, Ky., in 1832, and is the son of General Richard
Collins, who achieved distinction in Ohio and Ken-
tucky as a lawyer and legislator. His grandfather
was the Rev. John Collins, one of the pioneer Meth-
odist preachers of the country and whose biography

\y^

HON. CHAS. H. COLLINS.

was written by no less eminent a person than Judge
John McLean, of the United States Supreme Court.
Mr. Collins is a well educated gentleman, and pos-
sesses a fine library. He has traveled extensively
both in Europe and America, and, although he loves
travel very much, still we can easily learn from
many of his poems that he is a firm believer with
John Howard Payne that "There's no place like
home." He was admiited to the Ohio Bar at
Batavia, Clermont County, Ohio, May 12, 1854, was
prosecuting attorney of that county. Removed to
Missouri and was in extensive practice there for
several years, returning to Ohio in 1865, located in
Hillsboro, and has since been resident of that city.

A friend to whom I applied for some private in-
formation regarding Mr. Collins replied as follows:
"You must make special mention of the following
points:"

First, as to his power of endurance, due to a ming-
ling of English and Scotch-Irish blood, to the opti-
mistic tone of his thoughts, always looking to the
better side of men and things, always hopeful, never
pessimistic, never despairing, never making excuses
or shifting blame on others, but taking up burdens
as they come and bearing them.

Second, to a high regard for the sacred character
■ of obligations and absolute inviolability of a prom-
ise, perfect faith in all business matters, regard foi
interests of clients, fairness to brethren of the Bar,
courtesy in trials.

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

i !

Third, accuracy of research and facility in appli-
cation of authorities to a case on trial, memory of
cases and dates, readiness of speech, and ease and
self possession when difficulties surround the
qiiestion.

Fourth, a certain style of adcaptandum eloqiience
well calculated to conciliate, and persuade so as to
make one effective on all occasions of public speak-
ing where no time is allowed for preparation.

These qualities are acquired by thorough literary
research, familiarity with all the range of Belles
Letters and from a memory thai retain^', all it has
once received.

The above will be recognized by all who know
him, as true to the letter. In short he is never at
fault for either words or modes of expres.sion.

Mr. Collins is the author of a number of books,
among them being, " Echoes from Highland Hills,"
' • Our Common Schools, " ' • Wibbleton to Wobbleton, "
'•Highland Hills to an Emperor's Tomb," ''The
Love of the Beautiful," and others. He is also a
constant contributor to the local papers, as well as
to a number of magazines and religious journals.
Ar-ong the poems published since his book, "The
New Year Comes, My Lady," was issued, is one en-
titled, "At Two Seasons. " I would like to introduce
this poem here, as it is a favorite with many people.
Mr. Collins says: "Last Summer kept me supplied
with dainty sweet peas by a charming lady. Last
Christmas the lilies bought of a chinee took their

HON. CHAS. H. COLLINS.

place on my ofifice table. Hence the verses;

AT TWO SEASONS.

SWEET PEAS.

In story books old legends tell,

How on mid-summer day,
Unto the strolling forester,

Unbidden cor/ies the fay —
To place within his eager hand,

Ere withered in the light,
The roses culled at blush of dawn

To gladden mortals sight.

How dewy fresh in glowing tints,

With all of nature there,
The emblem of a fairy soul

And gentle spirit's care —
What value have mere earth-born plants

Scattered along the way,
When we may have the fairy gifts

Upon mid-summer day.

No bloom from Oriental Isles,

No tropic fragrance rare,
No flowering shrubs of north or west

With fairy gifts compare.
'* And is the legend true," you say?

' ' Of course — for on my stand,
Are sweet peas culled mid-summer day

By Highland fairy's hand."

•I

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

II.

CHINESE LILIES.

Oh, gone are the fleeting summer days,

A touching memory now ;
And winter crowns with ice and snow

Each mountain's rugged brow.
The fairy charm no longer lasts,

But hideous on the stand
The Christmas lily buds and blooms,

From " Hop Lung's " dirty hand.

The little bulb has sprouted forth

Amid the laundry steam,
By darken'd bunks, where opium fiends

Indulge their horrid dream.
Then forth into the market place

Is huckjjtered to and fro,
By pig-tailed heathen yellow men —

" Hop Lung " and *' Hi-ang-ho."

One season gives us fairy plants,

The best of all — sweet peas !
The other ugly foreign bulbs,

Reminding of disease.
Give back to me the summer days

When fairies charm us so,
And back into their filthy dens

Let Chinese lilies go.

Then there is a beautiful little poem addressed to
Mr. Ralph H. Shaw, the well known Lowell, Mass.,
poet, that is worthy of being quoted Mr. Collins
says that it was written on reading Mr. Shaw's poem,
"My Lady Birch."

HON. ClIAS. //. COLLINS.

TO RALPH H. SHAW.

The white garbed Queen of wood and wild,

The sentinel of the streams,
My Lady Birch glows in your verse,

The goddess of your dreams.

As fair, as chaste, as beautiful,

As pulseless calm and still,
As Greecian statue's marble form,

Made warm at artists' will.

The new Pygmalion of the wood

Hath found another charm,
A new Diana minus dogs,

To work an Acteon harm.

The Maple of Ohio hills,

In all its Autumn glory,
Must bow its crest of red and gold.

Before thy tuneful story.

My Lady Birch of Northern clime.

Give praise for such a lover,
Who first has sung thy purity,

None else could e'er discover.

But dullest soul through poet's eye,

With quickened pulse now see
A dainty maid in robe of white,

A Lady ! not a Tree !

Did space permit, would like to introduce many
other quotations from Mr. Collins' poems just to
prove that he is a favorite with the muses. But it is

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

hardly necessary to do so. The quotations already
made, while possibly not the best in his book, are
sufficient to show that he is a poet in the true sense
of the word. He loves poetry and literature of all
kinds, and has hosts of literary friends. And this
reminds me of a little poem, by Dr. Benjamin F.
Leggett that I came a across tbc other day in one
the Hillsboro papers. The poem was introduced to
the readers of the paper in question, with the fol-
lowing kind remarks :

"Prof. B. F. Leggett, Ph. D., of Ward, Penn.,
has written the following poem, addressed to a
townsman, which we take pleasure in publishing as
a tribute, net only to a citizen, but to our county,
for which we thank the eminent author, who has
written .so many beautiful lyrics and sonnets . "

TO HON. C. H. COLLINS.

My cares, O friend, I lay aside,

I turn your pages o'er ;
Wit^ you I wander far and wide

By many an alien shore :
O'er hill and plain and mountain land,

Through realms of old romance.
By blue lakes rimmed with shells and sand,

By vineyard slopes of France.

fe'

In English meadows sweet and fair,
Where hawthorn hedges rear

Their beauty in the morning air
Thy lark's sweet song we hear !

1 .

HON. CHAS. H. COLLINS.

•e
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11

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o

Above your page, beyond my trees,

In cloudy, wind-swung piles,
I see the foam of sundown seas.

The crags of surf-beat isles.

And far across the valley wide

A deepening glory fills,
Beyond the crimson, sunset tide,

I see your Highland Hills ;
And while beside my wood-fire here

With you so far I roam.
Accept my honest words of cheer —

God bless your health and home.

This is certainly a sweet little lyrical gem, and, no
doubt, Mr. Collins treasures it greatly. I presume
it was sent as a return compliment to Mr. Collins for
som( verses recently addressed to Dr. Leggett.
These verses I have hunted up and present them
herewith, as they glow with kindly feelings and
manly praise for one who is well deserving of all
that is said in his favor:

TO BENJ. F. LEGGETT, PH., D., OF WARD, PENN-
SYLVANIA.

On receiving his two volumes, "A Sheaf of Song," and "An
Idyl of Lake George, and Other Poems."

•* Speed Malice speed — the dun deer's hide
On fleeter feet was never tide !"

I have thanks for Pastor Felix, *

The scholar, poet, man.
That unto thee, in winter drear.

His trusty Malise ran.

*Rev. Arthur John Lockhart.

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^ CLUSTER OF POETS.

Not Malise bearing fiery cross,
With sandals of the dun deer's hide,

And messages from Roderick Dhu,
Menacing all the border side.

But from Penobscot's frozen shores,

And ice-lock'd currents flow,
Came the graceful call of Felix

To the southern land below ;
From beside this wintry river

Unto Pennsylvania rills,
Came the bugle call, Oh, I^eggett !

To greet Ohio Hills !

Thou hast answered to the wizzard

On the pine clad slopes of Main —
Sent Idyls of the Horicon,

Sheafs of music from the plain,
With pure and perfect sonnets.

And pastoral verses sweet,
Tales of woods and dreamy forests

Where the gentle spirits meet.

I have read them all with pleasure,

But most the legends old
Of warfare by the Horicon,

In voiceful verses told.
So thus in Pennsylvania

Lives a Monarch true indeed ;
Not with gilded crown and sceptre.

But of Nature and its creed.

Among Mr. Collins* other valuable literary friends
is the Rev. Arthur John Lockhart, one of the best,
if, indeed, not the very best — of the Maine poets of

HON. CHAS. H. COLLINS.

to-day, and one whose writings adorn the pages of
the present volume. And in conclusion I need
scarcely assure my readers that the friendship which
I formed with Mr. Collins some years ago has grown
warmer and closer day by day. I respect him for
his many sterling qualities, his Christian character,
his goodness of heart, his literary talents, his good
judgement in all things. For these and various
other reasons I am indeed proud to be able to
address him as my friend.

,1 ■

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PETER ROSS, LL. D.

Dr. Ross is a native of Inverness, Scotland, hav-
ing been born there on the nth of January 1847.
He received a good average education and at the
age of fourteen became apprenticed to Miles Mac-
phail, the once famous Established Church publisher
in Edinburgh. Here he met and conversed with
many of the most brilliant literary minds in Scotland
at the time, including Russell, the great editor of
The Scotsman ; Manson of The Daily Review ;
Phineas Deseret, J. W. Ebsworth, Dr. Robert Lee,
Dr. Bonar, of the Canongate; Dean Ramsay, Dr.
Cook, of Haddington; Cosmo Innes, J. Hill Burton,
the historian ; Dr. McLauchlan, of St. Columbia's ;
Maclagan, the poet; Sir James Y. Simpson, and
many others. In 1873 he sailed for America and
since that time has resided in New York City, en-
gaged, mainly, in newspaper and other literary
work.

A literary man in the truest sense of the term.
Dr. Ross has given to the world a number of works
of a decidedly valuable character, prominent among
them being: "The Scot in America," "Kingcraft in
Scotland," "The Literature of the Scottish Refor-
mation," " Scotland and the Scots," " Robert Burns
from a Literary Standpoint," "Life of Saint An-

PI<:THR ROSS, LL. D.

rUDM A liuoNzi: Mi;i)Ai,i.i().\ liisr
\i\ ciiAui i:s c \i.\! ui,i:n . .\. \.

PETER ROSS, LL. D.

drew," "The Book of Scotia Lodge," ** The Songs
of Scotland, Chronologically Arranged," and the
* ' Life and Works of Sir William Alexander, Earl
of Stirling."

In appreciation of his work in connection with
Scottish literature in the United States, an American
college at the beginning of the present year con-
ferred upon him the degree of LL. D., an honor
of which he is justly proud.

Although making no claim to the title of poet, Dr.
Ross is the author of many verses that evince con-
siderable poetic ability. I have had the pleasure of
reading the most of them and I feel sure, from the
specimens here given that my readers will agree with
me in saying that he is fairly entitled to a position
among our Scottish-American poets.

For a more extended notice of Dr. Ross and his
writings, see '* Random Sketches on Scottish Sub-
jects," — Paisley, Alexander Gardner, 1896.

TWA SCOTS.

Twa youthfu' Scots came ower the sea

Frae where the Spey firsts meets the ocean,

To try and win Dame Fortune's smiles
In rustic toil or trade's commotion.

They loved their hame, its hills and dales,
Wi' grand historic lore attendant,

But lack o' gear gaed little hope
That bindin', they'd be independent.

A CLUSIHK OF WE'JX

By wild Lake Kri»»'s ruj^j^ed shore
They settled, and wi' sturdy toil

They clear'd n farm frae brush and root,
Ami glean'd gear frae the virgin soil.

And twa miles south there lay a toun
Where centred a' the country's treasure ;

And soon in it they had some trade,
Their craps to sell, their corn to measure.

Their lassies syne frae Scotland cam*.
And settled doun in comfort wi* them,

And weel-stocked houses crown 'd the farm
And couthy bairns were born to them.

As years roll'd on their interests lay
Alike at stake in farm an* toun ;

And wealth cam' flowin' in apace
And blythesome ilka day wore roun'.

Ane owned a railroad, ane a mine,
Ane had a mill and ane a quarry,

And as tlieir hands grew fu', their bairns
Took part and hain'd them frae the worry.

Ane built a kirk, and fee'd it fair ;

Ane built the puir, the sick, the lame
A snug and bieu' like restin' place.

And caird it a Saint Andrew's Hame.

And to the puir at hame, some wealth
They freely spent baith spring and simmer,

And mony a frail man blessed their names.
And for their peace pray'd mony a kimmer.

PETEN A'OMS, A/,. /).

Sac jmisscmI their lives content and pure,
Aye winni?' love through hein' kindly,

Anil helpin' ilhers up the brae
They uucc had clainb Hae sair and blindly.

And when at last their time did come,
And baith to their lang hame were carried,

The neif^hbours a' for mony miles

Foregathered roun' where they were buried.

And o'er their graves is ae braid stane

Which laps their clay frae weet and wind ;

And at the foot are carved these lines,
'Neath where their nantes are intertwined :

'• God rest them ! Now their work is o'er ;

On their fair fame there's ne'er a blot.
They acted well their several parts

And loved to help a brither Scot.

" For this was aye their hamely creed —
Ilk Scotsman is a Scotsman's brither ; —

And whiles wi' glee they sung a sang,
Some auld stave learned on hills o' heather.

*' They did whate'er they thought was right,
And shared alike earth's glee and sorrow ;

And when life's work was done and past,
They won the peace which comes — to-morrow."

THE CURLER'S MOTTO.

I min' when a lad, just beginning to wan' net
Thro' life's weary troubles, tho' feckless an* wee,

My faither's advice, he was king among curlers,
Was '• Aye to be sure an' play straight to the tee."

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

On' sae be our motto

In frost or in shower,
By sunlicht or munelicht

In garden or bower ;
What e'er may befa' us

By land or by sea,
Its best aye to play a straight shot to the tee.

For after he tell't me that a' men were brithers.
An* the noblest was he wha for truth ill could dree,

An' he was the sturdiest man to depend on
Wha aye tried his best to play straight to the tee.
An' sae be our motto, etc.

An' a' throughout life's dreary journey I've fand it,
In wealth or in puirtith, whare'er I micht be

In palace or garret the happiest man is
He wha aye strives to play straight to the tee.
An' sae be our motto, etc.

SONNET.

AFTER READING " DEMOCRITUS JUNIOR."

Melancholy thy charms have won the love

Of poets, sages, and each thoughtful mind,

Sent to this lower sphere from that above

To sound humanity to all mankind.

Milton to thee hath tuned a noble lay;

Doth not sweet Shakespeare's sonnet show thy power,

And Dante's every line thy love betray

And Byron call thee mistress every hour ?

For who can see men's struggles in this life.

Their empty smiles and recklessness of sin ;

Their carelessness who stumble in the strife.

If only fortune's wheel can make them win —

Who sees, helps thinking on thy pensive charms.

And bends the knee, and shields him in thy arms.

PETER ROSS, LL. D.

THE INCH O' PERTH.

Its bonnie on the Juch o' Perth,

In summer when the flowers are growin',
Ye winna' fin' through a' the earth

A spot wi' nature's gifts mair rowin' !
The Tay flows grandly to the sea,

An' Kinnoul tap's maist to the carie,
Rut the sweetest sight of a' to me.

Is jist a blink o' my ain Mary.

Some poets' male' a wond'rous wark,

'Bout nature's feats in trees an' grasses,
'Bout suns an' skies an' midnights dark —

There's nought to me like nature's lassies,
I hate the gaudy city dame,

For suns an' skies an' trees, I carena',
I want a hoose to ca' my ain,

An' want a kiss frae my ain Mary.

O, Mary 'twas a bonny night,

When last we o'er the Inch went roamin',
The moon shone clear her silv'ry light,

The Tay below went softly moanin' ;
An' then we plighted sure our love,

Wi' vows that time can never vary.
For while life's gien me frae above,

I'll bless the day I won my Mary.

TO THE SKYLARK.

Oh ! beautiful the lark, when on the summer mom,
She rises gaily from the earth's cold breast,

And welcomes back the sun to sky forlorn,
And calls the sluggish ploughboy from his rest.

Oh ! sweet the song that's carolled forth so free,
And cheers the milkmaid as she ventures out.

A CLUSTER OF PORTS.

To meet her love perchance upon the lea,
And hear his vows with much beseeming doubt.

And as the blythesome bird pursues its way,
How sweet the chirping from each hedge and tree.

Answering back its loud triumphant lay.
Bidding the sleeping world awake and be.

THE OLD PAUPiCR.

Sitting by the hall fire, when the workhouse day is done,
When the weary toil is ended and the resting has begun ;
Sitting, quietly thinking, ere the bell is rung for bed.
And on the hard low pillow lies at rest the weary head —
Thinking on the long past follies, the joy the opening gave —
How dismal-like the present, and to come, the pauper's grave.

Spurned by his old companions, here his days will end at last,
As a leaf by tempest dismal f om the autumn tree is cast.

No one knows that aged pauper, tho' once a day 't has been.
When loves and friends and plenty were ever round him seen ;
When his evil deeds were gilded o'er, his virtues loudly sung.
And to sounds of mirth and laughter, his rafters nightly rung.
But, well-a-day, misfortunes came, and friends and virtues fled,
And the sneering laugh, or bitter curse, were heaped upon his
head.

The years passed on, until the depth of misery he won —
Hoarding with the scum that never can abide the glaring sun,
Now carousing with the guilty from the fruits of guilty dare.
Singing gaily in the evening, " let us hang that spectre care."
Then for weeks and weeks together, wond'ring where to win

a meal,
Praying bitterly for death to come, his wretchedness to heal.

PETER ROSS, LL, D.

Here, old and frail, and mind near gone, he totters to the grave,
By all regarded as a load, by many deemed an knave ;
Yet see him sitting quietly, gazing deep into the fire,
And muttering his memories, his mumbling lips ne'er tire.

" That Christmas eve was merrily spent,

When Willie, my son, was bom ;
And the old hall's oaken roof near rent,
As we caroused fro ir »iight to morn.

But I never see nc •

Of the eyes that shone,

With hope a'v love '^o brip^ \.

And I'll never know mi- Ih,

For while on this e.-rth,

Ivifc to me's but a lismal night.

Oh ! the wealth and grace at the county ball,

When, young and thoughtless and gay,
I headed the dance, and lorded o'er all.
And the fairest would ne'er whisper nay.

Now many are dead,

And many have fled.

For shame, beyond the sea.

And some are undone,

In the race all run,

And now are forgotten — like me.

There \eas Helen, my high-born lovely wife,

The pride of hamlet and hall.
She was fair and good, and they said my life,
With her would be heavenly thrall.

And she loved me well,

Till she knew the tale

Of my ruin and poverty.

Then she sulked and raved,

And in curses laved,

And parted forever from me.

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Next Willie, my boy, for a soldier went,

Far, far, beyond the sea.
Where the Indian sky his spirit rent.
For he never returned to me.

Yet I think I know,

He's oft here below.

And smilingly cheers me on.

So I fancy he means.

To take me to scenes,

Of peace, when my journey is done.

Oh harshly sounds the master's voice.

And weary the rest as the toil ;
And sad to me is the bitter choice,
Of dressing the hemp, or the soil.

And the parson talks.

Of Heaven, and mocks,

The Holy Book in his telling ;

For if o'er the earth,

He'd lighten our path,

Faith in our hearts would be dwelling.

But often when all around is quiet.

And midnight the tower is ringing,
I hear far away in the gloom of the night —
A chorus of voices singing.

And as they come near,

I think I can hear,

My Willie's voice saying lowly,

** Come father, come.

Your journey is done,

There is rest in the realm of glory."

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OIvORGlC WIU^IAMSON.

GEORGE WHLIAMSON.

I recently added to my literary treasures a cluster
of beautiful poems, artistically tied tojjcther, under
the title of ** Gleaning-s of Leisure Hours" (Detroit
International Publishing Company), from which I
derived considerable intellectual pleasure. These
"Gleanings" are from the writings of Mr. George
Williamson, of Detroit, Mich., a poet of sterling
merit and a man of much intelligence. His poetry
is distinguished by beauty and strength, originality
and affection, and no one can rise from a reading of
it without feeling better for the sweet and pure
thoughts, the bright similes, the pathetic ardor and
the Christian love and brotherly kindness which is
visible all through it. Open his book at random and
you will be sure to alight upon something that will
both please and instruct. Among the first of the
pieces that attracted my attention was "Good and
Great, " a well written and carefully constructed poem,
and one which immediately conveys the impression
that its author possesses considerably more than
ordinary poetic ability.

GOOD AND GREAT.

The hero of a hundred fights,

With decorations on his breast,
Has reached ambition's tottering heights,

And can on well earned laurels rest.

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

But mark, he is not yet content,
Uuconquered foes his thoughts create,

As conscience cries, "Repent, repent,
'Tis better to be good than great."

'\ •

Philosophers may all be wise

In nature's scientific skill,
Astronomers may search the skies

And measure distances at will ;
But there is something dearer far

That love alone can demonstrate.
This light that shines from Bethlehem's star-

' Tis better to be good than great.

The earth with all its fulness may

The transient wants of those supply.
Whose hope's possession for to-day

Of fame or pleasure gold can buy ;
But temporal joy can never save

The soul from sin's degrading state ;
For all who look beyond the grave,

'Tis better to be good than great.

There is in every heart a void

That worldly honors cannot fill.
An incompleteness oft allied

To many forms of vice and ill ;
We may be great when far from good.

But from pure wisdom's estimate
That has the test of ages stood,

The truly good are always great.

Oh, for the peace that Burns could trace,
So vivid in the " Cotter's night."

The simple faith, the holy grace.
The firm resolve to walk upright ;

iL«Er£;-^

GEORGE WILLIAMSON.

Then come what may, though fortune frown,

It cannot mar our happy fate,
To gain a pure, immortal crown.

Be good, and, on that Rock, be great.

Other poems of a similar character to this are
strewn throughout the book in great profusion,
*' Contentment," *' Doubt and Hope," "Sing at
Work," "Footsteps at the Dooor," "The Fading
Year," "Indifference," "Help the Poor," "Forget
the Past," besides the various "In Memoriam,"
pieces, being particularly fine. Many of these poems
contain deep philosophical reasoning, others look
beyond the present and inspire us with noble hopes
for the future, while still others teach us to be con-
tent with our e very-day surroundings and show us
that we all enjoy numerous blessings in life, even if
we are not altogether aware of them.

Mr. Williamson is a native of Lockerbie, Dum-
friesshire, Scotland, where he was born on May 28,
1836. He was educated at Birkenhead and Man-
chester, Eng. , and received what may be termed a
good common school education. On completing his
studies he seems to have traveled a great deal, as in
the year 1855 we find him first in America, then
again in England and next in South Africa. He re-
turned to Scotland and located in Dumfries in the
spring of 1856. In the fall of 1857 he went to Trin-
idad, West Indies, as overseer of a sugar plantation,
and here he remained until i860. We next hear of
him in the vicinity of Toronto, Ont. , where he fol-

too

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

lowed the business of architect and builder, then in
the oil district of Ontario until 1867, when he re-
moved to Kentiicky and became superintendent of
construction for the Red River Iron Manufacturing
Co. A few years later his two younger brothers,
whom he had brought out from Scotland, founded
the firm of Williamson & Brother, lumber merchants,
Lexington, Ky. , and at intervals we find him with
them helping to build up and extend what has since
become one of the largest businesses of its kind in
the State. During all these years, however, he
never abandoned his muse or allowed her to remain
silent. Poems on various subjects, all showing the
touch of a master hand, continued to flow from his
facile pen and were welcomed by his friends as soon
as they made their appearance.

On leaving Scotland he presented her people with
a testimonial of his love for the dear old land in the
form of a short poem, entitled "Scotia's Shore."
This is as good a poem as has ever been written on
the subject. There is patriotism, feeling and sorrow
all mingling together, and it has the merit of being
brief and to the point, characteristics which poems
of this kind do not always possess.

SCOTIA'S SHORE,

Farewell, though leaving Scotia's shore *

My thoughts with you remain.
While absent I shall love, and more

Wben next we meet again.

GEORGE WILLIAMSON.

tot

Each wave that heaves the vessel high,
Kach breeze that skims the sea,

Shall fill my breast with many a sigh
For Scotland and for thee.

Farewell ! I go where gems abide,

Where gold's without alloy,
Where beams the sun in all his pride

And every scene is joy ;
But not the gorgeous glittering strand,

Nor all the wealth I see,
Nor all the beauty of the land

Can win my love from thee !

Farewell, how solemn is that word,

How often feared and spoke.
While ears, with pain expectant heard.

And hearts have well nigh broke.
But hope our parting thoughts shall cheer

That thou shalt faithful be.
And love that banishes all fear

Shall make me true to thee.

How different to this, and yet how beautiful and
melodious «,re Mr. Williamson's "Farewell Lines on
Leaving Spain." Truly no one can read them and
not acknowledge that this author is a sweet and in-
spired singer. Every line of the poem is smooth
and soft and harmonious, while the sentiments ex-
pressed in it readily find a responsive chord in our
hearts and for the moment we almost wish ourselves
at the poet's side, so that we can join him in his fare-
well hymn.

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LEAVING SPAIN.

Gentle twilight, softly linger,
Let me on her beauty gaze,

Till my heart joins with the singer
One short parting hymn of praise ;

Till reflectively I listen
To the pure Castilian strain,

Watch the bright eyes brighter glisten
As sweet music's low refrain
Wafts a fond farewell to Spain.

Land enchantingly uniting

All the charms of earth and sky.
Ever pleasantly delighting

Poet's mind and painter's eye ;
Rich as wine thy vineyard's growing

Streams the warm blood through each vein,
Friendship's fountain freely flowing

In thy zeal to entertain :

Hospitable, generous Spain.

Maids the heart's best retrospection,

Men of honor, faithful, true.
Sunny home of sweet affection,

Though we bid thee now adieu.
Gems of thought, earth's richest treasure,

Monarchs of the soul shall reign,
As love's harp recalls the pleasure

Dearest memories retain

Of thy blessings, favored Spain.

Patriotism foniis a conspicuous feature of many of
Mr. Williamson's productions. "To Mme. Sadi
Carnot," "The Thistle and the Rose," "Canada,"

GEORGE WILLIAMSON.

to3

and his various societury poems being all more or
less worthy in this respect. There is also a poem in
his volume addressed to "General Russell A. Alger,"
which deserves more than a mere passing reference
to its name. In language, spirit and expression it is
as noble a poem as is the character of the general to
whom it is addressed, and we take pleasure in
appending it herewith :

GENERAL RUSSELL A. ALGER.

Alger the general, noble and brave,
Foremost in fight when the battle flags wave.

Fast by his comrade's side

Bravely he would have died
Out in the field his loved country to save.

Alger, the Governor, upright, sedate.
Statesman and orator, humble though great.

Seeking to suit the hour

Aid from a higher pewer
True to his Maker, and true to his State.

Alger the lumberman, active in trade.
Faithful and honest, a millionaire made,
Himself a toiler then
Would have for workingmen
Value for labor that ought to be paid.

Alger the bountiful, friend of the poor,
List to his words that should ever endure,

"The greatest good we find

Is to relive mankind."
Oh, what great good for himself is secure,

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Alger the mcdel, whose excellent worth,
Causeth the nation to honor his birth,

And make his name be heard

As a dear household word
Filling the highest position on earth.

Many poems of a highly humorous character
appeared at intervals over our author's signature,
and are now included in his book. In these pieces
his humor is natural and unrestrained and they evince
the fact that Mr. Williamson has none of the pessi-
mist in his nature. He seems to have passed through
various trials and troubles at times, but he has con-
tinued to look on the bright side of life, and has
always found some good in everything. His poems
on love, home and the affections are also deserving
of special mention. These include "Love's Quar-
rels," "Love," "Mother," "Friends in Old Age,"
" Golden Wedding Day," "The Ladder of Love,"
and many others, all containing loving thoughts,
kindly expressions affectionate, graceful and appro-
priate, compliments. In addition to this they are
exquisitely finished and may be classed as among the
best of our talented author's work.

Nor must we omit to mention the many excellent
poems on Nature and the beauties of nature which
are scattered throughout Mr. Williamson's book.
Some of them, indeed, are beautiful word pictures
and as suc!i they will always be treasured by those
who come in contact with them. Such, for instance,
as "To a Rosebud," "The Approach of Spring,"

GEORGE WILLIAMSON.

'05

"The Lilacs," "The Flowers in Winter Are Best,"
"June," **July," and " The War of the Seasons,"
are exquisite pieces of true poesy and well worthy
of being included in any volume of poems on nature.
Nothing harsh or unpoetical is to be found in any of
them. Take as a specimen the following :

THE WAR OF THE SEASONS.

An army came from the tropics,

In battle's proud array,
With excessive heat and passion

The enemy to slay.

And, beyond the arctic region,

Arose in powerful might
A host of chilling warriors

As eager for the fight.

The Southern army is passing

The equinoctial line,
And the North is fast advancing

To frustrate its design.

The breath of the fiery furnace

Is met with frozen hills,
With the battle fiercely raging

The pulse of nature thrills.

And louder the echoes thunder
Till all the sleepers 'round

Awake with heat perspiring,
Though shivering on the ground.

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The conflict so long continued,
And gloom so widely spread,

That a flag of truce is flying
To carry off the dead.

And the monarchs are arranging
To have the combat cease,

Each to the other dictating
The only terms of peace.

The Northern king has a daughter,
The Southern king a son,

And hostilities are ended
By making these two one.

I )

The marriage is consummated

With presents from each king.
And where this pair is located,

The country is called Spring.

Did space permit I would like to introduce quota-
tions from some of Mr. Williamson's longer poems
as they are well worthy of more than a mere passing
reference being made to them.

I will however conclude with two of his short
pieces, recently composed and therefore not to be
found in his book. The one is an affectionate tri-
bute to his wife, and the other a patriotic lyric in
connection with his native land. This latter piece
has been set to stirring music by Mr. Walter Bruce
and has been sung by him with great success in
many parts of America.

..--^ ajia ww— M—

GEORGE WILLIAMSON.

lOJ

EVER NEAR.

Just to be near thee when thine eyes

Reveal their happiest light,
When all thy charms, like glad sunrise.

Makes dreariness take flight.
Thy presence is a safe retreat

Of comfort and of cheer,
The balmy air is made more sweet

When thou art near, love, — near.

Just to be near thee when a shade

Of sorrow clouds thy brow,
To feel the sanctity of aid

Is mine to tender now ;
To watch thy winter change to spring

And smiles again appear,
T'were joy, as pure as angels sing.

Just to be near thee, — near.

Just to be near thee when the hour

Of death shall lay thee low.
To woo thee back by love's great power.

Or with thee cheerful go.
Or if I first shall pass the goal

That brings thy silent tear.
No terrors can affright my soul

If thou art near, love, — near.

Just to be near thee ? traitor word.

My beautiful, my bride.
Thy form is seen, thy voice is heard

Forever by my side.
In peace or strife, in death or life,

In bliss, in pain, or fear,
Where'er thou art, thy faithful heart

Is near, love, — ever near.

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SCOTLAND.

A new sang for auhl Scotland,

The garden o' the loftiest fame
That ever thrilled the heart o' man,

Or nursed him to a laureled name.
Frae proud, defiant craigs her bairns

Hae heritage to do and dare :
The soul of truth her honoured sons,

And sweet as love her daughters fair.

A brave sang for auld Scotland,

To warm the patriot's bluid anew —
To list again the pibroch's strain

An' a' the gathering clans review.
To feel the "heather is on fire,"

And freedom's sacred watchward learn.
As thoughts o' Wallace nerved the arms

That fought wi' Bruce at Bannockburn.

Wha wadna sing for Scotland ?

Nae climate blunts oor ardour keen,
Nor melts the gowden friendly chain

That sprang frae links made on the green.
Her glens an' mountains, banks an' braes,

Maun a' be level as the sea.
Her rbaring torrents backward flow.

Ere native love departs frae me.

Oor hearts are in auld Scotland,

Wha's heroes bled and martyrs died
To gain religious liberty

An' a' that bless oor ain fireside.
Far ower the saut seas though we roam

To sunny hames 'ueath foreign skies,
The Land o' Cakes aboon them a'

Is aye oor warldly paradise.

KgWWyWfflWIDHi

GEORGE WILLIAMSON,

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Then sing o' -iear auld Scotland,

Whaur thistles guard the wee blue bell —
Whaur Kden's bonniest floral gems

In a' their modest beauty dwell ;
Whaur Knox, and Scott, and Burns hae left

A feast o' nourishment divine.
Earth to caress, and heaven possess.

By Scotia's deeds o* auld lang syne,

Mr. Robert Matheson, of Chicago, a well-known
poet and an able critic, in reviewing "Gleanings of
Leisure Hours," said:

** The advent of a new singer, if his notes be true
and tuneful, should be hailed with joy as a new voice
added to that choir which no man can number, and
such I find in George Williamson. He is of the
quiet, domestic order of poets, possessing an almost
exuberant fancy, a facile versification, and withal a
pawky Scottish wit that is sure to please the average
reader. His is a pure castalian rill or fountain of
Bandusia, where one may turn for a cool refreshing
draught. Our poet has that ease in versification
which can arise only from spontaneity, singing as
freely as the birds; and while his notes flow with an
easy modulation the variety of his meters relieves
his verse of anything like monotony. He has
evidently a keen musical sense, which enables him
to melodize in perfect harmony. His sentiments are
faultless, and there is nothing in the volume but
what is kindly ennobling and wise. Faith in the
Divine Providence and an ardent love for his fellow
men, form a diapason vhich rings through his lines.

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

to use his own words, 'as some clear silvery bell.'
Like Abraham Lincoln, he gets near the heart of
the people, and is the poet of the masses rather than
of the classes. He is easily imderstood, and has lit-
tle in common with mysticism which makes such
works as Browning's so difficult for the ordinary
mind to interpret. The poem on ' Good and Great '
aptly illustrates the author's philosophy of life :

' There is in every heart a void,

That wordly honors cannot fill,
An incompleteness oft allied

To many forms of vice and ill ;
We may be great when far from good,

But from pure wisdom's estimate
That has the test of ages stood,

The tnily good are always great.'

Mr. Williamson is a native of Dumfriesshire, Scot-
land, a region redolent of song, and has his due
share of that ardent patriotism which ever dis-
tinguishes the natives of the land of the mountain
and the flood. He has traveled extensively, and
filled many important positions as architect, master
mechanic and builder. He has always taken an
active interest in patriotic and fraternal organiza-
tions, has been president of several societies, and for
the past twelve years has been supreme scnbe of the
Order of Red Cross, which office he now holds.

He is also an honorary member of the Highland
Association of Illinois, of the Scottish Assembly of
Chicago, a member of St. Andrew's Society, Detroit,

GEORGE WILLIAMSON.

Ill

and a member of Detroit Lodge, No. 6, Ancient
Order of United Workmen.

Mr. Williamson was married to Miss Agnes Clark-
son in Woodstock, Ontario, on the 1 9th of September,
1862. She is an admirable, warm-hearted woman,
and is fully conscious of and appreciates her hus-
band's talents. Three sons and three daughters
have blessed their union. In addition to his duties
as supreme scribe, he is also editor of the * ' Red
Cross Gazzette," a monthly journal published in the
interest of the Red Cross Order. His "Gleanings
of Leisure Hours " is a large and handsome volume,
and a welcome addition to American poetical litera-
ture. Its contents may not bring him a laurel wreath
during his life time, but as a prominent writer once
remarked, ' Something resembling poetry is some-
times borne into instant and turbulent popularity,
while a work of genuine character may be lying ne-
glected by all except the poets. But the tide of time
flows on, and the former begins to settle to the
bottom, while the latter rises slowly and steadily to
the surface and goes forward for a spirit is in it.'"

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RALPH H. SHAW.

"In Many Moods, or Miscellaneous Poems, by-
Ralph H. Shaw, * For the fire-side or for the summer
shade,' Lowell, Mass." These words form the title
page of a unique little volume which has been a pleas-
ing and entertaining companion to me during a few
brief holidays spent in the country. Nor do I marvel,
now that I have laid it aside for a time, at the agree-
able fascination which it exercised over me. Nature
has always been a favorite study of mine, and here
I found an abundance of poetry laden with beautiful
similes, choice expressions and bright thoughts on a
subject which immediately touched a responsive
chord in my heart. There are poems on ** The Early
Flowers," "Mosses," "April Rains," "Summer
Mornings," "May," "Autumn," "Wild Flowers of
the Holy Land," "Cardinal Flowers," and various
others of a similar character, and all of a singularly
sw^eet and tender nature. Indeed, as far as the book
is concerned, its title might as appropriately have
been "Songs of Nature," as anything else, for
allusions to nature in one form or another are scat-
tered in great profusion throughout its pages. And
the language is soft and delicate and graceful as it
should always be in pastoral poetry, the style simple
and unaffected, the sentiment pure and exalted, the

RALPH II. SUA IV.

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rhyme melodious and perfect, while a deep devotional
spirit hovers over all, adding its chaste and refining
influence to the charms of as promising a little vol-
ume of poems as has ever been issued by a rising
American poet. Listen for a moment to the open-
ing poem :

I know that I for years have loved
Abroad in Nature's face to look ;
I know that I have oft been moved

To sympathy with bird and brook ;
I know that from my hearth-stone I
Have gone to view the sunset sky ;
And climbed the hill, in twilight cold and gray,
To, at his airy gates, await the rising day.

I know I have not been as one

Who seeth naught the fact behind, —
To whom the sun is simply sun,

To whom the wind is simply wind,
The wood a wood, the hill a hill, —
Mere growth or mere existence. Still,
I can not speak whereof my heart hath known :
I live as one who lives in silence and alone.

But felt as deep by him who lives

Without the gift of utterance,
May be the music Nature gives

Whereof his life hath cognizance, —
The solemn undertones of night
And morning's paean of delight —
As e'ei i,y him who sounds the verbal keys
And gives his every thought their fitting melodies.

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And felt as deep by him may be
The graces of Arcadian days ;
The quiet and amenity

He finds within his greenwood ways ;
The splendor that around him lies
Of hill and vale and changing skies ;
The equal miracle of sun and sod ;
The stately flow of time, and epic plan of God.

And he who loves to tarry by

The singing of his woodland rills ;
Who finds a solace in the sky,

A strength and spirit in the hills ;
Who loves the beautiful and good,
The close-discerning habitude ;
He makes a poem of his days and weeks.
And he who feels it all is one with him who speaks.

Very gentle and sweet and musical, is it not? But
here is a little poem entitled "Deus Idem," which I
think surpasses it in all of these qualities. As we
read the verses we seem to forget the present and in
spirit find ourselves slowly wending our way with
the poet across fields radiant with summer blossoms,
and through woods of pine and birch to ' ' pleasant
Norton Church." How dear and familiar the name
sounds to us. Pleasant Norton Church ! We enter
and hear the singing of the good old hymns and the
reading of the Word, and we note particularly and
with satisfaction that the preacher's teaching is in
unison with that of earth and air. A sweet content-
ment rests upon us, and when we traverse the fields
again on our way homewards our hearts are made

HL.

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RALPH H. SHAW.

trS

glad as we listen to the birds sending forth their
psalms of praise among the sunbeams and the
flowers.

DEUS IDEM.

TO A, B. H.

Through fields with early summer fair,
Through woods of pine and birch,

We came, with quickened love of God,
To pleasant Norton Church.

The gospel of the daisied fields

And sunlit depths above.
Had left the anxious heart its hope,

The weak assured of love.

And what a prelude had been ours

In sound of leaf and bird
To singing of the good old hymns

And reading of the Word !

The church without, the church within,

In both the same He seemed !
In both the same sweet face of love

And mercy on us beamed !

For he who read the Book had passed

No page of nature o'er ;
By each in turn the other taught

His gentle spirit more.

For howsoe'er he chid our ill.

Or shaped our needful prayer,
His teaching was in unison

With that of earth and air.

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So, as we sought the fields again,
The joy of birds was ours.

How sweetly fell their psalms among
The sunbeams and the flowers !

,f ■

Or take the following poem, written in 1881, and
note how full it is of references to nature and how
appropriately these references are introduced and
follow one another. Truly, as Mr. Charles Godfrey
Leland (" Hans Breitman '*) once wrote to Mr. Shaw,
"There is a beautiful inspiration of nature in all of
your lyrics:"

NIGHTFALL ON THE CRAGS.

iil

This is the hour for wings. We climb
The sunset hillside, and behold,
Above the shadowy lake and wold,

Where spacious quiet grows sublime,
What summits wear the crowns of gold ;

Where colored by the irised skies
Wafts now, with motions soft and light,
A fleeting air 'twixt day and night.

A sunset birth, it lives and dies
A floating bloom about the height.

tH •

Now to his cloud-bed sinks the sun,
From mountain-tops his glance doth wean ;
And blending in the deep serene

That hangs above us, into one.
The fading hues of heaven are seen.

RALPH //. SHAW.

1/7

and
how

and
frey
law,
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And winding out of sunken dells

A lightly-shaken music comes.

Through dusky air the night-hawk hums.
And now are hushed the muffled bells,

And shepherd-shadows fold the homes.

And from the lake the chilly breeze
Takes hither, as in dreams, its flight.
Yet stay we on this rocky height.

Our pillow is our boundaries —
The calm horizons of the night.

Then here is another little gem, which might
readily be taken from its tone and sentiment for one
of Wordsworth's poems:

ENJOYED THE MORE.

I murmur not that most my days
Are passed among these noisy ways ;
That seldom by my ears are heard
The laugh of rill and song of bird ;
Or by my eyes are seldom seen
The wood-caught rays of morn and e'en.

Nor envy him him his lot who sees
About him reach the path of ease, —
Whose morning care is whether he
Shall busy or shall idle be.
Shall seek the vale, or climb the hill.
Or loiter beside the rill.

For when thou, who hast held me fast,
Stern Duty ! giv'st consent at last,
And forth I go to wood and field.
They more for my long waiting yield,
By him whose days are all his own.
The joy / feel is never known.

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Ralph Henry Shaw was born in Fisher's Lane,
Germantown (Philadelphia), Pa., on the nth of
April, i860. His father, Benjamin Franklin Shaw,
inventor of the first Jacquard stocking loom and
founder of the Shawknit stocking industry, died in
1890. His mother, Hamet No well Shaw (to whom
he affectionately dedicates his latest volume of poems)
is still living at Ossipee Mountain Park, Moulton-
borough, N. H., which place was bequeathed to her
and others in the family by her husband, who dis-
covered its natural beauty in 1879, and spent a for-
tune in its development and improvement. When
our author was about five years of age his parents
moved from Germantown to South Danvers (now
Peabody), Mass., and here he attended the grammar
school for some time. In 1870 his parents once more
changed their residence, this time to Cambridge,
Mass., where he attended the Webster Grammar
School for a little over a year, failing health making
it advisable to keep him in the open air as much as
possible. His father, a man of very wide general
information, possessed an excellent library, and from
this source the young poet learned much, as he was
ambitious to learn. He began writing verses before
he had reached the age of fifteen and some of these
juvenile effusions, published in a little volume which
was issued in 1 885, display considerable merit. Here,
for instance, is one entitled **Good Night," which is
a capital piece of work for a boy of that age :

RALPH H. SHAW.

119

Adieu, adieu, my mother dear,

For round the night winds sigh.
The little twinkling stars appear

And coldly light the sky.
Adieu, adieu, my mother fair ;

I linger in your sight.
But soon unto my bed repair ;

I bid you now. Good night !

O, will the noisy call of day

Arouse me to your face,
To view the eyes of purest ray

That beam a mother's grace ?
O, may our God watch o'er your head —

O, may your dreams be light,
And circle pleasure o'er your head —

I say again. Good night !

Burns was Mr. Shaw's first poetical favorite, and
after him Byron, Moore, Wordsworth and Whittier
commanded his highesi admiration. In June 1877
he moved to Lowell, Mass., (where he still resides)
and a year later he entered the office of the Shaw
Stocking Company there. By punctuality and strict
attention to business he soon raised himself to an
important position in the office, and for many years
past he has filled the chair of manager's assistant.
In 1 88 1 he married Miss Mary Abbie Choate, a grad-
uate of the Lowell High School and recipient of a
Carney medal presented to her for excellence in
scholarship and deportment. She is a good, intelli-
gent, bright-eyed woman and has so at heart the in-
terest of her loved ones and her home, that she is an

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exceedingly good wife. She likes the simple and
sweet in poetry and is a discriminating and appreci-
ative reader. Five children have been born to them,
viz. Ralph Choate, Benjamin Choate, Paul Hervey,
Warren Waldo and Alice Dorothy. The death of
the first named child in 1884 was a sad event in the
lives of the parents, and not a few of Mr. Shaw's
most pathetic pieces have been composed while
brooding over the memory of the lost one. A brief
specimen of these may not be out of place here :

HE CLIMBS MY KNEE.

■■■'

I can not see him anywhere,
Nor hear his childish singing,

His little prattle here and there,
His silver toy-bell ringing.

Oh, wherefore comes he not to me,

As he was wont, to climb my knee ?

11*

Still sings the bird he bade me hear

With his uplitted finger,
And in onr sn Ighbor's garden near

The flowers he saw still linger ;
Oh, wheiefore comes he not to me
To point at them and climb my knee ?

His blocks lie scattered hereabout,
His horses wait his riding —

Where is he ? — At my back, or out
Beneath my window hiding ?

Oh, wherefore comes he not to me,

As he was wont, to climb my knee ?

■ ' II

RALPH //. SHAW.

121

Ah ! to my higher self he comes

111 moments that are goklcti ;
For sunshine, offered to all homes,

I ath to God beholden ;
My smiling angel-boy I see,
And soft and light, he climbs my knee.

The talented and aecomplished authoress, Lucy
Larcom, to whom these verses were sent before
publication, wrote: *' They are true poetry. They
will touch a chord in many hearts and I think it one
of the things sorrow comes to us for — that we may
draw more closely to other lives to help them." Mr.
Shaw has contributed papers and poems to the New
York Ledger, the Christian Leader, the Cottage
Hearth, the Golden Rule, the Youth's Companion,
Burnsiana, etc. He is an excellent writer of prose
and his contributions are greatly admired and as a
rule preserved. In regard to his poems he says : "I
have been too busy earning a livelihood to devote
much thought or time to making verses. But poetry
to me, if I may use Poe's words, has not been a
purpose but a passion. I have no literary habits,
and I think my best work is that which gave me the
least trouble."

Mr. John G. Whittier's opinion of his work how-
ever, must have been exceedingly gratifying to Mr.
Shaw, *' I am glad to get thy pretty little volume,"
he wrote in 1885: "It gives me the feeling of
broader horizons and mountain presence. I like the
' Poem ' exceedingly, and scattered all through the

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book are fine thoughts and lines. Yet I am sure
that years and patient brooding over thy themes will
enable thee to crowd thy verses with clearer and
deeper meanings. Thy rhythm is veary nearly
perfect, and the feeling, as a painter would say, is
true and genuine, and there is a sweet and delicate
confession of thy love for Nature which promises
much. ' The Seekers ' pleases me, as it expresses so
musically what I have often felt among the hills."
This reference to Mr. Whittier recalls a very beauti-
ful poem in Mr. Shaw's volume, entitled "God Bless
Him." While the gentle poet is not named in it one
can readily see that it is to him that the verses are
addressed :

"GOD BLESS HIM."

Why add a needless tribute ? — yet

As man and poet, one is he.
Life, which is fact, its seal has set

On all his voiced humanity.
He too might say, if self-thought led,
What Milton to Salmasius said ;
But leaves to God, who all has heard and seen,
What concord lies his life and spoken word between.

He lifts a prayer without a claim,

fceeks not his God from man apart, —
His lips are burdened with our name,

Our common need is in his heart
He loves to serve, as best he can,
The holy work which Christ began,
To call the poor benighted from his way.
So vague with shadows, up the sunlit hills of day.

RALPH H. SHAW

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But not alone our human weal

Or human woe is in his song:
There Beauty finds a master leal
And airy Fancy moves along,
While Wordsworth's vestal fire by turns
Has all the native warmth of Burns.
The simplest flower that smiles in greenwood ways,
The simplest brook that sings, is mirrored in his lays.

Clear voice among our lakes and hills !

He sings of nature as of men ;
lie hears with us its airs and rills,

He sees what lies within our ken ;
Interpreting, 'neath moon and sun,
Its bosom unto every one.
We feel the calm where rise our northern pines.
We see the mountain morn and sunset, in his lines,

And oh, how like a sunlit day

Of whitest winter, warm and mild,
Blown through by all the airs that May
Breathes over greening slope and wild,
His old age round about him lies ! —
So seen)s it to the pilgrim's eyes.
" God biOSi" i'.rni !" is the best that love can* say :
And God be tiianked that this is uttered in his day.

Mr. Pi.l<rurd, editor of the 1 r. tland Transcript,
wrote in rjgard to this poem: "The week your ex-
cellent potim addressed to Mr. Whittier was given
out by me for publication I happened to be in Bos^
ton in company v/ith the poet. He seemed to be
much pleased with the fc!.! itou? tribute. It was all
the happier because he w?iS not s\amed, but all his

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friends recognize him in it. and join in your ben-
ediction." As has already been noted, Mr. Shaw s
earliest poetical favorite was Bums, and it is not
surprising that he has attempted a few pieces in the
dialect used by the master-poet. Here is a brief
poem on Burns, one of which the Rev. Dr. Robert
Court, a very learned Scotchman, said: ''Rarely
is my ear satisfied with English or American iniita-
tions of Scotch poetry. Your sweet little poe^a
has not offended me in that respect. The thoui.';hc
is not hackneyed, the versification and rhyming are
correct, and the feeling is true in tone. "

ROBIN.

JANUARY 25, 1759.

"T was then a blast of Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin."

It was na sic an air as blaws
In simmer frae the hills an' haughs ;
A blast o' Janwar wind it was
Blew hansel in on Robin.

I wonder Nature deemed it weel
That he, wha was to lo'e her leal,
Should first her caulder season feel,
Sae wi' it welcomed Robin.

But Nature is past findin' out ;
We seldom ken what she's about ;
That she rejoiced, I dinna doubt.
When first she keek't on Robin.

RALPH H. SUA IV.

125

^^ s

he
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:rt

he
re

He giecl to her the love she sought ;
She led his feet ayont the cot,
An' muckle guid to him she taught :
She shawed her best to Robin.

For him her burnies sweetest sang,
Her wild-wood echoes lightest rang ;
She fostered him her joys amang —
We know them best through Robin.

Nor must we omit to refer to the numerous fine
poems which Mr. Shaw has composed on Indian sub-
jects. Many of these compositions are exceedingly
beautiful and prove that he has a special talent for
thus transforming these interesting legends and
tales into verse. We quote as a specimen *'Gloos-
kap and Summer," of which Mr. Leland, in com-
menting upon the legend upon which the poem is
founded, says :

** It appears to be the completer form of the beau-
tiful allegory of Winter and Spring given in the
Hiawatha Legends as Peboan and Seegvvum. The
struggle between Spring and Winter, Summer and
Winter, or Heat and Cold, represented as incarnate
human or mythic beings, forms the subject of sev-
eral Indian legends."

GIvOOSKAP AND SUMMER.

Worshipped by the Wabanaki

Or the Children of the Light,
Glooskap or the god of nature,

Sought the northland cold and white ;

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And within a wigwam sitting,

Deep in silence and alone,
Found a giant, a great giant,

By the name of Winter known ;
And he listened in the wigwam

To the tales the giant told,
Till his head was bowed in slumber,

Till he yielded to the cold.
•. ii=>.i; he saw in sleeping visions,

: o -e of all the wise men say ; —
Saw he Summer vanquish Winter ?

Make the northland light and gay ?

When he woke he travelled southward —

When with every footstep grew
Winds more soft and skies more tender —

Till the flowers round him blew,
Till, amid the leafy forest.

In the sunny south he found
Summer with her fairies dancing

lyike the falling waters round.
Straight he caught her ; but to keep her

In his bosom from her folk,
By a wile he must deceive them :

Fair he made the words he spoke ;
And he spoke them in retreating.

Backward going, o'er and o'er —
Ah ! her folk, he had escaped them

When they heard his words no more.

Then again he sought the northland
Where old Winter still abode ;

Now with Summer in his bosom,
With her spirit overflowed ;

And was once again made welcome
To the wigwam cold end bare ;

RALPH H. SHAW.

127

For the giant thought he surely

Would again be sleep-bound there.
But he now had sunny Summer

And the cold was all in vain,
And the sweat from Winter's forehead

Fell like drops of April rain,
Till at length the giant melted

And his wigwam r; assed from view.
And around fiovved pleasant rivers

And the green, lush grasses grew.

Did space permit we would like to say a great deal
more in connection with Mr. Shaw and his poems.
The larger and in some respects the best poems in
his book, such as "The Bear Hunt," "Fallen on
Sleep," "The White Arrow," and many others, we
have not touched upon. They are too long for quo-
tation, but in all of them we discern the fine taste
and the exquisite workmanship of a true poet, and
whatever the subject may be, the beauties of nature
are never lost sight of. They are interwoven in the
most delicate manner into each composition, and
they constitute a particular and pleasing feature of
his whole work. Mr. Shaw enjoys the friendship of
many well-known literary people, the Rev. Arthur
John Lockhart, author of " The Masque of Min-
strels," and Dr. Benjamin F. Leggett, author of "A
Sheaf of Song," "A Tramp Through Switzerland,"
etc., being among the number.

And here we may appropriately conclude our
sketch with a tribute of respect to him from another
friend, the venerable journalist and song- writer, Mr.

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Thomas C. Latto, author of "Memorials of Auld
Lang vSyne" and various other important works. A
literary man of high attainments, a noted critic and
an eminent poet, this gentleman is certainly well
qualified to pass judgment on the creations of a
brother bard, and as his opinions on such matters
are known to be unbiased, they are therefore of
great value, and I am truly glad that Mr. vShaw's
poem,: came under his notice and that he rendered
the following verdict on them :

ON READING THE TOEMS OF RALPH H. SHAW.

The pompous minstrel has no charms for me ;

No sympathy have I for turgid strain ;

But pensive feeling ne'er appeals in vain —
And that is thine, calm bard of Ossipee !
Melodious thoughts like Wordsworth's flowing free,

Like Longfellow's resounding as the main,

With Bernard Barton's cadence, that would fain
Throb sweetest soitow to the moaning sea.
Friend ! thou hast compassed more than was designed ;

Thy shrinking nature failing to perceive.
When pouring forth the treasures of thy mind,

The texture of the woof so few could weave.
I joy to mark, in restless, feverish days,

The pure and simple current of thy lays.

High Priest of Nature ne'er thou claim'd to be.
And yet among her worshippers who kneel
In holy fervor, touch'd with Christian zeal,

Thou staudst very near the hierarchy.

Those white-robed acolytes, on bended knee.
The Temple's magic mystery know and feel,
Finding a sacred influence o'er them steal.

RALPH H. SHAW.

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Imparting light that they may clearer see •
As taper after taper sheds its rays

From the high altar, how they glow and bitrn ;
Their souls rapt in an ecstacy of praise

As back to soHtude they mutely turn,
Brooding with pallid face, head meekly bowed,
Till come the time when they must cry aloud.

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REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART.

"PASTOR FELIX."

Among the poets of to-day whose merits are not
so well known to the general public as they deserve
to be, is the Rev. Arthur John Lockhart, ("Pastor
Felix"). Mr. Lockhart is at present a resident of
Hampden Corner, Maine, and is the author of two
handsome volumes of poetry, the one entitled "The
Masque of Minstrels," and the other, " Beside the
Narraguagus and Other Poems." Between the
boards of these two volumes is considerable poetry
of a very high class. Of course, in a brief article
like the present one, it is next to impossible to do
justice, or even point out the many poetic beauties
which are embodied in each volume, and I will there-
fore confine myself principally to the contents of the
earliest of the two, "The Masque of Minstrels," pub-
lished by B. A. Burr, Bangor, Maine, in 1887, and
which contains 361 pages.

There is nothing insignificant or abstruse or un-
poetical in Mr. Lockhart's verse. His themes are
numerous but his subjects are well chosen, and we
become interested and attached to them at once.
His muse is pure, bright, cheerful and inspiring,
while each of his poems, daintily clothed in classical
and musical language, is set before us intelligently,

«fp

REV. AKTHLR JOHN UOCKHAKT.

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REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCK HART.

'31

complete and finished — like a cameo. He possesses
great lyrical sweetness, profound thoiifi;-ht, consid-
erable orijjfinality, sincere tenderness, j^^ood arj^n-
mentive powers, true but jjenial piety, besides a
warm love for fatherland, for nature and all created
thinjjfs.

OpeninjTf his book, almost at bep^inninjj, our eyes
rest on the followinjj delijjhtful lyric embodied in
the poem, "Alice Lee:"

What the star is to the sky,
And the pearl is to the sea,

What the light is to the eye.
And the leaf is to the tree ;

What the joy of niountinjj wings

To the bird that soars and sings,—
Thou art to nie.

Like to halcyon, heavenly calm,
After strife of stormy sea,

Like an hour of ease and balm,
After moan and agony ;

Or the summer's golden glow.
After bursts of wintry snow, —
Thou art to me.

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This is really beautiful and remi I'^^s me of another
sweetly expressed little song, more recently com-
posed, and entitled — *' In the Lodge:'

Softly, my baby !
Nest thee, my blossom
On mother's warm bosom :
Of dewiest slumber thou sippest thy fill.

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Still dimmer and dimmer the ashy coals glimmer, —

The lodge is in gloom ;
How balmy the breath qf the forest in bloom !
The owl is hooting afar on the hill,
And deep in the glade sings the brown whippoorwill ;

The star doth incline to the tip of yon pine ;
The moon is just rising, the aspen is still.
O sweet, mother-blossom, lie still on my bosom !
Sleep softly, my baby !

These sonnets may be appropriately introduced
here as illustrations of the easy and ji^raceful manner
in which Mr. Lockhart can compress many rare
thoun^hts into little space :

SUNSET ON THE NARRAGUAGUS.

Not the attire of kings when crowns are set

'Mid coronation splendors, have such sheen

As now in these November skies are seen, —

Where late the day in his fire-chariot

Rode down the western hills, that lighten yet !

Twilight her tent of purple and of gold

Pitches on yon dark crag, and manifold

Dapples the river where its waters fret

Past the low bank in leafless quietude.

The new moon haloes soft her crystal sphere ;

Glassed 'mid the shadow'd trees she beauteous lies :

Such glory comes to gild, such peace to brood.

Changing to gold and pearl the dark'ning year, —

The nunith of wailing winds and shadowy skies !

SiNOW IN OCTOBER.

Ah, soon the glistering glory shall appear
In billowy ridges by the fenced fields ;

,,,*, »:„

REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCK 1 1 ART.

f33

And the dark firs, like Parian pyramids,

Shall shonlder their white masses thro' the woods,

The pines and larches wail amid the cold.

The birch emboss her silver coat with ice,

The gaunt elm shout and wrestle with the wind ;

For where the Indian sannner lingered long,

With the sweet essence of distilled light,

And sweet'ning breath that sighing nature gives ;

Where falling leaves are scattered, lying hid

In withered heaps beneath the (leecy drift.

Of forest spoils the beechen shrub alone

Holds fast its rustling leaves of paly gold.

HAMPDEN.

Jur.Y 4.

Aloof the village stands, bosom'd in trees ;
Penobscot rolls his sunbright wave below ;
There plies the steamer ; there the vessels go.
With white sails swelling in the fresh' ning breeze.

How sweet these airs that bl jv from blossomy leas !

How sweet the sound of boaiman's dipping oar

By Orrington's sequester' d, sylvan shore, —

And all the river's lights and melodies !
Hark ! 'tis the sound of mirth ! where youthful bands,

With many a note vociferous, move along !

There floats yon storied banner, that commands
The patriot's deepest love, his loudest song !

The bells are glad, and every heart is gay.

To usher in a Nation's natal day.

These sonnets also demonstrate that Mr. Lock-
hart's descriptive powers are exceedingly keen and
alert. He describes what he sees and feels and

\t 11

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W CLlJSTKh' OF jv/r/x

thinks in a JL»;r.iphic and pleasing style, and the mind
experiences no wearysome sensation in readinjj^ of
his coniniitnini;s with nature. The following is a
lon,v;er and fuller specimen of his powers in this
connection :

It ' f:

] ;

I :|

t.^i

NARRAtUIAGUvS.

The sun is sot ; an amber mist

I'ills all the vale ;
The lapsing river, glory-kist,
Is j{ol(l, and pearl, and amethyst.
Where on its mirror breast the beaded bubbles sail.

Lo ! from this russet hill I gaze

On such a scene
As i)oets k)ve to paint and prai.«e !
While sunset's blazon overpays
My heart, with evening's balm and splendor so serene.

The dark trees stand in nnked grace ;

And the green marge
Is softened on the river's face,
With flakes of fiery cloud. I trace
It's flow where you dark hill casts down its shadow large.

I see where o'er the dam it goes

In music down ;
And, sparkling, breaks its sheen repose,
Where under yon red bridge it flows,
Atid lu.ikes, by winding banks, its circuit through the town.

Down-sent from foresit-lakes, begemmed
With islets small ;

REV. ANTIIUR JOHN LOCKIIART.

'35

Hero, si)re(ulin;^ wide, tlieri', closely heiiinied ;
With eve's soft jrU)ries difuleiuM,
Till in the welcoiiiinji^ sea ifs lover-waters fall.

By mill, and mart, and home, and where,

'Mid darklinj^ fnrze
Whit ) stones out-gleam, (the dead are there)
And by the hallowed place of prayer.
Aiding with constant song the hymning worshipers.

Ill:

In immelodions monotone

The mills I hear ;
The rattling gear, the waters* drone,
Tiiu shrieking saws ; while, — duskier grown
The eve, — I see aloft a fiery shaft uprear ; —

A luminous, sparkling colunni, eurl'd

Above the trees :
It's ever-bright'ning folds unfnrl'd,
As gentle shadows wrap the world.
While still my ear drinks in the river's melodies.

All burdens fall away, — my heart

Again is free ;
Time's paly haggard ghosts depart.
Blest be the hour ! 'Tis more than Art,
This grandeur and this calm of earth, and air and sea !

In this wide world of dream I yield

Myself to you,
Spirit seiene of flood and field !
No sweeter harvest, Time can yield,
Than I have reaped 'neath stars, and 'mid the falling dew.

136

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Sing on, O river, while I still

Can sit to hear !
Ah ! sooH, npon this lonely hill,
Some other eye and heart shall fill
With rapture and with tears to list tli'e singing near.

Sing oji, O river ! I am glad

That, though I fail
From this sweet scene to wander where
I'ar other woods and streams are fair,
Thou wilt remain to chant the music of thy vale.

I've loved thee well, thou thing of light

And melody !
Ah, Narraguagus ! when a night
All starless, wraps me from thy sight,
And other lovers come, wilt thou remember me ?

The "Masque of Minstrels" contains twenty-five
poems, and the remaining one himdred and three
poems comprised in the volume are classified under
the heading of, ''Moods and Fantasies," " vSongs of
Memory and Home," and "Songs of Aspiration and
Endeavor." It is well that these poems have been
published in this permanent form. We have not
met with so fine a collection of poetry for many a
day as is here presented to us, and we confidently
predict that Mr. Lockhart will ultimately attain both
distinction and honor as ai). American poet. He
certainly has imagination and power and talent
enough to warrant this prediction. Many of his
longer poems are magnificent creations, f till of choice
expressions, lofty ideas and brilliant metaphors. As

REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCK HART.

137

usual, however, with such ]ioems, they require to be
read through before they can be thoroughly appreci-
ated, and it would occupy too much space were we
to attempt to reprint any of them here. One of
them, entitled '*The Isle of Song," is a poetic dream
of an island on which the poets were assembled.

if. He iK *tc

The cherub winds blew down, and in delight
Toyed with the wave-tips white ;
And h.'ippy singing maids, hand link'd in hand,
Danced o'er tracts of snowy-golden sand.

Infinite pearls of shadow, lay the shells
Where wove the sea its spells ;
And the Jihy nymphs tossed up their shining hair,
And the sun glimmered on their shoulders bare.

Tall pines were overhung, and fringed palms
Where soft the sea sung psalms ;
And from each dell the scented inland air
Bore breath of opening blossoms everywhere.

« % 4< «

And when the moon was silverly revealed

In her ambrosial field,

Down to the shore, with harps no longer dumb,

Fearless of death I saw the poets come.

A wondrous Genius led them, and impelled,
Who, when their songs excelled,
Plucked the fresh laurel for the victor's wreath
And showed the fame that cometh after death.

'^^■m

138

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

il3

i- r

There was the poet "who sang the Acadian Maid,"
and the reverend form of him

Who in sweet Roslyn marked the flight of years.

With them "were the"* sons of ages gone," and also
the daughters, and the humbler poets,

Sappho swart, and she —
Britain's white rose, beloved of Italy.

There were "Etruria's bard," and "they who
chanted Israel's lore sublime,* and " they of Hellas
and the Mantuan Plain."

Ii^

Homer had his clear song and vision bright,
Nor Milton's orbs must roll to find the light.

There was Shakespeare, of "the serene and spa-
cious brow," and the wrapt evangelist [John]

But when I saw my earliest love draw near,
And heard his song sincere

Who charmed sweet Doon, and did his cadence suit
To sylvan Coila's step and woodland flute ; —

While Rydal raised his gravely reverend face
To Shelley's child-hued grace ;
And he whose dust 'neath Latlum's violetj lies,
Lifted to me his soul in languorous eyes ; —

« « « «

With tears, 1 1 cached to them my hands, and crie 1 :
"Let me not be denied !

REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCK HART.

^39

Take me to be with you, ye much-loved throng !
Life is too lonely for the child of song.

Forlorn, companionless, in dread and dearth,

And weary of the earth,

Bid me to your serene, immortal shore.

Where hearts faint not, nor song is hindered more.

They beckoned him, and he essayed to come, but
before his barge pressed keel upon its margin,

Melted their isle like snow ; alone I lay ;
And lo ! it was the breaking of the day.

Another very fine poem is the one entitled, ** In
Camp Hill Cemetery. " This is principally a glow-
ing eulogy in commemoration of the Canadian poet
and patriot, Joseph Howe. It concludes as follows:

Death, the pale scribe, hath a celestial grace ;

For when the gifted and noble die
She smiling turns her oft-averted face.

To write their consecrated names on high.

Then cometh Fame ! Her lifted fertures shine !

Her measuring arm advanced amid the spheres,
Throughout the earth she runs her glorious line.

And seeks to compass the eternal years.

Let her record his works and powers sublime,
His aims and wishes, to his country given :

He dwells secure ; his name belongs to Time,
His sonl to God, his record unto Heaven.

. -Ji

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ti;

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Draw softly near, — he sleeps, our Patriot-bard,
Where God's dew falls and fresh his green grass keeps!

Draw near, and drop a tear of proud regard
On this autumnal turf 'neath which he sleeps !

Then bid some fairer monument arise ;

So shall our grateful sous his honors know.
So shall their hearts aspire, so shall they prize

Th' illustrious dead to whom so much they owe.

And bid this spot to flush with crowding flowers,
That round him creep and climb with hastening bloom

Before the weeping spring's memorial showers.
To breathe and brighten o'er their Poet's tomb.

So bid his memory live, his fair fame grow.
While sweetly wakes on the Acadian lea

Our country's emblem, pearly from the snow,
Or our fair city overlooks the sea.

I rose, and pluck'd a leaf to bear away.
For now I marked my comrade's slow return :

Softly, successive of the sunset ray.
Eve's lucent splendor had begun to burn.

With tone subdued, in converse of the dead.
The way we took to our Acadian town, —

Passed the green slope with hesitating tread.
And from the citadel went slowly down.

As a specimen of the delicate manner in which
Mr. Lockhart weaves his thoughts into verse, we
quote **The Waters of Carr." Here we have a poem
of great beauty, simple in detail, charming in con-
ception, full of feeling and pathos and eloquence,
the work of an enthusiast.

REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART.

lit

THE WATERS OF CARR.

O do you hear the merry waters falling,

In the mossy woods of Carr ?
O do you hear the child's voice calling, calling,
Through its cloistral deeps afar ?
'Tis the Indian's babe, they say,
Fairy-stolen, changed a fay ;
And still I hear her calling, calling, calling.
In the mossy woods of Carr !

O do you hear when the weary world is sleeping,

Dim and drowsy every star.
This little one her happy revels keeping
In her halls of shining spar ?
Clearer swells her voice of glee.
While the liquid echoes flee,
And the full moon through deep green leaves comes peeping.
In the dim -lit woods of Carr.

Know ye from her wigwam how they drew her.

Wanton-willing, far away ;
Made the wild- wood halls seem home unto her,—
Changed her to a laughing fay ?
Never doth her bosom burn.
Never asks she to return ; —
Ah, vainly care and sorrow may pursue her,
Laughing, singing, all the day!

And often, when the golden west is burning,

Ere the twilight's earliest star,
Comes her mother led by mortal yearning.
Where the haunted forests are ; —
Listens to the rapture wild
Of her vanished fairy child :
Ah, see her soon with smiles and tears returning
FVom the sunset woods of Carr !

142

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

1. , t

They feed her with the amber dew and honey,

They bathe her in the crystal spring,
They set her down in open spaces sunny,
And weave her an enchanted ring ;
They will not let her beauty die, —
Her innocence and purity ;
They sweeten her fair brow with kisses many.
And ever round her dance and sing.

O do you hear the merry waters falling,

In the mossy woods of Carr ?
O do you hear the child's voice laughing, calling,
Through its cloistral deeps afar ?
Never thrill of plaintive pain
Mfngles with that ceaseless strain : —
But still I hear her joyous calling, calling,
In the morning woods of Carr.

Mr. Lockhart was born on the fifth of May, 1850,
in a small village some few miles distant from Hants-
port, on the uplands overlooking the Avon and the
Basin Minas. Canada. His father, Albert Lockhart,
was for many years a master mariner, and his mother,
Elizabeth Bezanson, was of Huguenot descent, her
ancestry having emigrated to America in times of
persecution. "I had such education," writes Mr.
Lockhart, ' * as books and a common school afforded.
The books that nourished me earliest were, the Bible,
an old dark-covered hymn-book-looking edition of
Currie's Bums, a pocket edition of Gray and one of
Goldsmith. By these my tastes in poetry were
formed, and they hold still the perfect charm. Later
came Byron, Shakespeare, Milton, and the rest. I

REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCK HART. 143

began to rhyme early, did so in fact in school on my
slate when I should have ciphered. I loved figures
of speech, and hated numerals. They convey little
to me, even to-day. At the age of four I received an
injury to my left foot, and was through childhood a
cripple and partial invalid, never sharing in rough
play or athletics, but fond of roving in fields and by
brooks, brooding by the way." His birth place held
many charms for him, and it is affectionately referred
toinhispoems "Acadie," '* The Alien's Message,"
*' To my Father," *' By Avonside," and "Gaspereau."
"The last named poem," writes W. G. Macfarlane in
the Dominio7i Illustrated, " is the offspring as much of
the scene it describes as of the poet who wrote it."

"Any one w^ho has been privileged to see the
Gaspereau valley, one of the prettiest pictures of
quiet, graceful, rural beauties imaginable, will see
at once that the poem is full of the inspiration of
the place. Imagine your.self on a point of vantage,
the bend of a road, crossing a span of South
Mountain to Gaspereau village. You are on the
summit of a hill overlooking the valley. Before you
lies its whole length of about ten miles, with a mile
of breadth. Through its centre flows the narrow
Gaspereau stream, at times foaming over rocks and
again rushing along in an unripplcd rapid, while the
luxuriant willows that fringe the banks cast their
perfect reflection into the water. On its edge is a
small mill, looking in the distance like a toy house,
while it is crossed b}^ a rustic bridge. »SuiTounding

ii!-

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144

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

the bridge is a little hamlet with a pretty church,
and along the side of the valley are prosperous, well-
kept farms, with smiling orchards and grain fields
and dotted with patches of spruce and fir. The
valley seems to be shut in by the hills at both ends,
and at its lowest extremity the stream broadens into
what appears to be a lake, a fancy that renders the
picture the more romantic. In reality, though, it is
an estuary of the stream that empties into the Basin
of Minas, at Grand Prd flats, and just beyond the
reach of vision is where, over a century since, the
English vessels were moored when the memorable
expulsion took place." In Lockhart's poem the whole
peaceful scene is reflected. Some of the stanzas are
as follows:

O sweet Acadian vale ! with thee

My earlier, happier, years were passed ! —
The day of blest security,

The peaceful hours, too bright to last, —
When on thy hills I sang in joy,

And traced thy brook and river's flow ;
Hast thou forgot thy minstrel boy,

O much-loved vale of Gaspereau ?

Oft memory on the track returns

By which my life the earliest came ;
And Fancy many a scene discerns,

And lists to many a magic name ;
Then do thy woods and streams appear,

With paths my wandering feet did know,
And all thy music meets my ear,

O winding vale of Gaspereau !

REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCK HART. 145

How oft, from yon hill's dark'uing brow

Where twinkles first the evening star,
I've watched the village windov.-s glow

At sundown in the vale afar ;
Or, from the shadowy bridge leaned o'er

The river's glinnnering darks below, —
Breathed freshness of the sylvan shore.

And heard the songs of long ago !

'Twas here, of old, a people dwelt,

Whose loves and woes the poet sings ;
The beauty of the scene they felt,

When, 'mid the golden evenings,
They set the willows, lush and green,

Now gnarled in their fantastic age.
That with their blacken'd, broken mein,

Still stand — the blackbird's hermitage.

Secluded in this calm retreat,

They tilled the soil and reared the home ;
Nor dreamed to an abode so sweet

The lordly spoiler e'er could come :
For them the corn, green-waving, grew.

Studded with many a yellowing gem ;
Round them the doves and swallows flew.

And coo'd and twitter'd love for them.

In 187 1 Mr. Lockhart entered the Methodist min-
istry and was stationed at Pembroke Iron Works.
He was subsequently stationed at Lubcc, East
Machias, Orrington, East Corinth, Cherryfield, and
lastly at Hampden Corner, Maine. In 1873 he was
united in marriage to Miss Adelaide Beckerton, a
well educated and highly accomplished yoimg lady.

146

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

She is a helpful, affectionate woman, who warmly
reciprocated the love of a noble husband. Her
virtues and goodness of heart have called forth many
effusions of a tender nature, and we reprint one of
these here as a token of esteem to a lady who pos-
sesses all the requirements which make her sex be-
loved, honored and admired :

i'7

■r

TO MY WIFE.

welcome is the moment
When, now released from care,

1 watch the low decending sun
That goldens all the air !

happy is the evening,
If dark or bright it be,

That sees the hours of labor close
And brings my love to me.

Come near, my own, my darlinjj !

That I thy face may see,
And tinge my sober-suited thought

With thy smile of sunshine fice :
To me thou'rt fair as the dawning,

And sweet as the sweet dew-fall ;
Thou art leal and true to thy chosen few.

Thou art frank and kind to all.

1 mind me well, my darling !
When love first breathed tl le.

The blush, than speech more luent.

That in living answer came ;
'Twas a path obscure a iid lowly

Thou k newest mine must be ;
But I bless kind Heaven, whose love hath given

One lot to thee and me !

REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCK HART.

'i?

'Tis a dreamy life, my darling !

That thou hast come to share ;
Do the deeps atid dells of Fairyland

Seem for thee too faint and rare ?
Yet, with all of heaven-horn nmsic

And of whitest poesie,
Life's crowning bliss my heart might miss

If it were not for thee,

And who are these, my darling !

That round thee closely cling.
As round some pearly-crested rose

The beauty-bxids of spring ?
Our hearts leap high with rapture

As our babe leaps in his joy,
And a pure delight is our lassie bright

And our laughter-loving boy !

So beautiful, my darling !

Our lowly life's decline ;
And softly round our parting hour

The lights of evening shine :
One life, with faith unbroken.

One love, from falsehood free.
And, by God's grace, in a holier place,

One Heaven for thee and me.

Presided over by Mrs. Lockhart, our author's
home and its surroundings are happy and peaceful,
everything being congenial to his religious and poetic
tastes. They have four sons and three daughters.
The eldest, Edith is a teacher in Central St. School,
Springfield, Mass. James, the next, is a graduate
from the Cherryfield High vSchool ; Albert and Alton
are studious, and yet live, active boys; Mary and

m:^ :|

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/^S

A CFALSTER OF IVETS.

Grace have just left the kindergarten, and Ralph
Harold has just entered it. The cottage in which
they resided while at Cherryfleld, was a pretty little
place, nestling in a setting of willows, acacias, horse
chestnuts, elms, lilacs, sweet-briar and hop-vines,
l^elovv flowed the Narraguagus river ; and behind
was a little thicket, the poet's rustic retreat, which
he apostropbiz^ed as follows:

MY SYLVAN STUDY.

This is tny oratory : studious, oft

I conic, nt inorn, at eve, to this retreat :

Wild is the bower, and ancieiit is the seat ; —

My chair, a rock, with grass and mosses soft

Fringed and enamelled. In a neighboring croft

My children sport, not far from my own door,

Searching (Hit leaves and flowers, — a beauteons store.

The blackbirds chatter sociably aloft ;

Round me grouped silvery birches, thorns full flushed

With milky blossoms ; on my open page

Lie shadowy leaves, jewelled in golden light :

— And hark ! a voice, whose music straight is hushed !

Quick jjattering steps my partial ear engage.

And little Golden Hair buighs on my sight !

Mr. Lockhart is an active worker from morning
till evening, church work, educational work, and
literary work, keeping him busy all the time. He is
a contributor to the Dominion Illustrated, Week, Can-
adian Monthly, Maritime Monthly, St. John Telegraph,
St. John Progress, Methodist Magazine, The Land Wc
Live In, Caiiada, and other leading Canadian journals,

NEV, ARTHUR JOHN LOCK HART.

//9

and to the Magazine of Poetry^ Portland Transcript,
Eastern State, Zion's Herald and other journals of the
United States. He has written a series of prose
articles under the nom de plume of " Pastor Felix,"
and the general titles of '* Heart on the Sleeve " and
** Red and Blue Pencil" to the Portland Transcript
and Dominion Illustrated. He has also appeared in
such works as Lighthall's "Songs of the Great Do-
minion," "The Poets of Maine," " Round Burns'
Grave," "Burnsiana," "Highland Mary," "The
Burns Scrap Book," etc.

The poetical powers of Mr. Lockhart are shown to
great advantage in his various religious musings. In
them we find many chaste and useful thoughts care-
fully studied out, while a spirit of faith, hope, charity
and love, with a sacred feeling of the highest kind
predominates throughout all of them. The follow-
ing appeared in the Optimist, a little religious
monthly once published at Cherryfield by our author
and the Rev. Gilbert Edgett:

THE WILLING WORKER.

Ricbly the grapes in Thy vineyard, O Lord !

Hang in their clusters of purple delight :
I have attended the call of Thy Word,

Working for Thee since the dawning of light
Sweetly the sunset gleams over the lea ;

Yet I'm not weary of working for Thee !

Ripe are the fruits in Thy garden, O Lord !
Fair are the flowers Thou lovest to twine ;
Master ! no labor, no pains I have spared, —

I.;

• [•• ;. .'I

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/50

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Long have I wrought in this garden of Thine :
Many the vStars that in Heaven I see ;
Yet I'm not weary of working for Thee !

Deep wave Thy harvests in acres untold ;

Gladly I reaped in the heat of the day ;
Now the moon rises in fulness of gold ;

Slowly the reapers are moving a..vay ;
Wide is the plain, and not many are we,

Yet I'm not weary of working for Thee !

Dim grow mine eyes 'mid the fast fading light ;

Falters the heart from the toilsome constraint ;
Scant on my forehead my locks h.ave grown white, —

Lord ! 'tis the body is weary and faint !
Finished the task thou hast given to me ;

Yet I'm not weary of working for Thee !

Two more brief quotations and I will close. The
following speak for themselves:

TO THE AUTHOR OF "SCOTTISH POETS IN

AMERICA."

They are not born in vain who live to bless

And solace others ; who, while others strive

Out of the spoils of men to grow and thrive,

Abjure the meed of wrong or selfishnesss.

He does not live in vain who maketh less

The sum of human sorrow ; who inspires

Hope in the breast, and kindles love's sweet fires ;

Whose charity relieves a friend's distress.

Long ma\' he live, to whom is ever dear

A brother's fame ; whose eye can recognize,

Whose pen proclaim, the merit that he sees ;

Who, with his books and friends holds gentle cheer ;

And whom a poet's song or maxim wise

Can never fail to interest and please.

REV. ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART.

151

PASTOR FKLIX TO HENRY W. HOPE.

While winter winds may shrilly blow,
The Highland hills are draped in snow,
And Paint's fair waters drumlie flow.

Or ice-bound grope ;
But spring's soft zephyrs echoing go,
Inspiring Hope.

When Highland hills are flowering seen.
And Highland woods are robed in green,
And Paint's clear waters glittering sheen,

Shall be released.
You, Hope, with "scallopshell," I ween,

May travel east.

Mayhap Quebec, or wild Brasd'orr,

Chebucto, Tusket, or Jeddore,

May win, — their beauties to explore, —

Your pilgrim feet ;
Or e'en Penobscot's bluffy shore

Your eyes may greet.

Then let us know before you come,
That you may find " the folk to hum ;"
We'll walk and talk, and chirp and chum,

Beyond a doubt ;
And — vocal day, or midnight dumb —

" The latch-string's out."

With these few critical remarks, and quotations
from the writings of Mr. Lockhart, we conclude our
sketch. He has just entered on the prime of man-
hood and we shall be greatly disappointed if he does
not give even a better account of his poetic talents
in years to come than he has already given.

GEORGE MARTIN.

, if i.i

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Ireland has been liberal in her contribution of
manhood to America. Like Scotland, she has many-
singers, and not a few of them have come to our
shores and made us richer with the pathos and
sweetness of their songs. Leaving out of the ques-
tion the Ryans, O'Reilleys and Roches, who have
found a home in the United States, Canada rejoices
in her goodly number. She will never forget that
Erin gave to her Thomas D'Arcy McGee, whose
speeches and songs were the emanations of a rich
and noble life. She will not forget that from the
same shore she has drawn such liberal and accom-
plished scholars as John Reade and Nicholas Flood
Davin, memorable also as poets; and that from
Innisfail she has one of her truest masters of roman-
tic verse, — George Martin.

His name was early associated with that of the
dramatic poet, Charles Heavysege. It was the
privilege of our genial and generous author to be
the friend and benefactor of that austerely beautiful
select spirit, who walked among us unrecognized;
it was his to depict him in his own verse, as one
who bore the burden of song, and who had attained
to something like prophetic strain. Martin de-
scribes him :

GEORGE MARTIN.

^53

Child-like, modest, reticent,
With head in meditation bent.
He walked our streets! — and no one knew
That something of celestial hue
Had passed along; a toil-worn man
Was seen, no more; the fire that ran
Electric through his veins, and wrought
Sublimity of soul and thought,
And kindled into song, no eye
Beheld, until a foreign sky
Reflected back the wondrous light.
And heralded the poet's might.

When the existence of such devotion is questioned,
let it be remembered how truly he was a friend, and
gave the livliest proof of manly sympathy and disin-
terested esteem. For, let it be said, to his praise,
that when the writer of " Saul" would publish the
Boston edition of his drama, and was financially
unable, our poet came forth with a fund reserved
for a similar purpose, and at the sacrifice of his own
ambitions, thought to giwQ his brother a triumph.
Mr. Lighthall, in his Canadian anthology, speaks of
this money as a loan, and says: *' ' Saul' turned out
a financial loss," and that on the day when Heavy-
sege's note fell due, " Martin took it in his b'nd and
tore it to pieces." Thus, doubtless, it occurred that
not till 1887 did his own volume, "Marguerite; or
The Isle of Demons, and Other Poems," appear from
the house of Dawson Bros., Montreal; though, as
one writer has intimated, distrust of his own merits
tmd true reverence for the poetic art — which he

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rather longed than expected to magnify — may have
contributed to the delay.

Hon. Charles H. Collins, Hillsboro, Ohio, thus
writes of our author: "Mr. Martin is thoroughly
knov'ii to the Canadians, who have been lovers of
his pOv^try for more than a generation. In Rev. Dr.
Dewart's collection of 1864, some notable poems of
Mr. Martin appeared. He still lives, an honored
citizen of the largest city in Canada. He was born
in 1822, near Kilrea, in the County Derry, Ireland;
so is now seventy-four years of age, and hale, vigor-
ous and genial, after years of active and very suc-
cessful business life. For a long time previous to
Dr. Dewart's collection, Mr. Martin had, as business
avocations permitted, written much in prose and
verse for the Montreal press. Mr. John Reade —
himself a scholar and literateur of prominence —
states that Mr. Martin's verse always attracted
attention for its characteristic vigor and charm —
the vigor of a strongly-marked individuality, at once
deep and broad, and the charm of thoughts that
voluntarily move in harmonious numbers. While
still a boy in the north of Ireland, Mr. Martin first
discovered that he was gifted with the muse's power.
Mr. Reade in his article in The Magazine of Poetry,
gives an appreciative sketch of Mr. Martin; it is
brief but generous in its scope. ''He is of Ulster
stock, which is more vScottish than Irish, and to
which Burns speaks a language more intelligible
than that of Moore or Davis or Mangan." When ten

GEORGE MARTIN.

'55

years of age, Mr. Martin came with his family to a
b^sh farm in Upper Canada. Life in the t^ush did
not suit him ; it afforded no opportunity for develop-
ment, and the poet crossed over the border into the
United States. After prospecting the territory he
entered the Black River Institute, at Watertown,
N. Y. Mr. Read e says: *'With what assiduity the
youiig aspirant gave himself to his studies those who
have the privilege of his acquaintance need not be
told. He learned the rare art of thinking for him-
self, without which the taste for promiscuous reading
is more a drawback than an advantage." Mr. Reade
traces his career as a physician, which he abandoned
for photography, devoting himself to that fascinat-
ing art for more than thirty years. Mr. Martin
went to Montreal in 1852, and has resided there ever
since. His skill, diligence and genial manners
brought him patronage and generous returns for his
industry. He had a family to provide for, and he
by no means deemed it prudent to make what Wil-
liam Cullen Bryant calls *'the poet's vow of poverty."
In 1866 he engaged in mercantile pursuits, and was
eminently successful. His sons have succeeded him
in his earlier business, which (partly under his direc-
tion) has undergone great enlargement. Mr. Reade,
in his conclusion says: '*If Mr. Martin has been
prosperous in his undertakings, he has been still
more blessed in his home. He has the priceless
boon of a devoted and accomplished wife ; and if he
has not escaped the ills that flesh is heir to, he has,

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A ciJJSTEk' OF /v/rrs.

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in sons that venerate him and grand-children that he
adores, (of whom Georgie and Ethel are not nn-
known to fame) a companionship that never dies."
Mr. Reade's sketch was published in 1891. May we
hope that all the pleasant conditions he speaks of
still continue. If ever man deserves happiness
George Martin does, and he is justly honored by his
fellow citizens for himself alone, and not for bor-
rowed glory. As citizen, business man, father and
friend.

None know him but to love him,
Or name him but to praise."

What Mr. Martin thinks of the poet's life and art
may be drawn from two stnnzas of a poem addressed
to Georgie, his grandson :

If Parnassian blooms invite thee

Up the sacred mount to climb,
Think, before its lightnings smite thee,

What the honeycombs of rhyme
Cost the builders; — save a few
Weeping willow and the yew,

Restful Silence, Bride of Time,
Are the only signs that tell
Where the baffled singees fell,

Broken-hearted ere their prime.

Yet, if from the circling heaven

Mystic voices call thee hence —
Call, and whisper morn and even,

Captivating soul and sense,
Hearken gladly, hark and trust.

CEORGE MARTIN.

157

To thy hij^hcr self be just;

See thou offer no oneucc
To the linked harmonic powers
'Hiat pervade this world of ours,

Rhythmic, passionate, intense.

It may justly be said that he has been faithful to
his hij^h vocation, and has done *'the linked har-
monic powers" no wronjif.

BOOKS.

In books I find companionship, they are

My household gods, and naught shall wholly bar

Their voices from me ; from their precious pages

I quaff the immortality of ages.

They are the spirits of the dead, not dumb;

From ancient tombs and monuments they come

To hold communion with the living ; they.

While nations perish and the world grows gray,

Their regal power and pristine beauty keep.

Despite the havoc, nnd inglorious sleep

Of centuries that bore a crimson hue, —

Despite the flames which they have travelled through,

Unscathed they hold their sceptres, meek they Ixiar

These royal dignities ; — like light and air

They enter, silver-shod, the humblest door,

And breathe their benedictions on the poor.

Ye avatars, true saviors of the world.

Round whom the hopes of wisest souls are curled.

Be mine through life, in pain, or pleasure, mine !

If near me still your pleasant faces shine.

The skies may lower — upon my thorny path

The heavens may pour their cataracts of wrath ;

I need not falter, need not hold my breath.

Nor tremble at the menaces of Death.

sis;!

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

ETHEL.

Little sky- waif, come astray
Twice twelve months ago to-day !
What a world of joy is thine !
What a glow of summer shine
Cheers the house wherein thou art,
Sly magician of the heart !

In those large, those azure eyes.
All the splendor of the skies,
All the beauty that belongs
To the poet's sweetest songs,
All the wisdom known and lost
That the wisest sage could boast,
Beam and lure and half reveal
Secrets that the gods conceal.

See those ringlets all unshorn
That her pretty neck adorn ; —
Golden hues and silken gloss
On the charmed air they toss
Sun- gleams in a starry spray. —
Dearest little laughing fay !

See her tiny feet beat time,
In an ecstacy of rhyme.
To the pearly notes that win
From the speaking violin.
See her fingers, dimpled, white,
Mimic with a grave delight
Those that wonderingly she sees
Race along the ivory keys.

Hear her prattle, indistinct ; —
Much we guess at, still we think

GEORGE MARTIN.

'59

K may be some long lost speech
That she fondly strives to teach —
Language known to airy things,
It may chance, whose spirit wings
In a merry mischief keep
lyittle human elves from sleep.

Ask her father, ask her mother,
They will vouch there is no other, —
Never was on land or sea
Such a charming girl as she.
Surely they who know her best
Must the simple truth attest ;
But if further proof you seek.
Let her solemn grandpa speak. —
He a mightj oath will swear.
By the silver in his hair !
By his sober-sided muse !
All good people needs must choose
Make confession, that for grace.
Loveliness of form and face.
Ways so simple, yet so wise,
Large-eyed Ethel takes the prize.

A GREETING.

TO PASTOR FEI,IX.

How spins this old planet with you.

Pastor Felix ?
Is anything going askew.

Pastor Felix ?
Is your muse waxing cold ?
Does she flout you, or scold ?
Have a care, over there, what you do.

Pastor Felix !

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Stand off on your dignity, stand,

Pastor Felix,
lyike a prince that is used to command,

Pastor Felix !
And the damsel, don't doubt,
Will soon cease to flout,
And stretch you her glorious hand,

Pastor Felix.

Grim Pinch-nose is now well nigh gone,

Pastor Felix ;
His daughter will greet us anon.

Pastor Felix ;
With a song of the South
In his passionate mouth,
The robin will wake us at dawn,

Pastor Felix.

Then let us make haste to forget.

Pastor Felix,
The dolorous days of regret.

Pastor Felix ;
For sunshine and bloom
Will unravel the gloom
That has compassed our soul like a net.

Pastor Felix !

Your hand ! and a kindly adieu.

Pastor Felix ;
My thoughts they are often of you.

Pastor Felix !
Could we meet face to face,
We would surely embrace.
As brothers long parted might do,

Pastor Felix !

GEORGE MARTIN.

/6r

KEATS.

Full late in life I found thee, glorious Keats !
Some chance-blown verse had visited my ear
And careless eye, once in some sliding year,

Like some fair-plumaged bird one rarely meets.

And when it came that o'er thy page I bent,
A sudden gladness smote upon my blood ; —
Wonder and joy, an aromatic flood,

Distilled from an enchanted firmament.

And on this flood I floated, hours and hours,
Unconscious of the world's perplexing din.
Its blackened crust of misery and sm,

Rocked in a shallop of elysian flowers.

All melodies of earth and heaven are thine.

That one so young such music could rehearse

As swells the undulations of thy ver.se
Is what Hyperion only might define.

The voices of old pines, the lulling song
Of silver-crested waterfalls, the sweep
Of symphonies that swell the booming deep

To thy immortal minstrelsy belong.

Nor less the whispered harmony that falls
Like twilight dews from heaven's starry arch.
For gentle souls that listen to the march

Of airy footfalls in ethereal halls.

Unhappy, happy Keats ! A bitter sweet
Was thy life's dream ; Death grinning at thy heels,
While Fame, before thee, smiled her grand appeals.

Tempting to dizzy heights thy winged feet.

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Methinks thou didst resemble (overbold
May be the fancy !) thy Endyinion —
Now charmed with earth-born beauty, and, anon,

Finding some imperfection in the mould.

He sued a heaven-born splendor to allay
The hunger and the fever i)f his heart ;
And thus to Cynthia he did impart

The fearful secret of his misery.

Oh, had he missed this Hippocrene, and slept
Without fidl measure of the choicest draught
That ever mortal man divinely quaffed,

What depth of bliss the Gods from me had kept !

SCOTLAND.

Old Scotia ! Though they never more
May stand upon thy rugged shore, —
The lofty fame which thou hast won,
The daring deeds thy sons have done,
Thy storied glens, and streams, and heights.
Where heroes fought for freeman's rights.
And stubborn as the will of fate.
Maintained their independent state, —
These feeding still their patriot fire,
Will never let the flame expire ;
And when, beneath a foreign sky,
Some home-nursed trifle meets the eye, —
A simple blue bell from the glen
Where trod the feet of ' Cameron Men,"
Or white-cheeked daisy from the braes
Wiiere Burns exhaled his thrilling lays ; —
A sigh will rise, a tear will start,
And every prompting of the heart
Though half the globe should intervene.

GEORGE MARTIN.

1^3

Will teach them evermore, I ween,
To tr eet and hold their Hallowe'en.

From Hallowe'en In Canada.

UNCLE JOE.

It is pleasing to know that the sage " Uncle Joe"
Has rounded the corner of four score and two :

Your hand, my old friend, closely clasped to the end,
Let the mile stones before us be many or few.

Three decades, at least, since our first social feast.
And never a break in the chain of those years ;

Through sorrow and joy, we have journeyed, old boy !
Drawn closer together by laughter and tears.

Wnat meetings I what talkings ! what loungings and
walkings,
In happiest fellowship, we two have known !
What thought and wha<. feeling, under heaven's blue
ceiling.
Have charmed the fleet seasons that o'er us have flown !

Though the morning and noon, and the sun and the
moon.

Are not all they were in the days that are gone.
No cloud bars the weit, and no demons infest

The twilight whose hush is like that of the dawn.

Thy hand, then, old friend, closely clasped to the end.
While we tread life's declivity, cheerful and brave ; —

Unlike some who think flowing glasses to clink
With Clootie, — then cut him when nearing the grave.

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.

APRIL 7TH. 1868.

There is mourning to-day in the halls of the great,

And homes of the people of lowly estate.

A deed has been done which o'ershadows the heart

With a darkness and horror that will not depart. —

The Poet and Statesman lies cold in his gore,

His eloquent ucceuts will thrill us no more :

No more, with our hearts to all charities strung.

Shall we listen to catch the sweet sound of his tongue.

That tongue, whose enchantment could hold us in thrall,

Will never more gladden the close, crowded hall ;

But the light of his genius will shine o'er the land.

And his fame, like Mount Royal, forever shall stand ;

For his thoughts were the light of our northern sky,

And the soul's spoken melody never can die.

O God ! could no virtue, no pity, restrain

The wretch who has sown such a harvest of pain ?

What though on the scaffold he die for the deed

That causes fotui hearts, like his victim, to bleed ?

A million such lives no atonement can make

P'or the star that is quenched, for the sorrows that shake

Our trust in the highest and holiest plan,

Our faith in the ultimate goodness of man.

FI^ORATv TEXTS FROM PASTOR FELIX.

ON RECEIVING FROM HIM SOME

SPRAYS OF SWEET BRIAR

OUT OF MAINE.

Sweet briar and delicious rose,

Wild rose of Maine,

W hose crushed hearts still retain

The perfumed breath that Nature's love bestows,

GEORC^ MARTIN.

I prize you for the sake of him

Whose fingers pressed
And tenderly caressed

Your beauty, ere it languished and grew dim.

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11.

II-
Wild rose and briar sweet,

Not long ago

You wantoned in the glow
Of sun and breeze, and listened to the beat
Of your own hearts — a note of joy :

The gypsy bee

Took from your virgin lips his fee
For service done in Flora's chaste employ.

III.

Fair exiles ! here beneath my roof

Take rest, and take

My pity for your own dear sake ;
Ah ! spare your host your eloquent reproof,
Your dumb, pathetic questioning why,

For what offense.

On what unjust pretense.
He doomed you in a foreign laud to die.

IV.

lyisten, O honored guests, I pray !

The kindly bard,

High-seated in the world's regard.
But meant by your soft breathings to convey
A sense of truer song than any muse

Has ever sung.

Than any mortal tongue
Has ever written,— could he wiser choose ?

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Not poets only were you born,

But in you dwell

The fearless souls of Bruce and Tell,
Breathing on tyrant heads defiant scorn.
All tlxis, and more than this, my friend —

A Druid wise

Made bold to symbolize
By those untutored charms that in you blend.

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"A gracious argument, we grant,"

The flowers sighed,

Then added, with a touch of pride,
" Our wasted bosoms thrill again and pant.
For we have hope that in your lay

We still shall live,

And therefore we forgive
The hand that wrought us premature decay."

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HUNTI'.R MAC CrLLOCII,

HUNTER MacCULLOCH.

BEFORE I GO.

Before I go with thee, O beckoning death !
Let me more deeply breathe this potent breath ;
That our great gardener, Life, whom much I owe,
May somewhat be repaid before I go.
For am not I her seed ? her tender shoot ?
The slender sapling, slowly taking root?
Her tree in bloom ? in whose first bearing year,
Before the blossoms are gone, lo, thou art here !

Shadow of Life ! Before I go with thee

Where hand nor voice can reach, nor eye can see,

Oh ! let me longer vise my heritage ;

So I may fill life's partly written page.

Let life's great play move onward to the end,

And I be lover, husband, father, friend ;

Knight-errant, eager to move and mould mankind,

Set free the weak, the strong to break and bind.

Oh, touch not now my life-warm heart and brain,

For ere I pass to nothingness again,

All would I be that man may, and would do

Some worthy thing to set me with the few.

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Let life's oil burn till the flame be faint and low,
O, Death ! before I go.

These serious and well-expressed lines are copied
from an unpretentious little volume of poetry enti-
tled **From Dawn to Dusk, and Other Poems,"

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

written by Hunter MacCulloch and published by the
J. B. Lippincott Company of Philadelphia in 1887.
While they contain much for the thoughtful reader
to reflect upon, and although we can easily trace the
touch of a masterhand in their composition, yet they
by no means represent the finest product of their
author's poetic powers. But when I first read them,
they seemed to exercise a peculiar fascination over
me, and having retained more than a passing inter-
est in them ever since, I concluded to gratify my
feelings of admiration by using them as an introduc-
tion to this sketch of Mr. MacCulloch and his writ-
ings.

As a poet Mr, MacCulloch is entitled to a promi-
nent place among the bards of America. A certain
critic once said of Algernon Charles Swinburne that
*'he did not write orations or disquisitions or essays
or stories, but poe^ns'' and this may with all truth-
fulness apply to Mr. MacCulloch. For he has the
heart and the feelings, the taste and the spirit, of a
true poet ; and, as a result, his poetry is intelligent
and eloquent, dignified and graceful. Whatever he
has written he has written well. Poems like the
following will hardly be allowed to become obsolete :

HAD I BUT KNOWN.

Had I but known that nothing is undone
From rising until rising of the sun,

That full-fledged words fly off beyond our reach.
That not a deed brought forth to life dies ever ;

HUNTER MA C CUL L OCH.

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I would have measured out and weighed my speech,
To bear good deeds had been my sole endeavor —
Had I but known.

Had I but known how sviftly speed away
The living hours that make the living day,

That 'tis above delay's so dangerous slough
Is hung the luring wisp-light of to-morrow ;

I would have seized time's evanescent now !
I would be spared this unavailing sorrow —
Had I but known.

Had I but known to dread the dreadful fire
That lay in ambush at my heart's desire,

Wherefrom it sprang and smote my naked hand.
And left a mark forever to remain ;

I would not bear the fire's ignoble brand,
I would have weighed the pleasure with the pain —
Had I but known !

Had I but known we never can repeat

Life's springtime freshness or its summer heat.

Nor gather second harvest from life's field.
Nor aged winter change to youthful spring ;

To me life's flowers their honey all would yield,
I would not feel one wasted moment's sting —
Had I but known !

'•From Dawn to Dusk" consists of a group of
twenty very beautiful poems linked together by a
thread of continuous interest, and the other poems
in the volume are arranged or classed under the
headings of *' Soliloquies," "Epigrams," "Songs"
and " Idyls of the Queen." There is truly much to
admire in all of them. Interwoven among the long-

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er poems are many small pieces of considerable
ititerest and power, which add j^reatly to the value
of the volume. Here is a dainty specimen:

vSTAY WITH UvS YET.

Stay with us yet ! oh ! day in haste to leave us ;

Thy fast-flesending sun too soon will set ;
To part with thy sweet hours will sorely grieve us —
Stay with tis yet !

Stay with us yet ! oh ! night of mirthful madness ;

Thy midnight moment all too soon is met ;
To part with thy gay hours will cause us sadness —
Stay with us yet !

Stay with us yet ! oh! life at sad leave-taking ;
The time has come too soon to pay thy debt ;
Oh ! take not now the sleep that knows no waking —
Stay with us yet !

The title, " From Dawn to Dusk," would naturally
lead one to suppose that all of the poems contained
in the book are of a serious cast, but this is not the
case. Many of them are of a highly humorous char-
acter and sparkle with buoyant mirth. Such poems
as " Panel and Plaque and Tile," " Unless I Change
My Mind," " Something in the Air," "Next," and
various others, are thoroughly enjoyable, and prove
that their author's muse can be exceedingly humor-
ous on occasion. One of these I quote as a good
illustration of Mr. MacCulloch's powers in this
direction :

HI W TER MA C CUL L OCH.

171

ally
ned

the
har-
ems
mge

and
rove
nor-
rood

this

NEXT !

See how eagerly we scan the papers for the news, sir ;
Murders, scandals, accidents, in numbers to confuse, sir.
Is that great sensation's fever-heat now growing cold, sir ?
Then, the latest wonder must be surely nine days old, sir.
Next, sir ! Next, sir ! That's the people's text, sir ;
When they've drained one subject dry, they're ready for
the next, sir !

See her sweet, bewitching air, so lately very sad, sir ;
Having duly mourned, she now may be a little glad, sir.
Well she knows the joys and woes that go with wedded

life, sir ;
And she thinks it proper form again to be a wife, sir.
Next, sir ! Next, sir ! That's the widow's text, sir ;
Since she has disposed of one, she's ready for the next,

sir !

See how mournfully he looks, how s.idly shakes his head,

sir.
As he dwells upon the days that have forever fled, sir.
Hopes and fears have vanished quite, the vital fire burns

low, sir ;
Life's play ends, the curtain falls, he must prepare to go,

sir.
Next, sir ! Next, sir! That's the old man's text, sir ;
Since this life is leaving him, he's looking for the next,

sir !

f
See the miles on miles of men, all waiting to hurrah, sir *

Such a soul-inspiring sight what mortal ever saw, sir?

Yet his predecessor rode between these very men, sir ;

So will his successor ride that very route again, sir !

Next, sir ! Next, sir ! That's the masses' text, sir ;

Since they have disposed of one, they're ready for the

next, sir !

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See the tiny, toddling child, who vainly tries to lisp, sir ;
Soon will those small feet begin to chase life's will-'o-the-

wisp, sir.
Hopes will npen one by one, and lure him on and on, sir ;
Never stopping once to rest until the last is gone, sir.
Next, sir ! Next, sir ! That's the golden text, sir ;
'Tis not what we had or have, but what we will have next,

sir!

Hunter MacCulloch is a native of Glasgow, Scot-
land. He was born on the twenty-second of October,
1847. "One of the mementoes of bygone days
which I especially cherish," writes Mr. MacCulloch,
"is my mother's marriage 'lines,' as the marriage
certificate was called. This certificate contains the
signature of the original of Burns's ' Dr. Hornbook.'
la 1785 John Wilson was the schoolmaster of Tar-
bolton parish, and also set up a shop of grocery
goods. On the bottom of his shop-bills he adver-
tised that advice would be given in common disor-
ders at the shop, gratis. Burns was at a masonic
meeting in Tarbolton, and the dominie's display of
medical knowledge was the spur that produced the
humorous and satirical ' Death and Dr. Hornbook. '
Burns's brother, Gilbert, shared the poet's prejudice
anent the luckless John Wilson, wlio had the cheek
to be schoolmaster, groceryman, druggist and doc-
tor. But Robert Chambers writes that * Hornbook '
was a man of ability and education ; and he points
out that Wilson's service as a dispenser of medicines
must have been useful, as there was no doctor iti the
village or within many miles of it. John Wilson

HUN TER MA C CULL OCH.

173

had a dispute about salary with the heritors and left
for Glasgow, where he rose to be session clerk of the
Gorbals, during which period he signed my parents'
marriage lines." In 185 1 the MacCulloch family
decided to emigrate to the United States, and finally
settled in Philadelphia, where the subject of our
sketch lived for upwards of forty years. He may
therefore lay claim to the title of a Philadelphia
poet. He received his education at the public
schools, and then went to learn the trade of a ma-
chinist. This occupation, however, hardly agreed
with his tastes. In a shoit time he withdrew from
it, and entered mercantile life with Mr. William
Tiller, an importer of fancy goods, and at the age
of twenty-one he began business on his own account
as a wholesale dealer in the same line. In 1873 he
married, His wife, a pleasant and intelligent wom-
an — Fannie Windsor — is a native of Bath, England.

While still in business, Mr. MacCulloch projected
the Philadelptiia Philosophical Association (in 1871),
which modestly made all knowledge its province.
Professor John Fiske, of Harvard College, at that
time was one of its associate members, and letters of
encouragement were received from Herbert Spen-
cer, Charles Darwin, John Tyndall, John Stuart
Mill, and George Henry Lewes. In 1878, Mr. Mac-
Culloch classified and catalogued the books of the
library of the Spring Garden Institute. In 1881 he
was engaged by Messrs. Strawbridge & Clothier, of
Philadelphia, to edit a household magazine, to be

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published in connection with their business. This
publication continued in his editorial care until the
beginning of 1891, when the firm decided to discon-
tinue its publication. Thereupon he came to Brook-
lyn. For a time he was the news-editor of the New
York Witness^ and at present he fills an important
position on the staff of the Brooklyn Times. Further
particulars of his literary work may be gathered
from the following letter, addressed by request to
the writer :

"I am the author of a drama called 'Amour,'
which has been produced in Philadelphia and in
Baltimore. I have written an opera, the music for
which was composed by the veteran impresario, Max
Maretzek ; but it has not yet been produced. I
have several dramatic pieces ready for production,
but I have not as yet found the people that they will
suit. Not being a playwright by profession, I can-
not give the time necessary to place my work, and I
have not yet determined upon a manager to take
charge of my dramatic affairs.

"My publications are these. 'Dredged Up,' a
pseudo-scientific sketch, issued in pamphlet form, in
1879, and for many years out of print. ' How I
Made Money at Home, ' purporting to be written by
John's wife, and being a series of ways for women
to make money in home industries. Although but
an eighty-page pamphlet, it received longer press
notices than many royal octavos bound in cloth can
boast of. In 1886, I made a selection from poems

HUNTER MAC CULLOCH.

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of mine that had already appeared in magazines and
newspapers. It was entitled * From Dawn to Dusk. '
Being a Scot and able to versify, it was inevitable
that I should write songs. J. E. Ditson & Co., of
Philadelphia, publish a cantata of mine called ' The
Earth is a Merry-go-round.' Oliver Ditson & Co.,
of Boston, publish an operetta of mine, called * Wed-
ding Cakes.* Besides these, I have written a num-
ber of songs that have been set to music ; among
the composers I name Ebenezer Prout, of Londor.,
and Hugh A. Clarke, of Philadelphia, both writers
of works on harmony ; John Phillip Sousa, the
bandmaster ; Arthur Foote, of Boston ; Simon Has-
sler and William Stobbe, leaders of orchestras in
Philadelphia ; Charlton F. Speer, of London ; Max
Maretzek, H. E. Danks, A. Rosewig, Fred Baker,
Frank Armstrong, A. Sinzheimer, George C. Bigler,
and the well-known blind composer, AdamGeibel."

In connection with the remark that Mr. MacCul-
loch is a Scot, it may not be out of place to quote
here his now famous poem on Robert Burns, entitled
*' Dinna Forget." It is a poem of decided merit and
is frequently printed by the Scottish press about
January 25 — the birthday of '* Scotia's Darling
Poet." It also occupies a prominent place in
" Round Burns's Grave, " a collection of the finest
poems which have been written on or about Burns,
and recently published by Alexander Gardner, of
Paisley.

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DINNA FORGET.

Forget that time has moved the world away
Six generations from Auld Scotia's day,
Whereon she sang by mouth of Minstrel Burns
Sweet songs and true, to which the heart still turns ;
Forget the miracles that man has wrought,
The incarnations of immortal thought —
The steam-winged village o'er the railway whirled,
The electric voice that clicks across the world,
The magic trumpet that o'erreaches space.
Brings voice to voice, when face is far from face ;
Forget the wonders that the school child learns,
The better to hear the singing preacher, Bums.

O, gifted soul ! to Scottish hearts how dear \
Whose stirring strains sound earnest and sincere ;
Who now strikes up the rant and now the Psalm ;
Now sobs with Mary, and roars out iu Tam ;
Whose amber wit surrounds the homeless Mouse,
And gives to it an everlasting house ;
Whose humble Cotter, with his simple heart.
Now sits exalted in a niche apart ;
Who caught the Jolly Beggars in the act,
And made silk purse of that sow's ear of fact ;
Whose songs were words and music at their birth,
And voice our glory, sorrow, love and mirth.
O, sterling soul ! whose living words inspire ;
Too great to play buffoon for lord or squire ;
Who cared no more for New Light than for Old ;
Who in the cause of truth was rash, but bold ;
Whose faith embraced the brotherhood of man ;
Who lived and died a true republican.

Dinna forget, though Burns is made a text

On which the elect of this world and the next —

HUNTER MAC CULLOCH.

177

The rich and righteous — now delight to dwell,
They come unbidden to the poet's well.
Puir folks alone are Burn's rightful heirs !
For them he sings, his heart and soul are theirs ;
Their customs, habits, manners, loves, hopes, joys.
The warp and woof his master hand employs.
Dinna forget, for all that folks now say,
When Bums, the bard, was living out his day.
The guinea stamp did not make current gold
Of the precious ingots from his mind's rare mold.
Save for a nine-days' masquerade of p-jwer.
The freak, the fad, the fancy of the hour ;
An unco for the Caledonian Hunt —
Of rough adversity he bore the brunt.
They entertained no angel in his case,
But opened the door to shut it in his face !
Dinna forget, were Burns this day alive.
At his crack trade of critic he would thrive ;
From Dr. Hornbooks their pretensions strip ;
The Holy Willies scourge with satire's whip ;
The wealthy " dunderpates" would finely scorn
And learn anew that " man was made to mourn."
Dinna forget, were Burns alive this day,
With these same bitter things to sing and say.
He still v/ould 'near the unco-guid's reproof.
He still would see the gentry stand aloof ;
And, blown about by pride and passion's breath,
Would reach his heart's desire — after death !
Dinna forget that Burns could not escape
The fate that follows us in many a shape ;
That which he was he was, in sheer despite
Of all our systems' rules of wrong and right.
Dinna forget, no man can master fate,
Howe'er so wise or witty, learned or great,
And Scotia's bard was human to the core ;
He lived and died as Burns — no less, no more.

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The Scot to whom the world sends greeting,
The bard we weary not repeating —
The Burns whose star is fixed, unfleeting

In heaven set ;
The man with Heart for puir folk beating —

Dinna forget !

Another poem by Mr. MacCulloch on Robert
Burns appeared in June, 1896, and at once became
popup r with the masses. It is one of the finest
poems on the pi)et that has ever appeared, and it is
the longest poem on the subject in existence. The
Brooklyn Times in reviewing- it said:

**The near approach of the centennial anniver-
sary of the death of Robert Burns gives a timely
interest to the centenary ode dedicated to the Scot-
tish bard by Hunter MacCulloch, and published by
the Rose and Thistle Publishing Company, 430 Van
Buren street, this city. Hunter MacCulloch has
won a worthy place for himself among Scottish-
American poets, but he has never done worthier
work than in this tribute to the memory of the great
chief of 'the bardie clan.' He enters into the true
spirit of the ploughman poet, in all his moods,
sturdy, passionate and tender, reverent to true
authority yet independent and defiant of unbased
assumption. It is no easy task that he essays in a
poem that must of necessity be at once biographical,
critical, didactic and sympathetic, but his flight is
steady and sustained, never descending in common-
place, and frequently soaring to the serene heights

HUNTER MAC CdLLOC/f.

179

where the skylark sings. It would be unjust to the
poet to quote too extensively from an ode which
every lover of Burns and of poetry should make his
own, but a few lines may be properly transcribed to
show the spirit in which MacCulloch approaches his
theme. This, in regard to the dark Dumfries days,
will do for an example:

Since from the captive bird
Delicious strains of melody are heard ;

In life's dark days, from out his spirit's prison
The peasant poet's choicest songs have risen.
From carking care and grief,

From torturing thoughts that throng,
He snatches sweet relief

In swallow-flights of song.

O singer sweet ! whose rustic voice endears,
In nature's college bred for thirty years.

His genuine genius never plays a part.
No heresay his ; he sang whereof he knew ;

Nature and truth his themes to stir the heart;
His fragrant flowers are yet wet with the dew ;
He knew the people's language, feeling, thought ;

Their native nobleness to him was dear ;
'Twas for his kin, the people, that he wrought

Unto his latest year,
Their own true songs, rich, racy and sincere.

"The typography of the little volume is of a high
order, and the poem is illustrated with a fine por-
trait of Burns and engravings of scenes identified
with his life and works."

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Too much cannot be said in connection with Mr.
MacCulloch's powers as a lyrical poet. There is
something sweet and delicate and melodious in his
songs, while, in addition, they are poetical in spirit,
tender in expression and full of deep feeling.
Among the best are "The Miller's Son," *' My
Little Bird," "After All," "Come vSail With Me,"
"Song of the Senses," "Song of the Seasons,"
"Love's Reveille," "A Madrigal," Sweet Thoughts
of Thee," " Here We Go!" " The Parting Toast" and
" Down the Green Lane."

Mr. MacCuUoch is one of the most unassuming of
men. He has many friends, literary and otherwise,
and he is ever ready to lend a helping hand in a
good cause. " He is a member of the American
Authors' Guild." "The Writers' Club of Brooklyn"
and of Clan McDonald, a society of Scotsmen in
Brooklyn, which numbers among its members such
influential men as Walter Scott, Jr., Dr. Peter Scott,
the Hon. Wallace Bruce, Duncan MacGregor Crerar,
the well-known Scottish poet, Peter Ross, LL. D.,
Prof. John Tagg, Walter Bruce, Charles H. Go van
and various others. The mention of Clan Mc-
Donald reminds me of a very excellent song on the
"Thistle" which Mr. MacCuUoch recently composed
and dedicated to the clan. It has since become very
popular with Scottish societies, both in the States and
Canada. With it I will now conclude this brief tri-
bute to a very worthy and talented man.

111':

HUNTER MAC CUL LOCH.

/St

THK THISTLE.

Loyally dedicated to Clan Mcdonald by

its bard, Hunter MacCulloch.

(Air: "Tullochgorum.")

Let others worth and beauty see
In shamrock, rose or fleur de lis,
And raise to it the joyful glee,

Or pen a la;."^ epistle :
The rough and hardy flower I sing —

Rough and hardy, rough and hardy —
The rough and hardy flower I sing

Wi' admonition bristles.
The rough and hardy flower I sing
Is not a barefit, chittering thing,
But cries '* Talc' tent ! " to clown or king-

Auld Scotia's hardy thrissle.

While royal purple flowers it flaunts,

Its true democracy it vaunts ;

Nae weaking it frae hothouse haunts,

A' fushionless an' gristle !
But strong and sturdy see it stand —

Strong and sturdy, strong and sturdy —
But strong and sturdy see it stand

Wi' keenly sharpened missle :
But strong and sturdy see it stand
The picket o' that gallant band.
The guardian o' my native land —

Auld Scotia's trusty thrissle !

And when its life has had its dav,
Its day o' wark and little play,
On down-winged seed it floats away,
Like laverock, dove or missel :

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A' blithe and cheery like a sang —

Blithe an<l cheery, blithe and cheery —
A' blithe and cheery like a song

We whiles may sing or whistle.
A' blithe and cheery like a sang
Whereat ten thousan' memories thrang,
Thereby Aiild Scotia's fame prolang —

A stubborn, hardy thris-sle !

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

Some time r^o it ^vas my ^^ >d fortune to ])ur'jhase a
dainty little volume entitled ' A Sheaf of Sonj^/' b}-
Benjamin F. Lc^^j^ett, P! . D. , authnr of **A Tramp
Through Switzerland,' etc. I l.ad never heard of
the volume previous to this, hut I have since spent
many happy hours lin^eriug over its pages. It
contains a large number of choice and very excellent
poems, many of which reveal a wonderful wealth of
poetical thoughts and expressions. Indeed, to use
the language of an eminent critic in reviewing
another volume of poetry: '* Here are not only the
germs of true poetry, but the bud, the blossom and
the very flower of song," and I recently read a re-
view of the book in the Troy Daily Times, in which
the reviewer voices my own sentiments when he says;
** These poems seem to have bubbled out of the
author's heart and fancy under the inspiration of the
ordinary incidents of the tranquil life of a scholar
and sympathetic observer of men and events. It is
evident that the poet never writes for the mere pur-
pose of rhyming; he has something worth saying,
and then utters n in simple language, marching to a
rhythm that never falters. Many of these poems
are especially delightful for the glimpses of nature
which they afford. The prevailing tone bespeaks

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calmness, reflection, sympathy with nature, gentle-
ness of spirit, hope, and a reverential regard for
what is pure, truthful and noble."

One of the first poems that attracted my attention
on opening the volume was the following:

CONSIDER THE LIUES.

Out of the (lust the lilies spring,

Up from the blackest mould,
Touched by the sunbeam's flaming wing

They stand in pearl and gold.

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Never a king on his gilded throne

Arrayed in Jewels rare,
With half the princely glory shone

The royal lilies wear.

Out of the dust their beauty gleams

Only a summer's day,
Mocking the pride of human dreams

With royalest array :

Nor toil, nor spin for robes they wear, —

Under his hand they grow,
Beyond all beauty of compare

And only bloom and blow.

Why take ye thought ; — the Master's word-

For robes that fade and fall ?
Alike he cares for flower and bird,

Are ye not more than all ?

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BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

'85

More than the lilies' royal worth,

More than her robes of gold,
The endless years of another birth

After our dream is told.

Out of the dust and of the dust,

Akin the soulless clod,
We climb by the rounds of faith and trust

To the endless life of God.

** Truly," I said .Gn reading this poem over a
second time, " the man who penned these lines is
endowed with a high conception of the beauty and
spirit of true poetry," and a fuller acquaintance with
the Doctor's writings has convinced me that he is
deserving of a high place among our prominent
poets.

His muse is healthy, vigorous and inspiring. He
writes with practical skill, ability and good taste,
every line being smooth and pure and beautiful ; and
while it is in his longest poems that his talents are
displayed to the best advantage, still, all of his
shorter pieces have the sound of true poetry and
proclaim themselves the work of a genuine poet.
Look for a moment at the simplicity and beauty of
the following:

AS A UTTLE CHILD.

What a charm is in the story

From the sacred Syrian land,
How one day they thronged the Master,

Crowding close on either hand ;

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How the sick were healed and heartened,
What sweet peace came down to them

Who received his words of welcome,
Or but touched His garments' hem.

There they came, the sad and weary.

Dusty, footsore, halt and lame,
With the palsied borne on couches,

For afar had spread His fame ;
And the blind ones knew the gladness

Of the summer's sheen and shine,
For the eyes long held in shadow

Felt the touch of the Dixine.

Hither came the dark-eyed mothers

Full of tender, loving care,
For the Master's smile and blessing

Laid on childhood's sunny hair.
When one harshly, half in anger,

Chid the happy, childish throng —
Bade them cease their idle coming.

Hush the prattling, infant song.

Nay, but suffer them — the children —

Said the Man of Galilee,
And forbid them not when coming

In their innocence to Me ;
For of such is heaven's kingdom —

And He looked on them and smiled,
While the stern rebukers trembled

In the balance with a child.

Once again they queried blindly
Of the honors He would bring —

Which of them should be the greatest
In the Kingdom of their King ?

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

187

Then again the s*in.e sweet story

From the infant on His knee,
How the chiefest in His kingdom

As a little child must be.

Dr. Leggett's sonnets are also well worthy of
mention, many of them being very much above the
average of such compositions in tone and merit.
Those entitled, ''Passing the Light," "To Oliver
Wendell Homes," "At Dawn," "Keats' Grave,"
"Orion," and some others, are veiy fine and show
that the Doctor has a special talent for this partic-
ular style of composition. I append two specimens:

ON A FIR CONE FROM BAYARD TAILOR'S GRAVE.

TO J. G. W.

When last the Aututnn's changeful glory gave
To field and woodlan<l all its splendor rare,
While dreamful beauty melted through the air,

This fragrant cone dropped on the poet's grave.

And now while storms of winter wildly rave,
T hear again the rhythm sweet and strong
1 hat trembled through the fir-tree's solemn song

As in its shade I saw its branches wave.

And still it sings of weary journeys done.
Of northern pines and drooping tropic palms.

Of desert sands and snowy summits won,
Of mingled storms and sunshine and of calms.

And welcome home ! — a lullaby that thrills

The listening silence of his native hills !

IN SEPTEMBER.

A dreamful Beauty — queen of tawny hue —
With half shut-eyes looks out across the wold

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In drowsy mood, arrayed in russet gold,
And quaffs the Mrine the rich earth pours anew
Prom airy beaker tinct with amber through :

The golden-rods like listed knights of old

Wave all their plumes of beauty manifold,
And asters swarm where honey-clover blew :
Green-bladed flags the lowland meadows throng,

With lifted clubs that dare the dragon-fly ;
The sharded locust shrills insistent song

While ghostly thistle-down goes drifting by ;
A dream of sound the hazy crystal fills
From runnel-threaded wrinkle of the hills.

In his longer poems, however, the Doctor has
more scope in which to work out his ideas, and it is
in these poems that he has given us such abundant
proof of his possessing the best characteristics of a
true son of song. **The Ballad of the King,"
*♦ Bums's Birthday," " The Age of Gold," *' Dickens
In Westminster Abbey," ** Ravenswood," "A Day
Dream," "The First Decade," and "A Word for
Shakespeare," are all poems of great beauty and
power, and they will be read and admired long after
their author has laid aside his pen and passed to his
reward. We quote the last named poem here, more,
however, on account of its literary character than
for its being in any way superior either in construc-
tion or expression to the others:

A WORD FOR SHAKESPEARE.

When hawthorn hedges, foaming white,
Were sweet with mimic snowing,

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

189

He first beheld the April light
And heard the Avon flowing.

Like other children, then as now,
The olden summers found him.

He laughed and cried and knit his brow,
And ruled the world around him !

Still was he wiser than they knew —
This child, the straw-thatch under.

Whose song three hundred years ago
Yet makes the wide world wonder !

A child, from croon of cradle hymn

Above him in his slumbers, —
A youth, along the Avon's rim

He caught his tuneful numbers.

Full poet-souled the shy boy grew
To manhood's ripe completeness ;

What Nature taught he quickly knew —
Her wondrous lore and sweetness.

The years so fraught with weary toil
Were gladdened by his singing.

For well he heard through life's turmoil
Serenest music ringing :

As everywhere the world-wide throng
To-day who know and love him.

Through his can hear the lark's sweet song.
That soared and sang above him.

Where'er he turned his eager feet.
Her smile o'er him was leaning,

He felt the heart of Natiure beat,
And learned its hidden meaning.

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What golden wealth from her he brought —

Her heir by this sweet token —
A power to clothe the hidden thought

That else had been unspoken.

What marvel that the race to-day

Toward him is fondly turning,
Who gave its hope a tongue for aye

To tell its deathless yearning ?

All changing moods of being's state,

Life's sad or sunny fancies.
The smile of love, the scowl of hate,

Affection's sweet romances.

He holds embalmed in wondrous art —

A lore beyond the sages—
And wildest passions of the heart.

The tenderest love-lit pages.

Grand builder in the realm of thought !

Through his wide-swinging portals.
Behold the fame his fancy wrought,

And peopled with immortals !

The king of bards he stands revealed,

By very grace of giving, —
What hidden founts hath he unsealed.

And poured for all the living !

His fame and song ring evermore
Above the centuries' thunders ;

Though dead three hundred years and more,
Yet still the wide-world wonders !

ayuaaMiai

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

191

Dr. Leggett is a native of Chestertown, Warren
county, N. Y., where he was bom on December 29,
1834. He is a son of a farmer, brought up on a
farm, and this he says is what makes him a lover of
Nature in all her infinite phases. In his younger
days he taught school and nobly worked his way
through college, graduating from the Wesleyan
University in 1863. In the same year he married
Miss Sarah Shaw, of Troy, N. Y. She is an accom-
plished and congenial lady, possessing rare judgement
and fine literary taste. They have one child living, a
daughter. Miss Fanny, and who under the non de
plume of Marion Kent Douglass, has already accomp-
lished good literary work and gives promise of mak-
ing a name for herself in the near future. In 1875
the Doctor, accompanied by his family, made an ex-
tended tour through Europe, visiting Italy, Switzer-
land, Germany, France, England and Scotland.
While thus traveling he acted as special correspond-
ent for the Troy Daily Times and his articles com-
manded considerable aitention at the time, being full
of interesting information, notes, etc., all written in
a crisp and masterly style. In 1888 he published his
"Tramp Through Switzerland," a work which has
had an extensive sale. He began writing in his
early boyhood, and has contributed articles on
various subjects to the New York Tribune, the Liter-
ary IVofld, Zions Herald, Peterson's New Monthly
Magazine:, The Golden Age, etc. He has also con-
tributed to Mrs. Silsby's " Tributes to Shakespeare, "

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published by the Messrs. Harper Brothers, to
"Burnsiana," published by Alexander Gardner,
Paisley, Scotland; and to Mrs. Putnam's ** Collection
of American Poetry." He is engaged in academic
work in an institution of his own at Ward, Deleware
county. Pa. This part of the state is called the
Garden county of Pennsylvania, and to use a quota-
tion from one of Ralph Shaw's poems :

" His home is rural set with open fields
And bits of wood and meadow and repose."

He is a very patriotic gentleman and exhibits this
particular quality in many of his compositions. One
of his best poems in this respect is a memorial poem
recited at the Memorial Service at Elam and Brandy-
wine cemeteries on the thirtieth of May, 1893.
We quote it here : —

MEMORIAL POEM.

Where May time crowns to-day the land

With summer's song and gleam,
And spreads her bloom with lavish hand

Above the soldier's dream,
Amid the olden harvest shine

The battle smoke hung low,
And veiled the slopes of Brandywine

A hundred years ago !

These hills have heard the cannon peal,

These vales the bugle blow.
These sunny slopes the clash of steel,

The charge of haughty foe !

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

These flowers may wear the crimson stains

Caught from the ruddy wine,
That ebbed from Valor's wounded veins

O'er hills of Brandy wine !

How well they fought their deeds shall tell-

Those sturdy sons of yore —
Columbia guards their memory well

And shall forever more ;
For God and man, and Freedom's cause,

The fireside's cheerful glow,
For equal rights and equal laws,

A hundred years ago !

They fought and fell, but grandly won —

No martyr dies in vain —
In Freedom's cause no deed is done

But wins eternal gain ;
How fair Columbia's walls appear

In spite of alien foe,
For Freedom gained her birthright here

A hundred years ago !

O'er land and se^ hei banner flew —

A constellated flame —
A hundred years her glory grew,

A hundred years her fame ;
Then red War swept the clouded land

As in the days of old.
For Treason sought with bloody hand

To pluck her crown of gold !

Then from the glow of warm hearth fires.

With battle shout and song,
Sprang loyal sons of loyal sires.

Four hundred thousand strong !

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O'er fields of blood their valor swept,

Led on by bannered stars —
In prison pens their old love kept,

And gloried in their scars !

On many a field their banners fell —

On man)' a field they won.
Till bells of joy rang Treason's knell

And War's red work was done !
O bravely did they dare and well,

Like loyal sires of yore,
And fields like (Gettysburg may tell

Why they rettirn no more !

While May time with her roses crowned,

Spreads wide her flowery hem
In folds of bloom above each mound,

In teuderest love of them,
We too may spread oar blooms twice more

Above each soldier's grave.
White as the loyal love they lx)re,

Red as the blood they gave !

O heroes dead for Freedom's sake ;

O martyr fame that grows ;
No more the bugle call shall break

Your loyal dream's repose ;
Sleep on, in peace, immortal band,

Sweet is the rest ye know,
W^hile over all our ransomed land

The stars ye saved shall glow !

O land ! let all thy bugles blow
Where sleep the true and brave.

And train forget-me-nots to grow-
On every Union grave !

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

'95

The past is past, War's flags are furled

Above the blooms of May,
While Peace, white winged, above the world

Enfolds the Blue and Grav !

Anniversary poems are generally commonplace
effusions. They serve the purpose on the day for
which they were composed and then are lost si^ht of.
The present one, however, is deserving of a better
fate, and in the writer's opinion it will live and
ultimately take its place among the best of its kind.
As a brief species of the sweet songs embodied in the
Doctor's book we quote the one entitled "A Morn-
ing Song." It will be seen from this lyric that the
author's powers as a song-writer are very keen. His
language is also melodious and sweet :

O fair and sweet is the summer mom —
A queen in her beauty crowne<l —

A mist wreath over her shoulders flung
With pearls and diamonds bound.

So softly over the hills she came,

As still as the roses blow,
The valleys asleep heard not her step,

But woke at her smile aglow.

Her presence wore such a queenly grace
That the shadows gave her room.

She sweetened the air with her dewy breath.
And kissed the flowers a-bloom.

"^wr, — T

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So the clover-heads, and the buttercups,
And the daisies* white-rayed gold,

With the royal lilies sweet and tall
Her treasure and blessing hold.

The meadows swept by her garment's hem

Are beaded with gems of dew,
And the maple leaves for joy of her

Are tremulous through and through.

O brooding peace of the morning, stay !

Nor swift as her presence fly.
Sing aye, my heart, as the wild birds sing,

While the sweet n?orn passes by.

"The Sheaf has good grain in it," wrote the
gentle John G. Whittier to Dr. Leggett, and this
will certainly be the verdict of every one after
glancing through the little volume. For, as a writer
in the Christian Leader very truly says : " These are
indeed beautiful songs — songs of the joyous heart,
songs of the birds, songs of the morning dawn,
songs of sprightly youth and mellow age, tribute
songs to good and great men, lyrics to brave soldiers
and fair women, songs of the seasons, odes to the
ocean, dirges to the dying year, elegies for the
mourner, and carols for the wedding day." Here is
a little poem which the late Mr. Thomas C. Latto
addressed to Dr. Leggett after reading his book :

READING "A SHEAF OF SONG.

Are thae the gather'd gowden sheaves
O' some Feck band ster carlie,

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

197

Wha wyled them out when lootin' down

Amang the " Rigs o* Barley ?"
And as his lilt — a canny croon —

Made blytne baith lads an' lasses,
Thocht they it had the sough an' soun'

O, aire that o' surpasses ?

It was na Rab's — his rhymin-mill

He had nae power bequeathin'
O, Wardsworth, Beattie, Tannahill,

It seemed the gentler breathin' :
The " dusky glen " whaur lassie gaed

To meet her winsom marrow,
Or "dowie den," wi birks ourspread.

Aside the " Brass o' Yarrow."

Great tnakkars a' are *' wede awa" —

" Flowers o' the Forest " fadit ;
If chance I miss'd, sae be the fa' —

My bed is as I made it.
Ae nightingale pours nicht an' day

The trills that never weary ;
Yet gowdspinks are on ilka spray,

An' linties warblin' cheery.

In 1895 Dr. Leggett published "An Idyl of Lake
George and Other Poems," (Boston T. O. Metcalf &
Co.) and the contents of this volume fully sustains
the high reputation of the author as a poet. In
reviewing the book in The Middlesex Hearthstone the
Rev. J. H. Earpsaid:

"Although Dr. Leggett has traveled extensively
across the water, yet this volume is evidently the
product of a mind which dwells upon the scenes of
his nativity, where are

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" Afar the misty mountains piled ;

The Adirondacks soaring free,
The dark Green ranges lone and wild.

The Catskills looking toward the sea :"

((

When

" Far off the dreamy waters lie,
White cascades leap in snowy foam ;

Lake Champlain mirrors cloud and sky,
The Hudson seeks his ocean home."

" The title poem, *'An Idyl of Lake George" is
in the nature of a reverie.

'* A charm is wrought where thoir has smiled
And fondly turns my heart to thee."

"As one who is at peace with nature he lightly
speeds his bark canoe across the deep, inverted skies,
and through the sweet long hours holds communion
with the spirit of solitude while

" The shadows sleep, the winds are still,
The wood-thrush only breathes his song."

*• While he muses he hears

' ' Again the sound of quick alarms !

The smoke of battle fills the glen,
The bugle blast, the clash of arms.

The savage deeds of savage men !"

*' But all that passes as a dream, and now, where
once the silent sentries stood,

■ •' The wild flowers hang above their sleep.
Though all unmarked each hidden mound."

■RMMMM

llllgll III III! Ill I

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

199

"The readers of Dr. Leggett's poems will at
once be impressed by the harmony between the
rhythm and the thought. Among the shorter poems
should be especially mentioned " Homeward Bound,"
**The Passing of Summer," **A Morning Prayer,"
"In Slumber Land," "In Cana of Galilee," "In
Autumn Time," "Wood Paths," and "Through
Fields of Corn." The author is especially felicitous
in his manner of throwing a perfect picture into a
line or two, as fcr instance,

" The holly-hock is idling there— a very tramp of bloom."

"And

'* And Dandelions starred the grass
With sandal prints of spring."

"And again,

' Through woven tangle of *he starry bloom
Whose breeze-swung censers spill a rare perfume."

"He brings our ears very near to the heart of
nature in such lines as

-lulled by music of the waves' low song."

" Perhaps one of Dr. Leggett's best contributions
to poetry will consist in his fi deity to Nature. He
never misinterprets her. He never mistakes her
voice. He gives us a fa'chful description of the
quiet nook, the cool .sh.iUows, the lofty pines, the

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I

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leaping, laughing cascade, and of all that would
contribute to our thorough enjoyment when we
would wish to turn from life's busy cares to a day of
real rest. "

The following poems from "An Idyl of Lake
George," will give an idea of the sterling beauty and
worth of the Doctors latest productions :

IN AUTUMN-TIME.

Up the winding path we wandered

By the maples on the hill ;
And the golden waves of wheat
Swept the valley at our feet ;
And we idly dreamed and pondered
While upon the slope we wandered

Through the Autumn's lights that lingered warm
and still.

'Mid the trees the farm-house gables
Showed above the winding stream —

Woodbine climbed the walls of brown,

Up the broad roof sloping down —

And the old barn and the stables —

Swallows nesting in the gables —
All enfolded in the silence like a dream.

Through the maple branches swaying

Came the distant thrushes' song ;
And the red leaves whispered low
As we wandered to and fro-
Wondered what our lips were saying
In the shadow of their swaying,

While the airy grace of Autumn held us long.

Ill 11

:liiii

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

ioi

How the fleeting years have vanished
Since we climbed the pasture hill !

But the waving fields of gold,

Love has reaped them many fold ;

Clouds that hid the blue are banished,

And though olden years have vanished.
All the mellow lights of Autumn linger still.

IN THE ADIRONDACKS—
(on a picture.)

sunny gleam of vanished years ;
O light of the summer's glow ;

How many a faded dream appears
Through the mists of long ago !

Fair picture wrought of the golden days !
As a wizard's magic glass

1 hold you up to my wistful gaze
While trooping visions pass.

The white clouds over the meadows swim.
While the shadows trample through.

The daisies creep to the water's rim.
Or nod to the clover blue.

The broad pool lies like a mirror fair,

In shadow or sun agleam,
And the fringing woodlands pictured there

Are held in a magic dream.

The wild duck floats on its waveless breast.

And the lily's pearl and gold,
And the pines above its dreamless rest

Are crooninf the songs of old.

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Afar the sound of the bittern's note
From the reedy shore upsprings ;

The cheery cry from the fisher's throat
That follows the flash of wings.

The narrow bridge as a slender line

In the passing vision seems,
Crossed by the trail of the homeward kine

And a sun-brown boy who dreams.

His traps are there by the shadowed bay,
Where the alders fringe the shore,

But his thoughts have wandered far away
To the years that wait before !

The vision fades in the waning day —

A mist on the glass appears —
The sunny hair of the boy is gray.

And touched with the frost of years !

And ever and on his dreams have run,

I^ ever by fancy's will.
But future and past to-day are one,

And the vision lingers still !

•'Dr. Benjamin F. Leggett is a genuine poet,"
says a writer in Zion's Herald^ "and in this little vol-
ume he has made a contribution worthy to occupy a
place beside the productions of our best living
authors. In the '* Idyl of Lake George," every line
helps to show forth the beauty of the lake and its
surroundings, and the traditions of the past come in
to vary and heighten the picture. The Adirondack

'•";'

BENJAMIN F. LEGGETT, PH. D.

^03

poems tell of the Summer and Autumn, the wood-
path, the open field and the closed forest, the moun-
tain and stream, the storm without and the fire upon
the hearth within. *'The City of Doom" is full of
exquisite passages. There is a majesty in the whole
movement. The atmosphere is that of the Roman
world with an outlook into all the ages.",

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JAMES D. LAW.

The Bonny Woods o' Clova

How can I e'er forget ?
I've wander'd far but never seen

The equal o' them yet.
Frae sunny brae to shady glen
An' burnie singin' doon the den —
O' ilka nook I used to ken

Within the Woods o' Clova !

The Bonny Woods o' Clova
Look doon aboon my hame,

Wee village wi' a charm for me
Nae ither spot can claim.

On ilka side the hills arise

Whaur Nature dons her fairest guise,

And half way tow'ring to the skies
Are seen the Woods o* Clova !

The Bonny Woods o' Clova !

The langer I'm awa'
Aye dearer still, if that could be,

I lo'e them ane an' a'.
'Twas there my musings were begun.
There first my rustic rhymes were spun,
And my dear lass was woo'd an' won,

Among the Woods o' Clova !

The Bonny Woods o' Clova !

At times my he'rt grows sair
When thochts come in my heid that I

May never view them main

JAMES D. LAW.

205

But surely Fate will be sae kin'
As bear me back across the brine
To meet the frien's o' auld lang syne
An' see the Woods o' Clova !

The Bonny Woods o' Clova,

Forever may they bide
The brawest sicht to gaze upon

In a' the country side !
Had I the future in my han'
For happier days I'd never plan
Than end my life whaur it began —

Beside the Woods o' Clova !

So sings Mr. James D. Law, one of the very best
of modem Scottish poets, in one of the many delight-
ful lyrical pieces included in his well-known book,
" Dreams of Hame and Other Poems." Mr. Law is
a comparatively young poet, but with a singularly
sweet and pure note of his own he has quietly and
surely won for himself the respect and goodwill of
all true lovers of poetry, and he has touched the
Scottish heart so deeply that his writings are to be
found and are treasured in every nook and comer
wherever Scotsmen abide. It is not left for the
writer to predict that Mr. Law will yet make a name
for himself in the poetical world — he has aire?/!,,
made it. What a wealth of poetic fancy and imagi-
nation does he posess ? His writings in many in-
stances are on common, every-day topics, but they
show intelligence and culture, taste and good judg-
ment. Notwithstanding his extemporaneous style

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he is a most careful artist and never allows any care-
less work to pass from his hands. His rhymes are
perfect, his rhythm faultless, his diction pure, his
warblings sweet, and his use of the grand old Doric
appropriate and commendable. Indeed, there is not
a poem or lyric included in *' Dreams o' Hame,"
etc., that does not prove the author to be a master
poet in the full meaning of the phrase.

Many an evening have I taken up his handsome
and well printed book and gently turned over the
leaves until I reached the forty-fifth page, when I
paused to join him in singing his beautiful Scottish
version of the First Psalm. In spirit I have played
with him as a boy at '*The Auld Bow Brig." I
have in imagination taken '*A Flying Trip" with
him to Scotland, the home of his boyhood and of
;nine. With him I have enjoyed "A Nicht wi'
Bums," visited the now famous "Auld Clay Big-
gin';" witnessed the "Unveiling of the Statue to
the National Poet at Aberdeen " and the laying of
the comer stone of the Philadelphia New Caledonian
Club House. At other times I have been charmed
and delighted with his "Few words to Walt Whit-
man," his "Epistle to Mr. James W. R. Collins,"
his * • Petition to the Queen Regarding the Vacant
Laureateship" and his "Address to the Author of
* Press Chips. ' " I have mourned with him over the
death of John Shedden, " La Teste," William Mac-
Lennan and others. I have partaken of his hospi-
tality in his "Ain Wee Hame" or lingered with

JAMES D, LAW.

207

much glee over his humorous effusions. Again, I
have frequently passed many a quiet hour moralizing
with him in his serious, and in many instances,
deeply pathetic poems. All things considered, Mr.
Law is a rare specimen of a true poet, and his is a
book that I would not care to be without. Here is
a humorous poem of his that I committed to memory
long ago. It shows the wonderful command that
the author has over his mother tongue, and it is
quite possible that I may have acquired a liking for
it on this account. But apart from this fact, there
is a great deal of quaint philosophy in it, and I have
no doubt it will hold its own with others of its class,
for many years to come :

"TO A MOSQUITO."

Ill-trickit wickit bizzin beastie,
Nae langer on my face ye' 11 feast ye !
Sin' noo my thoora-nail I've got neist ye

Yer banes will rattle !
An' troth it's time I should arreist ye

An' gar ye sattle !

I'm far frae sorry, snip, to fin' ye.
An' tho' my bluid may coorse within ye,
Wi' lattin' aff I'll nae begin ye —

That wad be sport ill !
For while the cannibal is in ye
We wad assort ill !

I dootna but ye'll ca' me ** knave ! "
An' ower my whunstane rancour rave ;
An' fegs ! I maybe misbehave,

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But, crater, bless ye
I'll get my sairin o' the lave
An' never miss ye !

: f.

•>„. '?

^i '

i'.

Ye ken it's a' yer ain misdoin'
That sent me aifter you pursuin';
Had ye been less intent tatooin'

Ye micht hae seen
The ruthless claws that wrocht yer ruin

An' dodged atween !

But na ! ye had ta'en nae forecast,
An' frae yer feast ye wadna fast ;
Snug, safe, frae ilka by-gaun blast

Ye thocht yersel',
Till thud ! the fee cam' doon at last

An' broke yer spell !

Nae mair I'll nip aneath yer nibbles !
Nae mair ye'll bore me wi' yer gibbles !
Nae mair ye'll draw my bluid in dribbles.

Or g'art rin cauld !
Ae stammack less will stress my stibbles,

Ye glutton bauld !

But 'skeeter ! thou art nabb'd alane
Frae lots o' cronies — provin' plain
Mosquitoes' schemes like those o' men

Are deep-laid aye !
Whatu* ae rogue happens to be ta'en

A score win by !

Still you're weel aff, compared wi' me !
Yer doom is— jist at aince to dee !
An', forward tho' I canna see,

JAMES D. LAW.

»og

I guess an' fear,
That I may pine neath sic as thee
For ttiony a year !

In 1892 Mr. Law published through Mr. Alex-
ander Gardner, Paisley, Scotland, (the well-known
publisher to the Queen) his *' Dreams o' Hame and
Other Poems. " For a book of poems it has had a
wonderful success, the entire edition of 1,000 copies
being now almost exhausted.

Mr. Law's principal poem, and the one which
gives the title to his book is *' A Dream o' Hame."
It is divided into two parts, historical and geographi-
cal, and is the poem wherein the author's true merits
are seen to the best advantage. As a poem it dis-
plays beauty and power, pathos and tenderness ; it is
skillfully constructed, and, in addition to these qual-
ities, it contains many striking similes. The de-
scriptions are exceeding graphic, and it will rank in
this respect with the best descriptive poems of the
century. The following is an extract from it :

Noo Phoebus* spear has turned adrift
The darklin' cloods that thrang'd the lift ;
The hinmost cock has vround his horn
And flegg'd awa' the mists o' morn ;
The fragrant winds aroon me blawn
Hae drench'd wi' dew the fiery dawn.
And diamond draps in clusters row
Prae lika blade and bush and bough.

Aboon wi' girss and heather hap

Auld Noth uprears his Sphinx-like Tap—

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The watch-dog o' the rock-bound North,
And grandest hill ayont the Forth.
Frae Rhynie couch'd beside its paws
I start to dim' the tow'rin wa's :
Aince mair I pass the massive rock
That bears the print o' Giant Jock ;
Walk roun' the Craig o' Clochmaloo,
And pechin' pick my pathway thro'
The breastworks built o' birsl't stanes
That dootless hap some Royal banes,
Until I reach the Cnp or Cap
That croons the summit o' the Tap
And kcps the dews at morn and e'en
That keeps the cone for ever green !

Lo, what a cycloramic view
Is spread for miles before me noo !
What wealth o' sea and hill and dale.
Of Highland moor and Lowland vale ;
Of streams that twine like siller threids
Thro' mossy haughs and grassy meads ;
Of roads that in their twists and turns
I<ook like the beds o' dried-up burns ;
What gov\ 'len glints o' whinny howes.
Of \ avin' com and broomy knowes ;
What blink? o' castles and o' kirks
Embower'a in beeches and in birks ;
O' touns that flash upon the sicht
Like stars upon a cloudless nicht ;
O' clachans, steadin's, crafts and cots,
Ilk wi' their little kail-yard plots —
Oh ! I could stand, and nae be loth,
For days upon the Tap o' Noth,
And gaze across its saucer-rim
Till sense would reel and sicht grew dim ;
And ye could scour auld Scotland o'er.

JAMES D. LA IV.

2tt

Yea Britain braid itsel' explore,

^ nd trudge for mony a month, I ween,

To match me sic a glorious sc«me !

Ben Rinties lonely in the west
Uprears his kingly guardian crest ;
And to the cast is stretch 'd afar
A glen without a peer or par —
Strathbogie wi' its fertile haughs.
Its famous aucht-and-forty daughs,
Immortalized in Scottish lore,
The grand old Gordon Latid of yore !

On mony a blood-stained battle-plain
Thy stalwart sons have held their ain
When from the mountains of the North
The Fiery Cross has called them forth,
Bear witness, ill-starr'd Flodden Field,
Where Huntly was the last to yield ;
Bear witness, Tillieangus Heath,
Wi' mony a hero stretch'd beneath ;
Glenlivet, where the base Argyle
Got first his taste o' Bogie's style ;
And mony a Covenantin' raid
Whaur waved the dark -green tartan plaid,
And whaur the *' byd — and — ! " slogan cry
Proclaimed the dauntless Gordons nigh !

Passing from "A Dream o' Hame** and glancing
over the numerous other poems in Mr. Law's book,
we are at once impressed with the great variety of
subjects on --/hich his muse has alighted. There
are poems, epistles, songs, addresses, prayers,
psalms, nursery ballads in great abundance and

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there is something worthy of the poet in all of them.
Take the following few verses, culled here and there
at random, to illustrate this. The reader will find
some peculiar feature, a pleasing thought, a flash of
wit, a voice of sorrow or a happy lyrical note embod-
ied in each of them :

Up an' iivaur them a', Willie,

Up an' waur them a' !
In fields o' war a brichter star

Than yours we never saw, Willie !
An' noo in peace ye shine the same

As in the years awa', Willie,
Wi' spotless fame and deathless name.

The brawest o' the braw, Willie !

—To General W. T. Sherman.

Could I but wander at my swing,
Withpout a thocht but live and sing.
O'er mither-tongue aince more would ring

To lands remote,
But Warldly Cares — they clog the wiug,

And cramp the note !

— Epistle to Shedden.

We see the bumie wind alang

It's journey to the sea,
And hear it sing its auld-time sang

or mingled grief and glee.
Again the merle wi' silver throat

Rings gloamin' o'er the lawn,
And lav'rocks pipe their golden note

Exultant to the dawn !

JAMES D. LAW.

^'3

Anew for us the daisies bloom

And all their charms unfold ;
Afresh we scent the whins and broom

That deck the dells wi' gold !

— Prologue to Scottish Concert.

" Gae bring to me a pint o' wine,
"I'll drink," said Bums, "before I go,
A service to the old divine

Whose nnmbers so divinely flow ! '•
*'0, Tullochgorum's my delight —

The best song Scotland ever saw ! "
Thus did the raptur'd Robbie write

As if his ain were uocht ava.
And there that day to Skinner's son

The Ayrshire bard by word o' mou'
Confess'd nae sma' that he had done

Was to the Linshart poet due.

— Burns in Aberdeen.

Noo the sea's betwixt us roarin'

And has been for mony a year,
But n dreams I'm aften soarin'

To the land I lo'e sae dear ;
And I'll never seek to grum'le,

Be my fortune sma' or \> y,
MV hile my heart can catcL v^v^i rummle

Frae the auld Bow-Brig !

—Song, The Auld Bow-Brig.

When first your lay went o'er the Water

I ti'ow ii raised aa unco clatter,

And fe^</ there vvCi-* iiicTincd to flatter,

W«» mavn cou'c^a,
While somrt ue^jlar id ye were a Satyr,

And niV'i^ing less !

—To Walt Whitman.

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Hech ! siccan lilts frae pipers braw

On Monday we'll be hearin'
Ere PhcEbus o'er the City Ha'

Will hae his colts careerin';
Then Caledonian clansmen a'

Will jump their Highland gear in,

And croose in croods be steerin,
For Pastime Park awa' !

— The Merry Quakers.

Among Mr. Law's smaller poems none is more
beautiful or touching than the one entitled ** In
Memoriam La Teste." This effusion, while an ex-
ceedingly tender one, is yet a manly one, and it
proves that the author possesses a kind, sympa-
thetic nature and a true Christian heart. "La
Teste" certainly could not have had a more fitting
memorial commemoracing his genius and virtues
than is here preserved for all time in the simple in
memoriam lines of Mr. Law :

IN MEMORIAM " LA TESTE."

" * La Teste' is dead ! " so came the news
Across the wild Atlantic's faem ;
The darling o' the Doric Muse
Noo sleeps within his hiumost hame !
And shall the Scottish Laureate gang
Unnoticed to the kirkyard gloom
Withoot the tribute o' a sang
To deck his unpretentious tomb ?
Shall puddlers in Parnassus well
Be laid with pomp below the sward
And nane be found a note to swell
In honour o' the rustic bard ?

jame:s d. law.

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O, Willie was a clever chiel
And though his face I never saw
I kent him and I loed him weel,
And mourn him noo that he's awa.'
He had his fauts and I hae mine,
And ye hae yours, whae'er ye be —
Ah ! frien', wash oot the motes in thine
Afore ye fash your brither's e'e !
Equipp'd beyond his fellow men.
For verse he had the happiest turn.
And words cam' ripplin' frae his pen
Spontaneous as the Lossie Burn !
Unlike maist poets noo in vogue,
Whose drift the mass in vain divines,
Nae dark conundrum weighted fog
Obscures the purport of his lines,
Gie readers, blest wi' lear an' time,
The singer skilled in mystic airts,
I'm partial to the simple rhyme
That works its way to hamely herts.
Implanted by the ingle-nook.
Or stretch'd beneath a shady tree
Enraptur'd o'er his bonny book
I've seen the 'oors like minutes flee !
For honest fun he had a smile.
And thrumm'd his harp in sweet accord,
But in his strong satiric style
His stylus oft became a sword !
And he could weep with those who wept,
Give solace to the wearied frame.
And sparks o' hope that long had slept
His rousing words could fan to flame !
Nae care could chill his genial crack,
Nae dunts frae fate his hand could stay,
The world grew sunnier when he spak'
And merrier when he trill'd his lay !

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Tho* stranger to a cozy nest,

Thro' summer's sun and winter's sleet,

The bird kept singing in his breast

Until his heart had ceased to beat !

His voice shall <vake the woods no more,

' ui yet 'tis comfort now to feel

';e sleeps, with all his wanderings o'er,

Amang the scenes he lo'ed sae weel !

An' tho' his lyre be noo laid by

Unstopped shall ring the minstrel's strains,

He is not dead — he'll never die,

While Scotland and her speech remains !

Many of Mr. Law's epistles are deserving of more
than a mere reference to their names. He seems to
have a happy faculty for striking off one of these
rhyming letters just at the right time, and most of
them are above the average poet's work in this di-
rection. As a rule they are of humorous character,
but they also contain some sound, wholesome reas-
oning, and no doubt, the several parties to whom
they are addressed will treasure them with great
care. As a specimen we quote :

An off-hand epistle addressed to a Deeside Scot
after reading •* Tibbie Shiels in Yarrow," and a kind
comment on some of my verses, by Prof. John
Stuart Blackie:

Dear Marr : — ^Your letter cam' yestreen,

In troth it made me canty ;
The Great Tribune to be my frien'

Is honor far from scanty !

JAMES D, LA IV.

217

And here, ye see, I've tried my han'

In far-aflF Camden city,
To imitate the Grand Old Man

And his inspiring ditty !

It's worthy o' the fruitful times

When Scott was in his glory.
When Wordsworth trilled the triple rhymes

Renowned in song and story.-
It has the happy, hearty ring

Few living bards can marrow —
Bravo, old Poet, thus to sing

Of Tibbie Shiel's in Yarrow !
tt # % If.

Alas ! that I the truth should own,

Thus far on life's short journey,
Tho' years a score in Caledon

I never saw the burnie ;
Confined at hame to ae puir spot.

Till Fortune sea- ward bore me,
The classic lands of Burns and Scott

Are unexplored before me !

This prosy land provides for me

Nae sheep nor tunefu' shepherd ;
The salmon I'm allooed to see

Are either cann'd or kipper'd !
And what o'er a' the lave is mair

A poet's soul to harrow,
My Tweed's the drumlie Delaware,

A slimy ditch my Yarrow !

Nae hill rears high its heath-clad crest,

But sand-heaps in abundance
Shed burrs on Nature's brawny breast

In unco great redundance.

2lS

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Instead o' round a lake to tramp

Wi' rifle and retriever,
I hugger o'er a dismal swamp

And fecht the chills and fever !

Nae lark regales me in the morn

Wi' bursts o' song spasmodic ;
The strain that on the breeze is borne

At nicht comes frae the puddock !
Throughout the day I'm glad to hear

The chirpin' o' a sparrow,
And dream aboot the birds that cheer

The dowie dens o' Yarrow !

In spite o' a' I sing my sang,

And tho' I'm aften weary.
The better day to come or lang

Aye keeps my courage cheery !
I look for mony a meiTy rant

Ere death lets fling his arrow,
And not the least will be my jaunt

To see the Braes o' Yarrow !

Mr. James D. Law was born in Lumsden, West
Aberdenshire, Scotland, in 1865. It may here be
interesting to note that in the same village was born
the Rev. W. R. Nicoll, editorof the London "Book-
man," the '* British Weekly," " Expositor," and the
discoverer of Barrie, Crockett and Maclaren. Our
author received a good common English education,
completing his term as a pupil-teacher. From the
age of 18 to 21 he was employed in the estates office
at Durris, Deeside. He married in 1886 and then
emigrated to this country. He is now a respected

JAMES D. LA IV.

2/g

citizen of Camden, N. J., and holds a responsible
position with a manufacturing company in Philadel-
phia. He has four children, two boys and two girls.
His wife is an intelligent and worthy woman, and is
naturally proud of her gifted husband. A few years
ago Mr. Law was awarded a prize, offered by the
North American Uniied Caledonian Association for
the best Scottish poem by a resident of the United
States or Canada.

When " Dreams o' Fame and Other poems" Vvas
published the very handsome general appearance
of the book was the subject of much favorable com-
ment. It certainly has none of the poverty stricken
look about it that characterizes some vohmies of
poems. The writer has read a review of it in which
the stock phrase, '• Echoes of Burns," vvas made use
of. It is about time, however, that the critics dis-
continued this phrase in reviewing a new volume of
Scottish poems. Why not ' * Echoes of Shakespeare, ' '
or Milton or Dryden or Pope or even Tennyson,
when reviewing a new book of English poems ?
Surely Burns did not exhaust entirely the field of
Scottish poetic literature. Was he an echo of Ram-
say or Fergusson ? Hardly. Mr Law is cndowe
with all the finer qualities of a poet. Originality is
one of these qualities and to say that any one of his
poems is an echo of Burns is simply to talk nonsense.

As up-to-date specimens of Mr. Law's muse, we
take pleasure in quoting the two following effusions.
The first is a lilt in which loyalty to the land of

220

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adoption is happily blended with the exile's never
dying love for the " Auld Countrie ; " and the sec-
ond is an earnest protest against the too common
habit of a certain class who make use of the terms
England and English instead of Great Britain and
British. Thanks, by the way, are due to Mr. Law
from every Scot, for so earnest a protest regarding
the matter.

COLUMBIA— CAIvEDONIA
A SCOTTISH-AMERICAN SONG.

Columbia treats her strangers weel:

The langer kent she grows tnair dear;

And affthe heath nae Scot can feel
So much at hame as here !

"Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ;
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye ! "

The land we left — aye to us dear !

We've sung it lood and lang ;
But Lae we nae a country here

As worthy o' a sang ?
While Scotland's name and Scotland's fame

Wi' us can never dee,
Columbia noo we've made oor hame,
And praise to her we'll gie !

The Mither Land ! The Mither Land !

Let's couple wi' her name
The Independent ither land
We noo hae made oor hame !

JAMES D. LA IV.

221

II.

Shak* oot the starry banner's fauld,

And let the Thistle wave ;
The rampant Lion's nae mair bauld

Than is the Eagle brave !
The land we're in's a peerless land,

As big as Scotia's wee ;
Weel worthy by her side to stand
And aye oor hame to be !

We'll ne'er forget the Mither Land,

Nor need a Scot think shame
To sing wi' pride the ither land
We noo hae made oor hame !

IIL

The hame we had — the hame w' hae !

O, lang and far ye'll ca'
Afore ye meet, if e'er ye may,

Wi' sic anither twa !
Auld Caledonia's first and best

O' lands across the sea ;
And here's the glory o' the West,
The country o' the free !

God's blessings on the Mither Land,

And a' within the same,
And also on the ither land
We noo hae made oor hame !

SCOTLAND FOR THE SCOTS.*

Weel, weel, what are things comin' to?

What has become o' Britain ?
Wi' a' the English " England" noo

Is aye the wye it's written.

♦Suggested by reading the I,ondon Daily News controversy on " The
Isolation of England."

If)

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Puir Britons ! they hae clean forgot's —
They will hae nocht but " Englan',"

As gin she were ashamed wi' Scots
(And Irish) to be niinglin' !

We ken the English head is dense,

The Hinglish he'rt is naiTow ;
We ken that English insolence

Has never had its marrow ;
But let them gabble a' their micht

We hae oor Constitution,
And winna halt to read it richt

Tho' it bring dissolution !

Oh ! for the pen o' Robbie Burns,

To lash the Cockney Cuddies,
That wi' their quills are fain to turn's

Clean into Sass'nach bodies !
My faith to try to Englify

The hale big British nation ;
Sic want o' sense, sic impudence —

It fairly beats creation !

They prate as if they had forgot —

A fact maun nae be slighted —
'Twas by a true, richt royal Scot

The kingdoms were united.
Nae English king cam' marchin' north

For Scotland's annexation.
But soothward Scotty sallied forth

For English coronation !

Come, Johnny Bull ! hing doon yer heid ;

To this there's nae demurrin' ;
It sets ye ill — it does indeed —

At Scots to aye be slurrin'.

JAMES D. LAW.

223

They thrashed ye aft in days lang syne
When put upon their muscle,

And ere they independence tine
They'll risk anither tussle !

When Caledonia blaws her horn,

Whate'er the tricks ye try on,
Ye'll bully nae the Unicom,

Nor yet the Rampant 1/ion.
St. George will dance when by his nose

St. Andrew's Cross will whistle.
And whatna Scot would fear a rose,

As lang's there wags a Thistle !

All honour to our noble Queen —

"And Empress" — as 'tis written —
She hasna been coerced, I ween,

To drop the name o' Britain.
And while a Scot can say his say.

While North and South are mated,
Her royal " British" better nae

To ** English'' be translated !

Is there a man that advocates

A country as complex as
The grand and great United States

Should tak' the name o' Texas ?
And he or she, whae'er thv e.

Their lugs deserve a tinglin'.
That try to mak' Great Britain wee

By speakin' o't as Englan' !

It's Britain, it's Britain,
And so it must be written.
But gin ye ken that Englishmen
Wi^h frae the map to blot's.

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

We'll leave the English England.
(The Irish, too, ould Ireland),
Ay let them gang and get alang,
Wi' *' Scotland for the vScots."

We advise Mr. Law to continue to exercise his
poetic powers. He has accomplished much in the
past, but he is a yoiing man, and his countrymen
both at home and abroad are convinced that he will
yet produce something that will send his name ring-
ing throughout all parts of the civilized world where
the English language is known. The Scottish speak-
ing portion of the globe already know of hir

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his
the
men
will
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iiiJia

JOHN IMRn^.

lOHN IMRIE.

Few Canadian poets of to-day are more popular
or better known throughout the great Dominion than
is the subject of our present sketch, Mr. John Imrie
of Toronto, Ontario, and the reason of this is at
once obvious. Merit will always command attention,
and Mr. Imrie is a poet of a very high order of
merit. His poems are the outpourings of a heart
that is imbued with the sensitive and finer feelings
of a poet. They are pure, intellectual, vigorous,
patriotic and sincere, and in a great number of in-
stances they contain similes and thoughts which are
morally and poetically beautiful. His subjects are
well chosen, and such as he is capable of treating
successfully ; his sentiment is affectionate and loyal ;
his versification easy and correct ; hi;^ style free and
simple; his command of language ample for his pur-
pose. Mr. Albert E. S. Smythe of Toronto certainly
does not overestimate his abilities when he says:

Imrie, your lyrics pass the laws of kings,

Whose dread decrees but steeled the captive's heart;

Your home-taught lays a softer power impart, —
lyovc, joy and peace, the might that mercy brings :
And, though your muse lack flight of angel's wings,

To walk and talk with men is no mean art.

Strong in life's straits, secure against death's dart,
Attuned to truth, foreprizing hallowed things.

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Not of the mockers, nor of those who make
Love's sacrament a feasting, passion -spiced ;

Not lucre-thralled, nor cankered with the ache
Of envy ; free of almsdeed ^ ( nor priced ;

Not of the world : but humbly for His SFke,
Striving the nobler manhood after Ch

ti,;

-:%

Mr. Imrie is the author of three volumes of
poetry, all of which have been well received by those
parties interested, and therefore in a measure able
to judge of such works. His latest volume is a
handsome 8vo of 379 paj^es. It contains 262 poems,
which are divided into groups as follows, " Patriotic
Poems," "Poems of Love, Home and Friendship,"
"Miscellaneous Poems," "Sacred Compositions,"
and "vSonnets. " It will readily be seen from this
that Mr, Imrie is a voluminous writer of poetry, yet
he is a man whose business engageujcnts do not per-
mit of his enjoying many leisure hours. The few
hours, however, which he has occasionally spent at
the divine shrine of poesy have been happy hotirs to
him. His heart and soul is in poetry and poetical
subjects, and being a poet himself by nature his own
harp is seldom silent for any great length of time.
Among the finest poems in liii: book is the following:

NIAGARA FAIJvvS.

Oh, Niagara ! as at thy brink I stand,

My soul is filled with wonder and delight,

To trace in thee that wonder-working Hand,
Whose hollow holds the seas in balance light !

JOHN IMRIE.

227

Worthy art thou to be a nation's pride, —

A patriot'.s Tjoast — a world's unceasing wonder ;

I^ike some bold monarch calling to thy side
Subjects from every clime in tones of thunder?

Deep on my soul thy grandeur is impress'd,
Thy awful majesty — thy mighty power —

Th)' C( aselcss tumult and thy great unrest,
Like nations warring in dread conflict's hour !

Rainbows of glory sparkle round thy shrine.
Cresting thy waters with efTulgence bright ;

And in thy foaming currents intertwine
Rare coruscations of conimingl'd light !

Like roar of battle, or like thunder's call,
Thy deep-toned echoes roll with solemn sound ;

Like pillar'd clouds thy vapors rise, and fall
Like S'parkling pearls upoti the thirsty ground !

Rush on ! rush on ! in thy uncheck'd career,
With avalanchic power thy course pursue ;

While rending rocks quake as with mortal fear,
And stand in awe to let thy torrents through !

Naught but the hand of God could stay thy course,
Or dr;,ve thee back to Erie's peaceful keep ;

Then onward press with thy gigantic force,
Till in Ontario's bosom lulled to sleep !

Kmblem of Freedom ! who would dare essay
To bar thy noisy progress to the sea ?

Then onward press ! while bord'ring nations pray
For strength and wisdom to be great and free !

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Following this poem is one entitled ' * The Links
That Bind Us. " This is a very beautiful and touching
composition and contains sentiments which at once
appeal to the innermost feelings oi all classes and
conditions of people. It is a warm and affectionate
effusion and will do ranch to perpetuate the memory
of the gifted author:

THE IvINKvS THAT BIND US.

Oh ! the fond links that bind ns to this earth,
Strong as bands of iron — yet fine as gold ;

Partings and tears oft mingle with our mirth —
If loving much love never can grow cold !

Ah ! were it not for partings now and then,
Love of home and friends were never tested, —

Hardship and trial make the nol)lest men :
Present pain is future joy invested !

The patriot's wistful eyes are dimm'd with tears
When parting from his much-lov'd native soil,

His heart doth throb with many doubts and fears,
Yet Hope points forward though his soul recoil !

But when the weary years have come and gone.
And o'er the sea he homeward ploughs his way,

He finds his former doubts and fears have flown —
Midnight with him hath changed to dawn of day !

A mother parts with one — her only son,
Each shows but half the anguish that they feel, —

The voyage finished, or the battle won,
What depths of love the meeting doth reveal !

1 !

JOHN IMRIE.

229

Methinks such joy is ours when God, at last,
Shall find us gather'd 'neath Heaven's azure dome ;

Our journeys, tears, and partings of the past
Will be as- naught if we but reach our home !

Next we have a delightful little lyrical piece en-
titled "The Sweetest Word on Earth is Home,"
which has been set to appropriate music by Professor
J. F. Johnstone, of Toronto, and in this form has
attained an extensive sale. The subject, we need
hardly remind our readers, is a favorite one with
poets, and it is therefore all the more to Mr. Imrie's
credit that he has been able to present us with a
poem which compares favorably with other authors'
compositions on the same subject :

THE SWEETEST WORD ON EARTH IS HOME.

The sweetest word on earth is home,

To loving hearts most dear ;
Where'er our footsteps seek to roam,

Home thoughts are ever near.
The mem'ries sweet of life's spring-day

Keep fresh and green forever.
Like fragrant flowers they scent the way
Adown life's winding river.
Chorus. — ^The dearest spot beneath the skies
Is that we call "our home !"
'Tis there we look with longing eyes
Though o'er the earth we roam !

Our homes may be where mountains rise
Like dark-green clouds to Heaven ;

Or where the valley-lily lies
Our humble lot be given ;

2JO

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Or on an island of the sea
Oft by the tempest prest :

No matter where our homes may be,
To each that home is blest.
Cho. — " The dearest spot," etc.

The strongest love within man's breast

Is love of life and home ;
Like fledglings hovering round their nest

Our thoughts encircle home ;
Our years may reach three-score-and-ten.

And full of changes be,
Yet scenes of homes will haunt us then

When life was pure and free.
Cho. — " The dearest spot," etc.

Where love hath cast her golden spell

And kindest deeds are done,
Where loving hearts unite to dwell,

'Tis heaven on earth begun ;
Then cherish home with jealous care

And let not strife prevail ;
Thus for our " heavenly home " prepare.

Secure within the vail.
Cho. — " The dearest spot," etc.

Mr. Imrie is a native of Glasgow, Scotland, hav-
ing been born there about fifty years ago. It is
therefore not to be wondered at that many of his
pieces are in the Scottish dialect. Indeed, as far as
we can judge, his best pieces are those in which he
expresses his thoughts and feelings in the language
of Burns and Scott — his own sweet mother tongue.
His compositions in this respect are on a wide variety

JOHN IMRIE.

2^1

of subjects. We have "Bruce and Bannockburn,"
♦♦The Dying Scot Abroad," ♦'The Hielan' Fling,'
♦♦My Heart is Scotland's Yet," ♦' Scotch Dainties,"
♦♦Scotty," ♦♦ The Thistle," ♦'A Bunch o' Heather,"
♦♦A Scotch Surprise Party," ♦'Hame,yetno at Hame,"
♦♦ My Mither's Grave," and various others, all more
or less interesting and all showing the handmark of
a true poet. We quote two of these pieces as speci-
mens of his Scottish muse :

MY MITHER'S GRAVE.

I Stan' beside the cauld head-stane,

An' wat it wi' my tears ;
An' whisper, ^^ Milher, here^ s your wean

Ye hav'na' seen for years /"
Whan last I saw your dear, sweet face,

An' heard your kindly tone,
I little thought that this dread place

So soon would claim its own.

I plann'd to tak' you ower the sea,

To comfort an' to ease,
Whaur you could end your daj-s wi' me,

An' dae maist as you please ;
But, ah ! the I^ord had ither plans,

An' sent for you Himsel' ;
His ways are no' aye like to man's,

Yet does He a' things well !

But, though you cannot come to me,

I j'ct shall gang to you,
When death shall set my spirit free

I'll mount yon starry blue.

t li

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Where grief an' partings are no more .

Nor Death, nor any pain,
You'll welcome me on Canaan's shore —

We'll never pairt again !

Farewell ! most sacred spot to me.

My dear auld mither's grave,
I'll think o' thee when ower the sea,

Ayont Atlantic's wave ;
Our graves may yet be far apart,

Our spirits joined shall be.
There's aye a green spot in my heart,

My mither dear, for thee !

SCOTCH DAINTIES.

Gie a Scotchman a guid cog o' brose,
Wi' milk just new drawn frae the coo ;

Feth ye'll no see him turn up his nose,
But tak' them, and then smack his moo' !

Chorus: — lirose, parrilch, kail, haggis an' bannocks.
Are dainties abune a' compare !
Nae English, French, Yankees, or Cannucks,
Could mak' sucli a gran' bill o' fare !

Guid parritch for weans is sae healthy,
It mak's them grow strong, fat an' weel,

Dyspeptics are aye 'mang the wealthy.
They eat what wad sicken an eel !

Cho. — " Brose, parritch, kail," etc.

An' what is sae nice as Scotch kail,

Wi' carrots, an' turnips, an' leeks ;
Hielan' men are braw, hearty an' hale —

Yet gang a' the year withoot breaks !
Cho. — " Brose, parritch, kail," etc.

JOHN IMRIE.

233

But the haggis is king o' the table, —
A Scotchman's niaist toothfu' deUght,

By dining on that he is able
To match ony twa in a fight !

Cho. — '* Brose, parritch, kail," etc.

When spying for game in Glen Sannox,

Ahint a wheen stanes on my knees.
What's sweeter than crumpin' oat bannocks,

An' eatin' a whang o' guid cheese !
Cho. — " Brose, parritch, kail," etc.

Brose, parritch, kail, haggis an' bannocks,
Wad mak lean consumptives grow fat,

Though they'd sleep oot at nicht in hammocks.
They'd ne'er be a bit waur o' that !

Cho. — "Brose, parritch, kail," etc.

Then gie us oor dainty Scotch farin'
We'll honour the auld muckle pat !

For pastry an' pies we're no carin',
Scotch laddies are no built wi' that !

Cho. — "Brose, parritch, kail," etc.

A very able introduction to Mr. Imrie's poems,
written by G. Mercer Adatn, Esq., of Toronto, is
prefixed to the volume. Mr. Mercer says: —

"Among the diverse interests of this restless mone)"-
grubbing world, there is one which should hold a
lai\jer place than it does in the affections of the
masses, — namely, the honest unaffected love of home
and home pleasures. In these days we are all of us
too much disposed to seek enjoyment abroad, and to
figure more than is good for us in the eye of the

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public. The craving for excitement has made us
impatient with home, and the fireside and domestic
shrines have in large measure lost their attraction.
We are no longer satisfied, with the novel, with the
song or with the play, thrit used to delight our fore-
fathers ; nothing so simple and innocent would now
content us. Even our religion has suffered a change.
The stern morality and unbending creeds of other
days have become pliant and yielding, while com-
promise and emasculated beliefs have taken their
place. The old djctrines familiar to the by-gone
pulpit now offend us, though we are not particular
if the preacher resorts to irreverence and slang, — on
the contrary, we rather encourage him in this pro*
pensity. With tastes and cravings so destructive to
the spiritual life, what wonder that simple joys and
quiet domestic pleasures have in this social world
lost much of their charm ?

"Yet the common people, — as the phrase goes, the
men and v omen who are doing the e very-day work
of this tolling world, stand more than ever in need
of rest and quiet, and the kindly solacement of
happy freside intercourse. Innocent delights, rest-
ful pleasures, and the blissful contentment of a well-
ordered, comfortable home, with such recreation as
these Edens afford, must be the necessities, we should
think, of those at least whose lot is a ceaseless round
of toil. To such our author comes with his tuneful
lyra and sings us the gladsome lays of the home and
fireside. Benefactor is he not, to you and to me, if

JOHN IMRIE

'35

he beguiles us from our distractions and cares, and
leads us to realize that, after all, the world's happi-
ness lies in the quiet comforts and refining influences
of home ? It would, indeed, be difficult for thoughts,
however expressed, on love, friendship, home, and
kindred topics to fail of finding response in the hu-
man breast ; and the average reader who follows the
bent of his own unperverted taste, and is as indifferent
to the critics as the poets themselves, will find much
to please him in the book.

**Of profit he should also find much, if his sym-
pathies are as keen and broad as the author's, and
his appreciation equal to his, of the warm-hearted
Christian brotherhood, and unaffected moral purpose,
which should find expression in all our work. Not
its least merit, it must be said, is in the fact that
there is not a puzzling or baffling line in the book.
This should be counted for something, when there is
so much in our modern verse, not ambitious of fame
merely, but cold, meaningless, and empty. The
volume, is chiefly noteworthy, however, not only for
unassuming sincerity on the part of the writer, but
for its appeal to the universal and easily awakened
feelings of our common humanity. The unobtrusive
piety and strain of religious sentiment which run,
like threads of gold, through the book, will, we are
sure, not the less endear the volume to the reverent
reader, and to those whose hearts have felt the in-
fluences of the divine. May it be its mission to keep
alive the love of home, to minister to minds dis-

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traiight with toil and care, and among its readers —
we trust of all ranks and conditions of men — to im-
part an eternal sabbath in the heart."

With all this praise, however (and it is certainly
not unworthily bestowed), Mr. Imrie is, as Mr. Adam
implies, very unassuming in regard to his own merits
as a poet. In the preface to the second edition of
his poems he says :

*' It is with mingled feelings of humility and
gratitude to my friends and patrons that I pen
this short preface to the second edition of my
poems. It is but three years since I ventured to
test the purchasing appreciation of the public by
publishing my first volume, and now with more con-
fidence is sent forth a larger edition of the same
book. My first volume extended to two hundred and
ten pages ; in this edition counting later poems there
are three hundred and fifty pages. Acting on the
advice of friends, there will be found a number of
songs set to music, the melody of which I have in-
troduced as a relief to the eye, and a solace to the
ear, of my musical patrons. Most of these songs
have been published from time to time in sheet-
music form, and have met with a ready site.

"The children of the home — as in h drst edition
— have a liberal share of my th ts in ha] est

moods, and I am not ashamed to o . 'i thn I have a
great pleasure in serving them as ' ch Idren of a
larger growth. ' My style is simple, but none the less
sincere, and my chief desire is to please and en-

JOHN IMRIE.

»37

courajje the toiling masses. That these humble
heart-thoughts and aspirations for the present and
future welfare of my fellow countrymen, and hu-
manity at large, may be accepted in the kindly spirit
in which they have been composed is the earnest
wish of the author."

As may be infered from the above, included in Mr.
Imrie's book are a number of pieces suitable for and
interesting to young people. They are decidedly in
the author's happiest strain and are popular not only
in Canada but elsewhere. Here is one of the
simplest : —

SHE PAYS HER DEBTS WITH KISSES.

I know a winsome little pet

With wealth of roseate blisses,
Who takes what favors she can get

And pays her debts with — kisses !

At night when I come home to tea
She bribes me with her " kishes,"

Then plants herself upon my knee
And tastes of all my dishes.

She comes off best in every " trade,"

And seldom ever misses
To catch me in the trap she's laid,

Then " pays me off " with — kisfes !

She says she wants a " dolly " nice,
With long and golden tresses,

And if I ask her for the price,
Gives kisses and caresses !

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

I dearly love this little maid,

AlKJve all other misses ;
I'll take back every word I've said,

And " trade " with her for " tisses !"

The sonnet is also a favorite style of composition
with our author, there beinjTf not less than forty-four
of them in his last volume. They are all of a super-
ior caste and contain many bright and cheerful
thoughts on all kinds of subjects. We quote the
following specimens:

FREKDOM.

I'reedom is obedience to righteous law

Framed for the guidance of a nation great ;
Made to be kept — not broken by a flaw

Known only to the rulers of the Stale !
Justice that treats the rich and poor alike,

Defending each from favor and attack ;
Slow to convict — yet ready aye to strike

The fatal blow on all that honor lack !
A nation's strength is measured by her laws ;

Her safety is the welfare of her sons ;
Industry and loyalty the power that draws

In peace her commerce, and in war her guns !
Freedom — our birthright, sell it not for gold,
Our fathers bought it with their blood of old !

REST.

Rest is the peaceful calm which follows toil ;
Sweet to the laboring man who tills the soil ;
Likewise most precious to the weary brain,
Tired with the dull routine of loss or gain ;

JOHN IMRIE.

239

Or to the authors of our learned l)ooks,
Who show the trace of study in their looks.
All value rest — aH need those quiet hours
As much as doth the plant those welcome showers
Which Heaven sends to cool the fevered earth,
And cause sweet Nature sing aloud with mirth.
When God at first created earth and skies,
He " rested " in the shades of Paradise !
Likewise shall we, earth's care and laljor o'er,
Find rest the sweeter for the toils we bore !

Nor would we omit in passing" to mention the fact
that many of Mr. Imrie's pieces show some excellent
descriptive writing. His powers in this respect are
very keen. In his poem on " Queenston Heights "
he says:

Here two great nations met as if to kiss,

Divided only by a silver line ;
Peace, welfare, harmony and nuitual bliss.

Link fruitful branches of a parent vine.

And in his ode to " Lake Ontario,"

I:'

Last of the Inland seas— yet nearest home —
Thy waters soon shall swell the mighty deep.

And mingle with the ocean's briny foam,
There shalt thou rest, and there for ever sleep.

Before taking leave of our author and his works
we desire to call special attention to his religious
compositions. They are all expressed in beautiful
language and contain nothing that is dogmatical or
offensive to any one. His Christianity is of the true

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

kind, being broad, and deep and charitable, and we
may add that the record of his own Jife proves him
to be a man of great piety and gentleness, simplicity
and purity. It is hard to determine which are the
most suitable religious pieces for quotation, but we
select the following:

, 1

THE TOUCH OF THE DIVINE.

Each grain of sand by sounding sea,
Each trembling leaf on quivering tree,
Each blade of grass on dewy lea.
Speaks volumes of God's love to me !

!;■;![

The pearls that deep in ocean lie,
The twinkling stars that gem the sky,
The sunbeam, caught from noontide's eye,
Direct my thoughts, oh God, to Thee !

The flowers that deck the fragrant dell,
And o'er me cast their beauty-spell,
I love them, for they seem to tell.
The story of God's love to me !

No matter where I wander free,
By river, lake or boundless sea,
The touch of God's dear hand I see.
And know by these He loveth me.

Oh, God ! Thou doest all things well.
Earth, sea, and sky Thy wisdom tell.
In heaven what must it be to dwell
For ever, O my God, with Thee !

JOHN IMRIE.

241

d we
him
icity
i the
t we

OUR MEETING-PLACE IS HEAVEN.

Lines on the death of Mrs. G. W. Grant, afiFectionatcly dedicated to the
sur\'iviugf members of her family.

One year ago a reaper came,

The reaper's name was Death ;
He gently whispered baby's name,

And chill'd her with his breath !
Her mother's heart was sorely riv'n,

The father bow'd his head —
She's but transplanted safe in Heaven,

And lives — whom we call dead !

But mother pin 'd— and Death was kind —

He could not part them long.
For now they meet al Jesus' feet,

And sing the glad new song !
Till all are gather'd safely home.

Life's work and duties o'er.
Then father and the boys will come.

And meet to part no more !

No need for tears — no cause for fears —

Death as a friend is giv'n,
We sink to rise beyond the skies —

Our meeting-place is Heaven !
We are but pilgrims here below —

Sojourners of a day —
None in that land where Christians go

Shall ever know decay !

KINDRED SOULS.

To John D. Ross, New York, who wrote an extended review of my poems
for the " Home Journal," which encouraged me greatly.

There is a kinship of the soul

Known to the good and true,
Pulsive as needle to the pole, —

One such I've found in you ;

III

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Friends are life's chain of golden links
Let down from Heaven above,

God yet will w^eld the whole, methinks,
All perfected in love !

h 1

There is a hope more sure than creeds.

To lead us home to God —
The daily planting of good deeds

Shall flower Heaven's virgin sod ;
Each aspiration of the soul

In search of God and Truth,
Leads surely to that happy goal.

Where dwells eternal youth !

f •

They grow not old that Wisdom love-

Our bodies may decay —
But, oh ! leal souls shall soar above ;

Death hastens life's birthday !
Then let us hold our Father's hand.

Like children, and obey, —
If we but seek to understand,

He'll teach us by the way !

ADVERSITY.

;<: ,t

A crucible, in which to purge the dross

From out the gold of friendship leal and true.
Testing the interest men may have in j'ou, —

Selfishness or Sacrifice ? — Gain or Loss ?

Adversity's a friend, in stern disguise,
If by its uses thou may'st find thy foes,
For, until then, life .ill too smoothly flows, —

Experience is a teacher to the wise !

Trust not in friends till thou hast found them strong
When thou art weak — cheerful when thou art glad-

JOHN IMRIE.

243

In bonds of sympathy when thou art sad, —
These are the friends that tarry with thee long !
Adversity will put false friends to rout ;
Thank God in prayer, for having found them out !

REVENGE.

Dark-browed " Revenge,"— the wicked weakling's plea.

Too oft the answer to a noble foe,

Lulling the conscience for a coward's blow.

He dare not strike when other eyes may see !

To take a mean advantage o'er a friend.

Because of fancied insult, slight, or wrong.

Can never build a nature good and strong.

And oft defeats its object in the end !

•' Revenge is Sweet," — the craven coward saith.

And skulking, hides himself in hell's dark hold,

Then steps he forth with venom-bated breath !

Revenge makes man the devil's handy slave.

To do his will, and fill a coward's grave !

IMI

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The Canadian School Journal, in a kindly review of
Mr. Imrie's poems, said :

" This volume will find its true place, the place for
which it is intended, in many a home and heart. Its
simple lays breathe throughout the spirit of rever-
ence for God, loyalty to country, and regard for the
delights of love, home, and friendship. As such
they will be read by the quiet fireside, and minister
pleasure and solace to many homes where more
elaborate and finished productions, with less heart in
them, would fail."

In conclusion let me now quote a very excellent

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

poetical address to Mr. Imrie from Donald F. Smith
of Camlachie, Can. :

A SCOTCHMAN'S ADDRESS TO JOHN IMRIE,
TORONTO'S POET.

John Imrie, ye're a gifted chiel,
Yer clinkin' sangs I loe them weel,
Ye iieedna heed the woralt's heel,

Wi' a' her wrangs,
For ye could earn yer meat an' meal

Jest writin' sangs.

There's mony poets in oor Ian'
Jest made o' common lime an' san',
But, Jock, ye're jest the mettel drawn

An' shappit weel,
By guid Dame Nater's honest han',

Frae head to heel.

It's sweetly dae ye gar it clink,
Wi' pathos yoked to ilka link ;
Lang may yer canty muse aye blink

Sae blyth an' clear.
Till ye're out o'er Parnassus' brink

Withoot a peer.

Ye dinna praise thae daft M. P.'s
Wha hae a 'nack o' tellin' lees ;
But aye ye sing the muse to please

As suits thysel',
An' how ye dae it wi' sic ease

I canna tell.

JOHN IMRIE.

»45

Some poets praise proud fashion's wiles,

Or court aristocratic smiles,

An' never heed the han' that toils ;

But this ye'll grant
Wherever vanity beguiles

The muse is scant.

Gie me the poet wha can sing

O' Summer, Autumn, Winter. Spring,

Or spread with a majestic wing

The patriot's page,
An', hark, ye'll hear his echoes ring

Frae age to age.

Gie me a bardie like yersel',
Ye sing, but why ye canna' tell,
But when ye tak the musey spell

Ye hae the airt
O' touchin' aye the inmost cell

O' ilka heart.

If critics cock their crabbit nose,
Heed not, dear Jock, their silly prose ;
Just turn an' trample on their toes,

They'll tak their heels,
There but a set o' feeble foes, —

Satire the deils.

An' sud ye happin on sick cattle
We ony o' their ill-fatired prattle.
Ye needna try wi' honest battle

To stop their chat,
But rhyme satire an' let it rattle, —

They'll no stan' that.

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

If ouy o' thein nip yer line,

An' 3'e are unco set for time,

Gie me the wink — my aid is thine —

An' faith they'll be
Another daft-like herd o' swine

Drooned in the sea.

So, Imrie, here's to you this nicht,
An' may immortal honors bricht
Crown thee, yea, as a shining licht,

While folk in throngs
Wi' kings an' princes in their niicht

Sing loud thy songs.

^s^

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ROBERT REID.

Conspicuous among the more prominent poets
who have left the shores of the old world and set-
tled in Canada is Robert Reid, or, as he frequently
loved to style himself in his younger days, " Robert
Wanlock. " Gifted by nature with an intense poetic
temperament he has written a large amount of true
poetry ; poetry that will live and be read long after
much of the so-called poetry of to-day shall have
passed into oblivion. At the age of twenty-four he
appeared before the public witli a volume of poems
and songs entitled " Moorland Rhymes." Although
he was for many years previous to this a welcome
contributor to the poet's corner in many of the local
newspapers and magazines, he was comparatively
unknown to the literary world, but the superior tone
and the general excellence of his musings, as dis-
played in this little volume, at once attracted atten-
tion everywhere. He was hailed by the press as a
new poet of a high order, his book was eagerly
bought up, and his reputation thus established has
increased with each succeeding year until he is now
classed among the finest of the Scottish poets domi-
ciled abroad.

There is certainly much for the lovers of poetry to
admire both in " Moorland Rhymes" and in '* Poem
Songs and Sonnets," the latter a more recently pub-

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

lished volume by Mr. Reid. Every poem in these
two volumes is a masterpiece of great poetical
beauty and sterling literary ability, while the numer-
ous lyrical effusions contained in them are of an
exceedingly sweet and tender nature and at once
impress the reader with the fact that they are the
choice work of an inspired singer. In both the
poems and songs nature is frequently the theme but
it really seems as if it was the voice of nature itself
that we are listening to, so graphic and striking and
true is it in all its details. Simple, easy-flowing,
pleasant verses, happy thoughts, brilliant similes,
attractive rhymes, poems, songs and sonnets, on the
Covenanters, on Wallace, Love, Autumn, Fame,
and various other kindred topics, constitute an intel-
lectual treat for the lover of Scottish poetry to spend
an occasional hour over, and when we are compelled
to put aside either of the volumes, we close it gently
and lay it down affectionately, as if regretting the
necessity of having to part company with it.

Mr. Reid is a native of Wanlock, Dumfriesshire,
Scotland, and it is therefore not surprising that he is
an ardent admirer of the Scottish dialect as used by
Burns, Scott, Hogg, Wilson, and many others.
Indeed, the majority of his best poems are written
in his mother tongue, and it therefore becomes a
difficult matter to select the pieces to present to
American readers that will convey to them a correct
idea of his true merits. However, here is a pretty
fair specimen of his powers :

ROBERT RE ID.

249

these

)etical

umer-

of an

: once

re the

th the

ne but

3 itself

lyf and

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iimiles,
on the
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sent to
correct
\ pretty

ENTERKIN.

There's a glen i' the far-afF hills o' my hame

I'll ne'er forget ;
A glen wi' a sweet auld-farrant name

That thrills me yet ;
Thrills me, and fills me wi' nameless joy,
As the sicht o't did when a dreamin' boy,
And I lay at e'en on the gray hillside.
My young heart loupin' wi' stouns' o' pride
At thocht o' the ferlies ye had seen —
Warrior and martyr, lover and freen' —
A' tint noo frae the hill-folk's e'en !
O Enterkin, I hae wandert far

Owre land and sea,
But, sweetest o' a' sweet memories, are

My dreams o' thee ;
For there, i' the gowden youthfu' days

O' love and pride,
Whtn the Sabbath calm had husht the braes

At gloamin' tide.
The forms that I lo'ed best to see
Were wont to dauner at e'en wi' me ;
The kindly auld folks led the way.
But watcht that we didna jouk or play ;
Sister, and brother, and comrade dear.
And aiblins a sweet young stranger here,
Borrowed frae London ance a year.
O blaw thou saft on her bonnie face,

Thou muirlan' win',
For a wiusomer sicht did never grace

Grey Enterkin \

Then streikit at ease on the lane glen-held,

Oor cracks wad be
O' the dauntless word and the baulder deed

That set men free ;

'il

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Free to meet i' the wilds and pray
To God, i' their ain wild simple way.
Peacefu' and happy is Enterkin !
A lowner glen ye wad hardly fin' ;
A'body comes and gangs at will,
Safe as the suulicht on the hill,
Never a heart takes tent o' ill,
O weel may the auld times fill wi' tliocht

Ilk pensive min',
For the freedom and safety there were bocht

Wi' bluid lang syne !
Baith lanesome and laich are the soun's that creep

Through Enterkin ;
Nocht waur than the bleat o' the wild hill sheep

Disturbs the glen,
The sugh o' the win', the bumie's moan,
Or the cry o' the whaup on Auchenlone ;
Little ye'd dream o' the fearsome day
When the red-coats fiU'd yon narrow way.
Where the men o' the Covenant took their stand
For the martyr-faith o' their native land.
And stern M' Michael led the band.
O sweet be his slumber in auld Kirkbride,

That warrior grim.
For the half o' the charm o' yon gray hillside

Was wrocht by him !

Fu' cheerily there on the lanesome heichts

The lift looks doon,
And bauldy up i' the warm sunlicht

Ilk hands his croon.
Lowther and Stey Gyle, Auchenlone —
Daintiest hill that the licht looks on —
(Aft hae I speel'd its benty side
Wi' freeu's noo sindert far and wide !)

ROBERT REID.

^5f

While bonnily owre baitli burn and brae
The sklentin' shadows o' e'eniii play,
And syne hap a' at the close o' day.
O surely the weird, uncanny skill

O' elfin wand
Ne'er cuist mair glamour on howe and hill
In faery land !

;ht

creep
lieep

stand

Iside

O saft be thy music, thou wind o' the west,

In Enterkin !
And shine oot, sun, in thy splendor drest,

In Enterkin !
A' things bonnie and hearthsome be.
Aye like a halo o' joy roun' thee !
And in the hearts o' weary men
That come to look on the lanesome glen,
Peace, like the peace that slumbers there,
Peace, like the peace that follows prayer.
Fa' like the dewdraps unaware !
O fain would I niffer a twouiond's joy

This side the sea
Tae feel as I felt when a dreamin' boy
Langsyne in thee !

There are many exquisite thoughts, besides nu-
merous lines of excellent poetry in the above com-
position, and the dialect is not so ancient or peculiar
but that it may be readily understood by most
American readers. But among the best and the
shorter of Mr. Reid's Scottish poems is one entitled
"TheWhaup." This little poem has been praised
and quoted far and wide, and it is without doubt a
poem of great beauty. The rhyme is perfect, the

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sentiment tender and sweet, and fond memories of
the past seem to crowd upon us as we read it:

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THE WHAUP.

Fu' sweet is the lilt o' the laverock

Frae the rim o' the cJucl at tnoni ;
The merle pipes weel in his midday biel,

In the heart o' the bending thorn.
The blythe, bauld sang o' the mavis

Rings clear in the gloamin' sliaw ;
But the whaup's wild cry in the gurly sky

O' the moorlan' dings them a'.

For what's in the lilt o' the laverock

To touch och niair than the ear?
The merle's lown craik in the tangled brake

Can start nae memories dear ;
And even the sang o' the mavis

But waukens a love dream tame
To the whaup's wild cry on the breeze blawn by,

Like a wanderin' word frae hame.

What thochts o' the lang, grey moorlan'

Start up when I hear that cry !
The times we lay on the heathery brae

At the well, lang syne gane dry ;
And aye as we spak' o' the ferlies

That happen'd afore time there,
The whaup's lane cry on the win' cam' by

Like a wild thing tint in the air.

And though I hae seen mair ferlies

Than grew in the fancy then,
And the gowden gleams o' the boyish dream

Hae clipped frae my soberer brain,

ROIiERr RE ID.

HS3

Yet — even yet — if I wander

Alane by the moorlan' hill,
That queer, wild cry frae the gurly sky

Can tirl my heart strings still.

In his purely English compositions, however, Mr.
Reid gives further ev^idence of his being in a high
degree gifted with the true poetic faculty. Such
poems as " The Spirit of the Moor," "The Cairn on
the Hill,' "Here and Hereafter," "The Poet and
His Theme," "The Two Gates," " Looking Back,"
"Retrospect," " Only a Dream," "Tired," " Sum-
mer and Love," "Unfulfilled Renown," and many
others are poems o<: distinguished merit, and we see
at a glance that it would be next to impossible for a
mere minor poet to have produced them. Their
general tone is good, their construction elegant, and
a discriminating poetic taste pervades them all.
Among the author's other English compositions is
the "Address to the Soul." This is a well conceived
i<nen.^ and it contains some peculiar thoughts which
aie well worth studying. It also proves that Mr.
Reid's religious convictions are of a sii.cerc and last-
ing character.

ADDRESS Tv) THE SOUL.

O, thou, whate'er thou art, whose throne

Is centicd in the life of me.
Thou silent spirit working on

In bondage, burning to be free.

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Whence comest thou ; and whither go'st ?

Art thou some wanderer from afar,
Who left his own mysterious coast,

To rule my being like a star ?

And, when this thralldom is no more,
Will thou at once, exultant, spring

Back to that mystic natal shore,

Clea.ing the dusk on viewless wing?

Fain would I know thy birth and doom,
Whose presence and whose power are such

That I am left in joy or gloom.
By the weird magic of thy touch.

I !

'; I

Art thou of God or devil born ?

Thy smile is heaven, thy frown is hell,
I cannot live beneath thy scorn.

But in ^\\y love I long to dwell.

Thou art a finger in mine eye,
Forever pointing out the way,

And in mine ear a warning cry.

That knows not silence, night or day.

And when I sin (as mortals will)
Tbj^ secret sorrow moves me so,

That I endure in every thrill
The agony of utter woe.

N I

Or if to good I should incline,
Thou niakest all my being glad ;

The soft winds blow, the sweet suns shine,
And I for very mirth am mad.

ROBERT RE ID.

By this, I think, thou art from heaven,
Where all our powers for good are born.

For uuto what man e'er was't given
To find sweet grapes upon a thorn.

255

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Nay more, for when I stand with Thee
Where Nature's voice is stern and high,

Beside the restless turbid sea,
Or 'neath the black tempestuous sky,—

When all the elemental force,

Which He who made can use to mar,

Seems battling to obstruct the course
Earth takes around her central star, —

Or in lone places of the hills.
Where I may sit me down to rest,

When evening calm the welkin fills :
A something stirs within my breast.

And stirring, issues forth to greet

A kindred something brooding there ;

And while they hold communion sweet,
I know that God is in the air :

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I know it, and I worship low.
And bless Him that he sent me thee

The greatest gift he could bestow,
Eterne, immortal, even as He !

Thou art the one thing that doth part
Me from all other life that is.

That still keep'st whispering to my heart
How I can make that life like His.

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With thee, I can exult, aspire ;

Without thee, I were but a clod ;
Thou spark from the Eternal fire

Blown to me by the breath of God !

One of the daintiest little compositions that we
have met with for some time will be found in
"Moorland Rhymes," imder the title of *'At the
Garden Gate." It has the true poetic ring in it, and
it is a piece of poetical work of which the author
may justly feel proud :

The moon, like a shepherdess, climbs the steeps

Where her silent flocks of stars are straying.
And lightly down through the dark-bine deeps

Her cloudy robes on the breeze are playing ;
The spell of the night is on mountain and main,

Woodlands and waters are swathed in sleep ;
And fitful and faint on the night wind's wings
Is wafted the dirge that the streamlet sings,

AS it glides through the glen to its grave in the deep.

Alone by the garden-gate as I stand

I think of the night, just such another.
When I waited here to touch the hand

Dear to me yet above all other :
Just so did the moonlight tip the trees ;

Just so the night-wind rose and fell ;
Ah me ! how long should I linger now
With the night-wind stealing across my brow.

Ere the touch of that hand would break the spell ?

As has already been stated Mr. Reid is a native
of Wanlock, Dumfriesshire, Scotland. He was born

ROBERT RE ID.

257

on the eight of June, 1850. At the age of fifteen he
removed to Glasg^ow and entered the counting-house
of Messrs. Stewart and MacDonald, a well-known
manufacturing firm there. Here, we imderstand,
he remained for four vears, after which he removed
to Belfast, Ireland. A year later he returned to
Glasgow and entered the employment of the late
Mr. William Cross, who in private life was a promi-
nent song writer and the author of "The Disrup-
tion," etc. In 1S77 he sailed for Canada and he has
since occupied a prominent position in the well-
known dry goods warehouse of Messrs. Henry
Morgan & Co., Montreal. During all these years,
however, he has steadily kept his native land in
view. In spirit indeed he is ever there, and the
hills and woods and glens around Wanlock have
furnished the inspiration for many of his most pleas-
ing poems. Of his birthplace he says: —

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Did ye ever hear tell o' a lanely wee toon,
Far hid aniang hilLs o' the heather sae broon,
Wi' it's hooses reel-rail, keekiii' oot at ilk turn
Like an ill-cuisten crap in the howe o' the burn ;
Ane here and ane there, wi' a fit road atween,
In the daftest construction that ever was seen ?

O there the cauld winter first comes wi' his n.rv,
And he likes it sae v.eel that he's laith tae gae "\va ;
For there's three months o' bliiister to ilk ane o' sun,
And the dour nippin' crameuch's maist aye 'ii thegrun';
Ay, whiles the corn's green in the Lilians, they say,
Or the hinmaist srmw-wreath dwines awa <n the brae.

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Frae mornin' till nicht ye wad tentily gang,
And no hear the cheep o' a hedge-sparrow's sang,
Nae merle at e'enin' his melody starts
Tae wauken the dream in the lassies' bit hearts,
Rnt a corbie's maybe, or some ither as stoor.
Comes by wi' a waiif o' the win' frae the muir.

Then for flow'rs and siclike, there's juist no sic a thing.
Except a wheen gowans a while in the spring ;
And the twa-three bit busses the bodies ca' trees
Ilae an auld-farrant look as they bend in the breeze,
And scarce want the gift o' the gab tae proclaim
They reckon this solitude ocht but their hame.

The poem from which the above extract is taken
contains no less thar eighteen stanzas, all of them
written in the same high-spirited and affectionate
strain. There are also many very fine descriptive
passages embodied in it, and it is in all respects an
excellent and creditable production. From a num-
ber of shorter poems on the same subject we quote
one which will bear favorable comparison with it.
The title is '* My Ain Hills," and many people have
a sincere liking for it, in some cases indeed prefer-
ring it to a few of the longer poems:

MY AIN HILLS.

Tbe bonnie hills o' Waulock,

I've speilt them ane an' a',
Baith laich and heich, and stey and dreich.

In rain, and rowk, and snaw ;
And ower a' ither mountains

Nane else e'er bure the gree ;
Nae peaks that rise aneth the skies

Can raise sic thochts in me.

ROBERT RE in.

259

I've warslet up Ben Lomond

When simmer deck'd its side,
And gray Goatfell that stan's itsel'

In solitary pride.
But frae their wildest grandeur

Wi' sma concern I'd turn
To ae wee glen, wi' some I ken,

By Wanlock's wimplin' burn.

For there wi' chiel's far sunder'd

I roved in glee lang syne,
And never fit was lichter yet

Amang the muirs than mine.
And wi' sic shouts o' gladness

We startlet hill and plain —
I'd tyne a year o' a' things here

To raise the like again.

; \

But we are lads nae langer,

And time is gowd, they say ;
The hills sae green are seldom seen,

When ance we start to stray.
And mair than time is wanting.

For gin we a' were there —
Wha kens ? the min' micht no incline

Its former sports to share.

O, bonnie hills o' Wanlock !

What pranks auld Time does play !
I kent nae change in a' your range

When I cam' here the day.
But faces that I met wi'

Are surely alter 't sair ;
And some I ken hae left the glen

We'll never meet wi' mair.

nil

260

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

f !

But though the fit may wander,

The heart can aye be true,
And njony a yin I brawly ken

Wad fain be here e'enoo ;
And mony a weary comrade

Like jne fu' aften prays
That the bonnie hills o' Wanlock

May see his hinmost days.

One of Mr. Reid's friends writes in regard to this
poem :

" There v.i a warmth of heart and an easy natural-
ness in these verses which are very refreshing-, and
the sentiment of the last two lines I know is sincere.
In a letter written not so long ago ^Ir. Reid gave
expression to the hope that his funeral might yet
take place in the land of his nativity — attended, so
he said, by a wheen daicent folks with grey plaids
on their honest shoothers, and nae mournin' ony-
where aboot them — except in their hearts."

Among Mr. Reid's other notable Scottish poems
"MayMoril," " Hame's Aye Hame," ''ASprigo'
Heather," "Langsyne," " The Cottar's Comfort,"
and "Among the Brume," are each deserving of
mention. In all of them the Scottish dialect is
freely used and it is used in such a sweet manner
that we cannot help admiring the author's good
judgment in introducing it as often as he does in his
work.

Another pleasing feature of Mr. Reid's two vol-
umes is the large number of sonnets that they con-

1 to this

ROBERT RE ID.

j6i

tain. These "finely eiit gems, " as they have been
appropriately termed by a reviewer of his books, arc
on various subjects, "Heroism," "April," "Na-
ture," "Blue Bells," " Singin^^/' "Fame," and
"Romance" being among the number. He seems
to take kindly to this particular style of composition,
and as a rule his work in this direction is marked by
much skill, originality of thought and purity of dic-
tion, A specimen may be here given :

'if

;*J

■ I ; i.t

natural-
mg, and
sincere,
eid gave
ight yet
nded, so
ey plaids
lin' ony-

5h poems
Sprig o'
omfort,"
3rving of
dialect is
manner
:)r's good
oes in his

i two vol-
they con-

JAMES HOGG.

The genial shepherd, full of boisterous glee
As any schoolboy — dreamer of fairy dreams —
Rapt wanderer by lonely glens and streams —

More than all else had he the making o' me.

From earliest childhood 'twas my lot to be
Charm'd with his music ; with the witching gleams
He caught from Elfland ; and his speech, which teems

With rustic niirthfulness, uncurbed and free.

How like his own sweet mountain lark he seems !
The homely garb- the lowly-fashion 'd nest —
Where, all night long, the tender parent breast

Warms to its brood ; but when the morning's beams
Arouse his soul, on pinions swift and strong,

Soaring, he seeks the realms of deathless song !

Mr. Robert
"Thistledown/

Ford, ihe well-known author of
"The Harp of Perthshire," and
various other valuable Scottish works, says: " Reid
is beyond question the most gifted, most spontane-
ous and intensely Scottish singer, after Mr. Thomas
C. Latto, that the gold of America has yet tempted

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962

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

to leave his native shores. He has the heart and the
head of a true poet, and, though his two volumes
will not fail to charm us for many a day, we want
more from the same fertile source."

Of our author's later work, two very good speci-
mens may be found in the following poems pub-
lished very recently under the titles of "Bruce's
Grave," and "Ken ye the Land?" The first is a
sort of In Memoriam poem, in which patriotic and
pious thoughts harmoniously blend together, and
the result is a lyrical effusion which many people
consider to be as fine a piece of work as any poet
has produced on the subject of Scotland. Both
pieces prove that the poetic gifts entrusted to him
have been lovingly treasured and guarded from de-
cay:

BRUCE'S GRAVE.

Early — bright — transient — chaste as morning dew,
He sparkled — was exhaled — and went to heaven.

— Young's Night Thoughts.

Come not with stern, heroic thought,

And pride of country pulsing high,
Ye, whom a glorious name has caught

And stirred to ardor, passing by :
Banish at once the lofty dream

Engender'd as that name is told ; —
For brave exploits are not my theme,

Nor memories of the days of old.

Not here the sacred dust is laid
To Scotland and her sons so dear ;

ROBERT RE ID.

^63

The iron arm — the kingly head —

The dauntle.ss heart — are far from here :

In his own land the hero lies —
That greater Bruce that made us men,

Whose fame adds lustre to her skies,
And wakes romance in every glen.

Well might I sing each manly deed.

The furious charge — the mighty blow —
That turn'd the war in time of need,

And dealt destruction on the foe ;
For deep in every Scottish breast

The thought of these must aye abide,
And where a Bruce is laid to rest

Must ever thrill his soul with pride.

■1 3

But, with each patriot impulse check 'd.

And every stormful thought put by,
Approach this little grave, bedeck'd

With flowers, and breathe a tender sigh ;
For purity of life may claim —

As well as force — memorial tear ;
And on the blazing scroll of fame

None purer shows than ended here.

'Twas but a little waif of Time

The wind blew darkling to our door,
Round-wrapt with love from some sweet clime.

And beauty from the Shining Shore ;
But while we look'd, and long'd to keep

The wondrous stranger for our own,
The little life had pass'd to sleep,

And with it all our hopes had flown.

T? 1

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Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 873-4503

&
^

264

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Sleep soft, beloved ! O sweetly rest,

Unvexed by ony evil dream ;
A little lamb on Christ's own breast,

Transfigur'd in th' Eternal beam !
How could I, even in my grief,

Begrudge thee to those circling arms
That gave thy tender soul relief

From life, and all its vague alarms ?

Now lost alike to hands of thine

Are all earth's paltry tools and toys ;
Enough for them the flowers to twine.

And pluck the buds of Paradise :
And those wee feet, that could not climb

The heather hills thy father's trod —
Ah ! they have scal'd the cliffs sublime

That tower around the throne of God.

KEN YE THE LAND ?

Ken je the land whaur the heather bell

Bonnily busks the moorland fell ;

Whaur briar and whin on the braesides blume,

And the lintie lilts frae her bield i' the brume ;

Ken yc the kintra ? Brawly I ken ;

My bairntime passed in its bonniest glen.

Ken ye the land whaur the black cliiTs rise
Frae the Icchan's edge to the louttin' skies ;
Whaur, up i' the craigs on the mountain sides,
The lordly erne yet bigs and bides ;
Hae ye seen them, Faither ? Aften, boy ;
I hae spiel'd to their nests for a youthfu' ploy.

Ken ye the land o* the kilt and plaid,
The buirdly chield and the winsome maid
That gloamin' airts to the auld thorn tree,

ROBERT REID.

^65

To haud their tryst sae couthie and slee ;
Ken ye ocht o' the custom ? Ay, uiy bairn ;
O' that dear land's ways I hae little to learn.

Ken ye the land wliase bards hae sung
(An' sweetly too, i' their ain sweet tongue)
The glorious deeds o' her warriors stem,
And martyrs laid i' their lanely cairn ;
Ken ye o' them ? hae ye press'd the sod
A Burns, a Knox, and a Wallace trod ?

laddie, hae dune wi' your quastens vain !
But little ye trow o' the yirnin' pain
That lirks in a neuk o' the exile's heart.
And a look, or a word like yours, can start ;
That wearifu' pain aye waukens in me
When I hear ye speak o' my ain couutrie.

What if the heather be wavin' fair

On the Scottish hills, if I binna there ?

What if the sweet briar scent the howes ?

Or the bonnie "broom o' the Cowdenknowes ? "

Or if linties sing, or ernes still soar.

Or lovers tryst, as in days of yore ?

1 hae made the bed whaur I maun lie.
Though it gie me little peace or joy ;
Sae, lea' me to dree my weird alane,

And dream o' the deeds and the days bygane ;
But I canna speak — wi a heart sae sair —
O' the hills and the glens I'll see nae mair !

In a review of Mr. Reid's latest volume, *' Poems,
Songs and Sonnets," Mr. John Macfarland, himself
an eminent Scottish poet, says:

;

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266

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

"'Good wine needs no bush' and a good book
requires no booming. This is a good book in the
fullest sense of the word. Its poetic vintage is of
the best, and will prove an invigorating draught to
the weary soul of every leal-hearted Scot. To use
the words of Robert Louis Stevenson about *' The
Stickit Minister" — '*It refreshes like a visit home."
Its pages are steeped in the bracing atmosphere of
the open hillsides, where the music is the sighing of
the mountain bums and the cry of the curlew and
plover, and the only fragrance that of the wild
thyme and the purple heather. It is intensely pat-
riotic and national, and emphasizes as no recent
contribution to native literature has done, that exul-
tant love of country and cohesive spirit of a race
which, more than anything else, constitutes the
strong shield of a nation's life and welfare against
the disintegration of modern influences.

But it is, also, a remarkable book, in that it opens
up a new vein, or one never before so adequately
worked out, in the domain of Scottish poetry. Mr.
Reid has been named "the laureate of the Scottish
moors" and the title is appropriate. For, although
it is impossible to doubt the wealth of his poetic
dower in other directions, a perusal of this volume
fully warrants our belief that his inspiration is at its
surest and best when his foot is upon his moorland
heath, and his accents are the accents of his * mither
tongue.' Such unique, and we might almost add
unparalleled, effusions of their kind as " Kirkbride,"

ROBERT RE ID.

267

book
I the
is of
tit to
) use
'The
»ine."
ire of
ngof
V and

wild
jr pat-
recent
; exul-

race
;s the
gainst

"The Auld Gray Glen," "Wanlock," ♦ • Storm-sted, "
"Katie's Well," "A Dedication," "Hame's aye
Hame," "Glenballantyne," "Something Wrang,"
"Enterkin," are, to my mind conclusive proof of
this fact, and of themselves are sufficient to thor-
oughly establish the reputation of the poet on a
lasting basis.

Many of the sonnets are, also, noticeable for the
same high qualities that distinguish the pieces
referred to. Could anything be finer in its way than
this ?

GLOAMING.

The hinmaist whaup has quat his eerie skirl,

The flichtering gorcock tae his cover flown ;

Din dwines athort Ibe muir ; the win sae lown
Can scrimply gar the stey peat-reek play swirl
Abnne the herd's auld bitld, or halflins droon

The laich seep-sabbin' o' the burn doon by,
That deaves the corrie wi' its wily art croon.

I wadna niffer sic a glisk — not I —
Here, wi' my fit on ane o' Scotland hills

Heather attour, and the mirk lift owre a'.
For foreign ferly or for unco sight
E'er bragg'd in sang ; mair couthie joy distills

Frae this than glow'rin' on the tropic daw',
Or bleezin' splendours o' the norlan nicht.

To a stranger traversing for the first time those
long gray stretches of sheep pasture or moorland in
the south of Scotland there is nothing more start-
ling than the weird, unearthly cry of the gray cur-

268

A CLUSTER OF WETS.

lew, It haunts the ear with a strange pertinacity
for days after ; but it is hardly more haunting than
the verses in which Mr. Reid has given the bird an
abiding place in Scottish song.

In his series of historical sonnet oui author has
supplied a long-felt want, and accomplished for
Scotland, to a certain extent, what Wordsworth and
others have so magnificently performed for the more
imperial pageant of English history. In these fine-
ly-cut gems he has clearly and concisely expressed —
caught and crystalized so to speak — the popular sen-
timent that attaches to many household names and
stirring events in the annals of his country, and for
this alone his countrymen, both at home and abroad,
owe him a deep debt of gratitude.

From among the portraits in this gallery we ab-
stract this powerful and suggestive silhouette of
" Wallace at Stirling Bridge: "

Colossal shape ! half hidden in the gloom
Of murky centuries, through which we strain
Pride-quicken'd eyes in keen attempts to gain
A clearer vision of the forms that loom
In that far distance ; pigmies in hosts are there
Unknown, unnoted ; but thy godlike form
Towers majestic through the hurtling storm
Of battle ; lo ! thy terrible arm is bare,
Dealing destruction on thy country's foes ;
With swelling hearts we view its matchless force
Sweep all before it in its glorious course ;
And as the tyrant reels beneath its blows —
l*hy visor up — almost we can descry
The deathless sorrow in thy steadfast eye.

ROBERT REfD.

26g

•* Poems, Songs and Sonnets" is inscribed to Sir
Donald A. Smith, Hon. President of the Caledonian
Society of Montreal, "a representative Scot, whose
love for the Old Land manifests itself on every
available occasion. " We heartily commend the book
as a worthy and valuable addition to every Scots-
man's library. It is published by Alex. Gardner
Paisley."

In 1895 Peter Kinnear, Esq., of Albany, N. Y. —
as true and patriotic a Scot, by the way, as there is
in America — offered a prize wreath through the
North American United Caledonian Association, for
the best Scottish poem or song submitted to a spec-
ial committee, which the association was to appoint
at its 1896 meeting. Needless to state that a large
number both of poems and songs was duly submit-
ted and carefully examined by the committee,
Messrs. Captain James Moir, of Scranton, Pa., An-
drew D. Weir, Esq., of Pattenson, Pa., and Prof.
Clark Murray, of Montreal. The verdict of these
gentlemen placed the wreath on the brow of Mr.
Reid and I have now great pleasure in appending a
copy of this very tender and triily mentorious prize
poem :

1
J

KIRKBRIDE.

[// is related of an old native of this district that the last
request he made while on his deathbed was " Bury me in Kirk-
bride^ for there's much of God's redeemed dust lies there ;'^
and, taking advantage of the license which all rhymers are apt

2JO

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

to arrogate to themselves, J have put the beautiful words into
the mouth of an old Covenanter, ivho is supposed to have sur-
vived the persecution. — R. R.

Bury me in Kirkbride, *

Where the Lord's redeemed nnes He ;
The auld kirkyaird on the grey hillside,

Under the open sky ;

Under the open sky,
On the briest o' the braes sae steep.

And side by side wi' the banes that lie
Streikt there in their hinmaist sleep :
This puir dune body maun sune be dust.

But it thrills wi' a stoun' o* pride,
To ken it may mix wi' the great and just,

That slumber in thee, Kirkbride.

i.i

Little o* peace or rest

Had we, that hae aften stude
Wi' oor face to the foe on the mountain's crest,

Sheddin' oor dear heart's blude ;

Sheddin' oor dear heart's blude
For the richts that the Covenant claimed,

And ready wi' life to mak' language gude
Gin the King or his kirk we blamed ;
And aften I thocht in the dismal day

We'd never see gloamin' tide,
But melt like the cranreuch's rime that lay

I' the dawin, abune Kirkbride.

But gloamin' fa's at last

On the dour, dreich, dinsome day,
And the trouble through whilk we hae safely past

Lea's us weary and wae ;

Lea's us weary and wae.
And fain to be laid, limb-free,

ROBERT RE ID.

»Ti

In a dreamless dwawm to be airtit away
To the shores o' the crystal sea ;
Par frae the toil, and the moil, and the murk.

And the tyrant's cursed pride,
Row'd in a wreath o' the mists that lurk

Heaven-sent, aboot auld Kirkbride.

Wheesht ! did the saft win' speak ?

Or a yaumerin' nicht bird crj^?
Did I dream that a warm haun' touch'd my cheek,

And a winsome face gade by ?

And a winsome face gade by,
Wi' a far-aff licht in its een,

A licht that bude come frae the dazzlin' sky.
For it spak' o' the starnies sheen :
Age may be donart, and dazed and blin'.

But I'se warrant, whate'er betide,
A true heart there made tryst wi' my ain,
And the tryst-word seemed Kirkbride.

Hark ! frae the far hill-taps

And laich frae the lanesome glen,
Some sweet psalm tune like a late dew draps

Its wild notes doun the win' ;

Its wild notes doun the win',
Wi' a kent soun' owre my min'

For we sang't on the muir, a wheen huntit men,
Wi' oor lives in oor haun' langsyne ;
But never a voice can disturb this sang,

Were it Claver'se in a' his pride.
For it's raised by the Lord's ain ransom'd thrang

Forgether'd abune Kirkbride.

I hear May Moril's tongue
That I wistna to hear again.

272

A CLUSTER Ot POETS.

And there — 'twas the black McMichael's rung

Clear in the closin' strain,

Clear in the closin' strain,
Prae his big heart, bauld and true :

It stirs my saul as in days bygane,
When his gude braidsword he drew :
I needs maun be aff to the inuirs ance niair,

For he'll miss me by his side :
r the thrang o' the battle I aye was there,

And sae maun it be in Kirkl)ride.

m I

S ■'

Rax me a staff and plaid,

That in readiness I may be.
And dinna forget that The Book be laid

Open, across my knee ;

Open, across my knee,
And a text close by my thoom.

And tell me true, for I scarce can see,
That the word's are, " Lo, I come ; "
Then carry me through at the Cample ford,

And up by the lang hillside.
And I'll wait for the comin' o' God, the Lord,

In a neuk o' the auld Kirkbride !

Ji'

■'m

REV. BURTON W. LOCKHART, I). D.

Amoiigf the various less known American poets
whose writings I have been studying of late, and
from which I acknowledge having received much
intellectual enjoyment, is the Rev. Burton Welleslcy
Lockhart, D. D., the beloved and highly respected
pastor of the Franklin Street Congregational Church,
Manchester, N. H. Like many other tnie poets,
however, and especially like those who do not put
their pen under tribute for a livelihood, this gentle-
man's natural modesty, or shall I call it lack of
confidence in his own abilities, keeps him from
appearing, except at rare intervals, before the read-
ing world, as a writer of verses. True, he is not a
voluminous writer, and he makes no claim to the
title of poet, but he certainly deserves great credit
for the poems he has produced. Indeed, I entertain
a very high opinion of his poetical writings, and I
can conscientiously point to all of his pieces as being
of a very superior order of merit. Alexander Smith
in one of his delightful essays, "Men of Letters,"

says:

I would rather be Charles Lamb than

Charles XIL I would rather be remembered by a
song than by a victory. I would rather build a fine
sonnet than have built St. Paul's. I would rather
be the discoverer of a new image than the discover-

li '■>

mi ?

'74

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

er of a new planet. Fine phrases i value more than
banknotes. I have ear for no other harmony than
the harmony of words." Dr. Lockhart might easily
and appropriately echo these sentiments in connec-
tion with his own writings, as they abound in fine
sonnets, fine phrases, beautiful images and similes.
Here, for instance, is a small cluster of bright
thoughts gathered at random from his various
poems :

One vision lingers of the dawn,
One bell-voice of the early chime.

The chalice of the wine of youth

Still pours its living streams ;
And lo ! we mind the olden truth,

And dream the early dreams.

We felt
The sacramental touch of God.

Pictures that gleam
About the calm horizon of our life,
In gorgeous setting.

God grant that when our hairs are gray-
When twilight blurs the page.

The music of our dawning day
May charm our lonely age !

Bloom, sweet magnolia — orange boughs.
In stranger southland fields afar ;

Ye saw her ; mindless of our vows.
Asleep beneath the Southern star.

'■ ^

REV. BURTON IV. LOCK HART, P. P.

^75

re than
y than
t easily
2onnec-
in fine
similes,
bright
various

Call your once sky-colored thought
The chaste exordium of life's meaning speech,
The faultless prelude of life's deeper song.

Lo ! here is truth ! Lo ! there she stands !

Bow down, and cry. All hail !
Still she looks on us, far withdrawn.

With stars and clouds l)edight ;
The vision of our spirit's dawn,

The watchfire of oir- ^ight.

Was summer music in Iht trees
When I stood lore y on that sb /je

Whe. J restful lies, oy restless :,eas.
The lov'd one I can see no more ?

In early life I rhymed, and sanjr f nd dreamed ;
Haunted the woods at mom, at eve, at niqht,
And listened to the tremulous, whispering leaves ;
The rill that rippled, and the dafiodil,
That bloom 'd, had mystic language for my soul.

Our theories may well decay
If what we do endures.

Not Burns alone
Gauged ale-house casks for bread, when his high muse
Should have been striking flakes of living fire
From rich mosaics of ideal worlds.
We do it better now ; a consulship
Will shelve the poet in him as completely.

When first the slave of bestial wars,

Before his soul stood awed,
First felt the glory of the stars,

And sang a hymn to God.

H--

37^

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

The frequent-smattering man,
The wide-read miss, who glibly talks of books,
Conned on the title-page — of Milton cilks —
Sublime ; reading a fragmentary sketch
In school books — these are fitting types of half
The educated world.

H'l I

Many of Dr. Lockhart's poems were printed in
**The Masque of Minstrels" (a book of excellent
poetry, and one which I have already noticed in con-
nection with the poem, of the Rev. Arthur John
Lockhart. — (See page 136).

They are distinguished by great beauty, original-
ity of thought, refined taste, choice language, and
an inspiring moral tone which cannot be too highly
commended. His sonnets are at once musical and
striking, and are sufficient to prove that he possesses
poetical talent of great power. Let us look for a
moment at the two on Wordsworth and Keats.
These are among the earliest of his compositions,
but he need never hesitate to place them side by
side with the w-ork of his more mature years:

WORDSWORTH.

Wordsworth ! the tender rapture of thy song
Hath touched long-slumbering chords of grief and

joy;
Hath poured a consecrating light along

Those days when I too roame<1, a passionate boy,
Courting the mountain winds, the stars on high,
Living in .sensuous dreamy phantasy —
And felt the power of river, grove and sea,

REV. BURTON \V. LOCKHART, D. D.

277

ited in
xellent
in con-
ir John

iriginal-
ge, and
) highly
cal and
ossesses
►k for a
Keats,
ositions,
side by-

grief and

Leboy,
igh.

With all that gives delight to ear or eye,
What though thy full experience is confined

To spirits finely toned, who can aspire
Above faint types to tlie Eternal Mind ?

Enough ! My soul hath caught thy lofty fire,
And drawn deep lessons fron: those years that lie
Asleep in dreams and visions of immortality !

KEATS.

Poet! who roamest in a fairyland.

Too rich and passionate for this sober earth.
Thou surely hast some talismanic wand,

Or genius, of a more than mortal birth,
Who steers thy bark o'er strange, enchanted seas,
To islands fairer than th' Hesperides ;

Where thy glad eyes do wonderingJy behold
A touch, transmuting e'en the rocks to gold.
There thro' voluptuous skies, and blooming shades,

An unimaginable glory falls
When the pale moon gleams thro' the silver'd glades,
And star-bom halos fill their verdurous halls ;
And mystic music trembles to and fro,
From one lone nightingale that chanteth soft and low.

The Rev. Matthew Richey Knight (editor of Can-
ada and himself a poet), writing a sketch on *' Pastor
Felix" in the Canadian Methodist Magazine, says:
'* Eighteen out of the one hundred and twenty-eight
pieces in this volume were written by the younger
brother, Burton W. Lockhart. A few quotations
from these will give us reason to regret that this
younger brother has not given more encouragement
to his poetical powers, and made frequent excursions

27S

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

with the muse. Here is the concluding stanza of
"Bird on the Sea:"

There is hope, there is joy, for a wing as free
And a heart as constant as One above

Hath given to thee !
To the ear that is open, to the eye that would see,
To faith, in the dark — in the sunshine, love —
There is never despair, for with God we move.

Bird on the sea !

"The Retrospect" is a poem read before the an-
nual meeting of the Acadia College Alumni in June,
1886. I quote two stanzas:

Trust thy soul's highest vision — trust !

Think not to touch and taste ;
Time's ancient mystery — poor dust !

For thee will not make haste.

Truth comes in holy, earnest strife :

The Hamlets dream and die :
What boots on Obermann's sick life,

An Amiel's weary cry?

Dr. Lockhart has been a student of the poetic
literature of all ages and nations, and particularly
of the English. His taste is classical and severe.
Among his principal favorites he names Tennyson,
whose exquisite art and fineness of temperament
delight him. He is a rapid, omnivorous reader, and
has the ability of penetrating to the heart of any
book or document, and getting the gist and kernel

REV. BURTON W. LOCKHART, D. D.

279

of it. He keeps abreast of the thought of the time,
and seeks to master contemporary problems, philoso-
phical, socialistic, theological and religious.

Among the poems of special note written by him,
and printed in the Masque, are: " Sir Richard Tren-
ville," "Bird on the Sea," *'The Retrospect,"
'♦Talking by the Sea," *' Wordsworth," ''In Solemn
Vision." ''The Singer," ''In Memoriam," "The
Old Home," "Fragment of an Epistle" and "To
Abbie in Florida." He has written many very fine
poems, however, since these were published, and of
these we give two brief specimens:

A SONG OF LOVE.

Love sayeth : Sing of me !
What else is worth a song ?

I had refrained
Lest I should do Love wrong.

Clean hands and a pure heart,
I prayed, and I will sing ;

But all I gained
Brought to my word no wing.

Stars, sunshine, seas and skies,
Earth's graves, the holy hills

Were all in vain ;
No breath the dumb pipe 511s.

I dreamed of splendid praise,
And Beauty, watching by

Gray shores of Pain :
My song turned to a sigh.

2So

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

I saw in virgin eyes
The mother-warmth that makes

The dead earth quick
In ways no spring awakes.

No song ! In vain to sight

Life's clear arch-heavenward sprang.
Heart still or sick —

I loved ! Ah, then I sang !

BIRTH OF MUSIC.

When and where was Music born r
When the strong gods, one great morn
Made for man a heart of fire —
Love, with infinite desire.

Ages long Love wandered dumb,
Dreaming on the things to come.
Till the strong gods, quit of wrong,
Crowned her lovliness with song.

lid

Like his brother, the Rev. Arthur John Lockhart,
he has been a denizen of of the Gaspereau Valley,
and a lover of that sweet scenic river. This he sings
in one of his potms entitled '* Gaspereau: "

Eight years ! It seems not long ago —

Comrades who walked with me !
Since last we watch 'd the Gaspereau

Flow singing to the sea.

O pensive walks, when trees were full,

Under the harvest moon !
Long thoughts, by river beautiful

As Burns' Bonny Doon.

REV. BURTON W. LOCKIIART. D. D.

2S1

The orchards blossom white as foam,

The air with nectar fills :
Once more we laugh and dream and roam

In sunshine cr the hills,

O rich in hope ! O brave in deed !

Those days are gone forever ;
And yet, unchanged, the blooming mead

Smiles on its lisping river.

Dr. Lockhart was born on the twenty-fourth of
January, 1855, at Lockhartville, township of Horton,
county of Kings, Nova Scotia (the heart of the Aca-
dian country). He is the third child of a family of
seven. His father, Nathan Albert Lockhart, was a
master mariner and died only last year. He was of
Scotch and En^^-lish ancestry, while the mother,
Elizabeth Ann Bezanson, of Chester, N. S., is of
Scotch and Huguenot descent. There stirs in our
author's veins the blood of certain resolute Hugue-
nots, who left the old town of Besancon, France, on
the revocation of the edict of Nantes, "choosing
exile and poverty with freedom, faith aTid conscience
rather than titles and landed estates without. " It
is related of his ancestor, Benson, that he rode from
Paris to Switzerland with his bride on horseback and
later came to the British provinces where there was
religious liberty. Dr. Lockhart received a good
edtication and began teaching while yet a youth at
college. He afterwards entered Acadia College,
Wolfville, a Baptist institution from which in due

Z82

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

time he graduated with high honors. After preach-
ing for one year and three months at Lockport, N.
S., he took another course of religious instruction at
the Newton Theological Seminary and then became
pastor of the Baptist Church, Suffield, Conn. Here
he married Miss Frances M. Upson, preceptress of the
Classical Institution, a lady in all respects his equal
and as worthy a companion for him as he was for
her. In 1888 he experienced a change of faith,
having become more in sympathy with the liberal
conservative element in Congregationalism. He also
at this time removed to Chicopee, Mass. , where he
ministered for some time to a large congregation.
Dr. Trask, of Springfield, writing of him at this
time, says: —

** Perhaps no preacher in the little city to the north
of us has so many strangers in his congregation
drawn by his pulpit power. . . . It is a rare
Sunday when there are not some Springfield people
in the audience. . . . There are also a number
who come down regularly from the Falls, while
visitors from the street, Willimansett and West
Springfield, are not infrequent. Dr. Lockhart is
now in the full prime of life, and his studies in phil-
osophy and general literature, no less than in relig-
ion, combine to make him not only a pleasing
conversationalist, but an instructive and inspiring

preacher His parishioners in all of the

pastorates he has filled have loved him intensely.
His gentleness of spirit, united with rare intellectual

i !

REV, BURTON W. LOCKHART, D. D.

'33

powers, captivates his audience. He has humanity,
as the phrenologists would say, in a large degree,
and his people feel it. He has a keen, searching
mind, and his people know it, so that he is both be-
loved and admired. Literature is pastime, preaching
his passion. He loves philosophy, but truth he
adores. A finely-shaped and good-sized head, fea-
tures clear and well-cut, the eyes large and dark and
suffused with a mellow and attractive light, are the
elements of Dr. Lockhart's physical appearance,
which are the most impressive and commanding.
As one of his parishioners expressed it, ' He is the
biggest man of his size I ever saw.'" He was
installed as pastor of the Franklin Street Congrega-
tional Church, Manchester, New Hampshire, Janu-
ary 24, 1894.

And later on Dr. Trask gives us still a further
insight into Lockhart's character and writings in the
following graphic language: *' He has that rare
faculty which rhetoricians call vision — the power of
seeing abstract things as if they were alive, and
hence he is never dull or commonplace. If his eyes
are open, so that he preaches by sight, his inner
vision is open also, and he speaks by insight, too.
He is a poet — ^not that he indulges largely in rhyme,
although he has written verse which is fine, both
in quality and in finish, but he sees truth in pictures,
and all his illustrations and much of his diction have
a rich poetic charm. There is newness in all his
work. ... He has range and breadth, and im-

I I

Mi4

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

J•■^;t^S

presses you as being an original investigator and
thinker. He is never obscure. The sunlight plays
in every sentence. His simplicity is strength. His
genial temperament makes him a cheerful speaker.
He leaves no gloom on the spirit as it goes back
into the hard, grinding world. . . . He believes
not only in sunlight but in sunshine. A subtle
humor pervades many a sentence. A little shaft of
satire sometimes breaks the monotony of the thought,
or a bit of irony arrests the attention. But the gen-
eral impression is that of a serious and reverent
thinker, whose clear mind and sincere heart are
speaking in the calm impressive tone of a persuasive
and mobile voice. When he has finished you feel
that you have been listening not only to a sermon
but to a man.

Dr. Lockhart became pastor of the Franklin Street
Congregational ist Church, Manchester, N. H., on
January 24, 1894. Here is his latest composition,
a compliment to the town where he now resides :

HYMN.

SUNG AT THE SEMI-CENTENNIAI. CEIyEBRATlON OF THE IN-
CORPORATION OF MANCHESTER, N. H.

Queen City of the Granite State,
Great be thy soul as thou art great :
Thy nurturing hills sweep round thee free,
Thy river floweth to the sea.

The ramparts of the I^ord thy God
Guard thee by day and night uuawed,

REV. BURTON W. LOCK HART, D. D.

285

Their purple banners high unfurled
Greet each new morning of the world.

Great God ! we lift this hymn of praise
To Thee who measurest out our days —
The Lord of all that live and die,
At whose command the centuries fly.

For fifty proud triumphant years,
For wealth that cost not bloo<l nor tears,
For the high hopes that kept us yoimg,
For noble griefs that made us strong.

For peace that brooded like a dove,
For household plenty, joy and love,
For freedom won in glorious strife.
For life that cost our best of life.

For old heroic memories,

Borne to us from the distant days.

And for our holy quiet graves,

Where the wind whispers in the leaves.

For greater hopes that led us on.
For splendid dreams of days to come,
When purer faiths and truer creeds
Shall blossom into kindlier deeds.

For these we lift this hymn of praise
To Thee who measurest out our days,
The lord of all that live and die.
At whose command the centuries fly.

Queen City of the Granite State
Great be thy soul as thou art great ;
Thy nurturing hills sweep round thee free.
Thy river floweth to the sea.

»86

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

It is unnecessary for us to say anything further
in connection with the ministry of Dr. Lockhart
after the glowing words already quoted of Dr. Trask.
We have recorded our opinion of him as a poet,
and we will now conclude with a stanza from one
of his talented brother's well-known poems :

Still let thy rustic, untaught muse

Tune his wild harp from every spray,
Mimic the notes the wild birds use,

Weaving a sweet and artless lay ;
And though no grand applause be given —

Though Fame no laurel wreath accord.
The meaning song shall rise to heaven.

And I/>ve shall bring her own reward.

I i; i

'Ml"

rther
chart
rask.
poet,
I one

i ^

|iH|!|i|l|;

,^|^MU||,

IF\ 1

Hra ' 1^^

HHi' 'S

WILLIAM T. JAMKvS.

1 J

WILLIAM. T. JAMES.

Mr. James was born in Cheltenham, England,
February 2 2d, 1861. His life thus far has been a
varied and rather eventful one. While yet on the
callow side of twenty, he slipped away from home to
gratify a desire for adventure, and was next heard
of in London, where he had landed from an ocean
voyage. Induced to return to his father in Here-
ford, before a year had elapsed he was off again,
and from that time until he came to anchor in the
harbor of wedlock he led a roving life, travelling
extensively in England, Ireland, Wales, Spain, Por-
tugal and the United States. A printer by trade,
he, like Walt. Whitman, found this occupation suit-
able to his itinerant habits. " If I can't write books
I'll print them," he said, on beginning his appren-
ticeship ; and not only has he fulfilled this declara-
tion, but, as the proprietor of a printing office in
Toronto, Canada, he has had the additional satisfac-
tion of printing and publishing some of his own lit-
erary productions.

Poetical and prose contributions to various periodi-
cals led to the publication of his *' Rhymes Afloat
and Afield" in 1891. Although the author thinks
the book contains many blemishes and some evi-
dence of hasty preparation, it was received by the
critics' with more than ordinary favor. It is certain-

2SS

A CLUSTER OF /VETS.

ly a very commendable book of skilfully turned
verse, its chief merit being the picturesque and
realistic character of its subject-matter, its unaffect-
ed naturalness and simplicity, and a virility of ex-
pression which appeals strongly to the imagination.

In his nautical poems there are spontaneity, buoy-
ancy and vigor besides a wholesome, refreshing
flavor that smacks of the "breezy blue." Indeed,
not to appreciate these is to evince indifference to
everything germane to salt water.

Perhaps the best indication of Mr. James' standing
in the literary world is the fact that he has contribu-
ted to T/ic Century Magazine ^ Leslie^ s Illustrated
Weekly, Puck, The Metaphysical Magazine, The Cana-
dian Magazine, The Week, Walsh's Magazine and
other American and Canadian publications too nu-
merous to mention.

Of the poems which accompany this sketch, the
reader is able to judge for himself.

Since the publication of this book, however, Mr.
James — not satisfied with first efforts — has set assid-
uously to work at the revision of its contents, which,
in th^ir improved form, together with many later
compositions of undoubted excellence, should some
day make a volunie of goodly size and place him in
a still higher position among the Canadian litera-
teurs.

WAITING.

Ah ! me. The day, for years desired, is spent —
This festival, which should my love restore.

WILIJAM T.JAMES.

2Sg

O love-lorn heart, who wooed with blandishment,
Is lost to thee — is lost forevertnore :

The reckoned time is o'er.

The beach the hour appointed knows, and yearns
To feel the cool in j^ torrent on its breast ;

Not once it ebbs, but duly it returns
At turn of tide, and will not be repressed :
Untrue my pli«;hted j^uest !

IIow eagerly the earth awaits the sun,
And doffs her j?arb of shadow to assume

A mantle green, with blossoms interspun,
And r.ees with joy his countenance illume
All that he left in gloom.

Yet am I still awaiting him I love,

Altliough the hour is past when he should come.
I,ike a forlorn and mateless turtle-dove,

I sit and pine within a cheerless home.
Disconsolate and dumb.

All through the term of loneliness I kept

A faithful vigil, I can truly say;
In dreams for him still yearning as I slept ;

In sleepless watches sighing time away,
Kxpectaut of to-day.

To-day, alas ! is almost yesterday,

And he — false one ! — in absence lingers yet,

Nor comes his debt of promises to pay.

Could he, in life, that solemn pledge forget?
Owes he another debt ?

O jealous heart ! In mercy make excuse,
Nor let thy passions riot o'er this slight.

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

1 <j

fH'

1 1

Why sharpen words to v/eapons of abuse ?
Hope yet a little till has taken flight

Th' eleventh hour of night.

Bethink thee of the neap-tide's fickle flow —
How many leagues of strand await in vain

Its sulky waves, that half-way come and go
Until by moon propitious swelled again.
Judge harshly not thy swain.

Remember seasons, too, of rain and gloom,
When clouds obscure the sun and earth is drear.

Blame not the orb that should the sky illume :
It shineth constantly ; the atmosphere
The morrow maketh clear.

Who knows what hindrance may have thwarted haste ?

Oft trifles have a journey long delayed.
I'll trim the lamp within the casement placed,
• Lest he shall say he in the darkness strayed,
And bide me, undismayed.

What sound was that— the opening of the gate ?

A footstep ? Yes ! It halts — I hear a knock !
O love ! thrice welcome, though thou contest late.

And chimes the midnight from the steeple clock.
I will the door unlock.

A DRIFTING ICEBERG.

A crystal mountain on the azure wave.
Bald as to verdure, but aflame with hues.
Its gorgeous splendor of prismatic light
Reflects the radiance of an Arctic night
Upon the liquid path of its lone cruise ;
While Boreas from each green, abyssmal cave
Evokes the shrieks of long-imprisoned gnomes,

WILLIAM T. JAME^.

2^1

And steers them and their island day by day,
With grim persistence, to a Southern clime,
Where ponderous peak and pinnacle sublime

Shall dwindle slowly till they melt away.
Down from the North majestically it comes :

At times in view of travellers' raptured eyes,

And often insulated by the skies.

THE DAWN OF A NEW ERA.

AN AI,I«EGORY.

I looked upon the world, and lo !

A ghastly mount, whose streams were blood.
Rose, writhing, from the plains below.

All sodden with its crimson flood.

Upon its summit was a throne
Of hideous skulls, and on it sate

A man whose higher self had flown —
The genius of a world of hate.

Up — up its quivering slopes there pressed
An eager but a heartless throng,

Who knew not love, nor peace, nor rest.
And he who led them on was Wrong.

From many hearts and heartlis laid waste.
From peaceful dynasties o'erthrown.

They upward bore, with eager haste,
The trophies they had fought to own.

And laid their wrested tribute down
Before the soulless one, their king.

'Midst spoils of many a plundered town,
I saw a ravished matron's ring ;

^S.fi'

2g2

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

:i{ w

And wealth untold from city marts,
The j^ains of j^reed, the price of l)loo<l ;

Tnith, honor, wisdom, children's hearts ;
Virtue deflowered while in the hud —

All piled in one promiscuous heap.
The price that wanton Pride will pay

I'^or power and place, though it should reap
Its .sins in sorrow in their day.

Then he, the kinjj of worldly fame,
Ik'gan to mete out their reward :

To some lie gave a sounding name ;
To some with reputation marred.

He granted license to control

The tongues of men to vaunt their praise ;
To them who lacked a noble soul

He gave the gift of courtly phrase ;

U'i

To some a title to bequeath,
Won in a fierce, rapacious fight ;

On many a brow he placed a wreath
Of flowers that faded ere the night.

And whatsoever thing they sought,
They paid the price and gained their end ;

But greater curse was seldom bought
Than riches purchased with a friend.

When all were served, not one was pleased.

One had a crown, yet felt remorse ;
Another wealth, but was diseased ;

Who had a carriage, craved a horse.

WILLIAM T. JAMES.

^93

And so they fell to figlitinj^ hard,
And maiij^led whom they could not slay ;

Non« were content with their reward,
For none had walked in Wisdom's way.

Up from the stones I heard a groan,
And when I looked at them a;^ain,

I cried to him upon the throne :
" liciwld these writhing stones arc tncn ! "

He answered with a mockin;:? lauph :
" Know ye, the road thnt leads to fame

Is paved with mankind's nether half,
Whom they may bruise who crave a name."

I stood aj^hast in speechless pain ;

I felt the anguish of the stones ;
I saw the millions war has slain,

And then I cried in piercing tones :

•* How long, O God, shall these things be?

When will Thy hand avenge the weak ?
How long this nightmare misery ?

Speak, Spirit of Thy Justice, speak ! ' '

I listened, and I heard a voice —
A btill small voice within my breast,

That said propheticall)- : " Rejoice !
The clouds are clearing in the West.

" The gleams of a new era break
Athwart these portents of decay,

Though mighty truths the world must shake
Ere darkness brightens into day.

" f !

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

" What time that halcyon day shall burst

In splendor on the suffering rife,
The follies mankind long have nursed ;
. Oppression — fruitful cause of strife ;

*' The basic selfishness of man

(The motive whence his actions spring) ;
The envy screened by Fashion's fan,

Or shown by him who stabs a king ;

' ' The wretched poverty of love ;

The squalor of the human heart ;
The ignorance of things above

Trade, gossip, reason, science, art ;

" Distortions of perverted good.
Held sacred, though so misconceived ;

The error that as truth has stood,
And cruel creeds, so long believed —

"All these shall dissipate like mist
That broods o'er valleys through the night,

When Earth's fair forehead has been kissed
By her resplendent bridegroom's light

W-n

if I

" The seer and sage, from lofty peaks

Of higher altitudes of thought,
Have long perceived effulgent streaks

That distant mountain-tops have caught.

"They've watched the signs that herald morn
With eyes that scanned their varying tints,

And prophesied, despite of scorn,
This dawn which the horizon glints.

WILLIAM T. JAMES.

^95

" Like watchmen on a city tow'r,
They still proclaim the day's approach

To torpid minds, that note the hour,
Then their disturbers' voice reproach :

'* * 'Tis false ! I see no sunlight peep
Into my shuttered chamber yet.

Cease thy report and let me sleep,
That I such tidings may forget !'

" But ever and anon a cry

Gives warning of the coming change.
While sluggards ask the reason why,

And deem this exhortation strange :

" ' Awake ! ye dreamers, and arise ;

Your minds with knowledge now array,
For bright and brighter g\o\j the skies

With sunshine of the dawning day.' "

THE UNUTTERABLE DESIRE.

The pensive youth resumes his irksome task
Behind the plow, and goads the drowsy team ;

But every common object wears a mask,
And e'en the oxen teach him how to dream.

morn
I tints,

He needs must pause. (How quick the burly beasts
Perceive the liberal license of his mood,

And stand at ease while wayward Fancy feasts
With paladins, returned all blood-imbrued).

And while the stately cavalcade is formed.
And helmed knights their battle-steeds bestride,

And fields are won, and feudal castles stormed,
The setting sun proclaims it eventide.

2tj6

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Again the task (li.s]K*ls the stirring scene,
Ag.'iin the furrow lengthens o'er the field ;

IJut who could pass a copse so dense arid green
Without a glimpse of romance, there concealed?

Here Robin Hood and stalwart l-'riar Tuck
Dispensed the spoils or ate their venison fare ;

Here outlawed archers tested skill jind luck,
Or wound their horns, or planned a bishop's snare.

ill

I -I

s
> y

I t

And here Maid Marion heard a lover's vow,
And here (Hut oh ! pros:iic, crviel Fate !

There stand the idle oxen and the plow,
Antl there an irate father at the gate).

And oh ! the tusk, and oh ! the stern demand ;

And oh ! the guilty feeling in his breast.
Is there no champion who for him will stand.

To .silence wrath with Chivalry's behest ?

" A lazy lout ! " he hears his father say.
He slew a dragon, fought a host and won,

Preserved a maiden .scathless through a fray,
And yet is asked : "Why is the tusk not done ? "

Without excuse, he meekly bears the cuff,
Then slinks, crestfallen, to his truckle-bed —

A vanquished hero, who was bold enough
Where plows were lances and where fields were red.

U'j

He cannot tell why he should be remiss,
Nor why some things a vision will inspire ;

He knows but one vague feeling, and 'tis this
The poet's wild, unutterable desire.

?:]|

WILLIAM T. JAMES.

297

snare.

Let others plow, and others plant the corn ;

Let others moil in servitude's degree ;
But he must dream, though waking brings him scorn,

When each enchantment euds in misery.

He sees with envy youth engage itself
In teiUons toil or boisterous merriment ;

Yet while one book, unread, is on the shelf.
He keeps his vigils as a saint keeps Lent

Foregoing pleasure, little else he craves

Than toleration of his solitude.
And choice in spending all the cash he saves.

With some respect for each eccentric mood.

1.1

And granted these, he reigns a king supreme,
His vassals numerous as he can create.

Would he a palace ? He has but to dream.
And lo ! he enters by the golden gate.

Ask him not why, nor what it is that burns
Within his breast like a consuming fire ;

He only feels that he for something yearns
With that intetiae, unutterable desire.

ne?"

irere

red.

HECTOR MACPHERSON.

■f 'I

That portion of the British Empire known as the
Highlands of Scotland, is particularly rich in poetry,
song and legendary lore. While we usually think of
the men cradled and reared among the heather hills
as a restless and warlike race, still history credits
them with being a heroic race ; an earnest, patriotic,
determined, unconquerable race, but withal a gentle,
warm-hearted, honorable, God-serving race, from
which have sprung preachers, philosophers, novelists
and poets whose names are familiar throughout the
world.

Not very long since, a sturdy and intelligent rep-
resentative Highlander — Hector Macpherson, bade
farewell to his native hills, and after a pleasant voy-
age across the Atlantic took up his residence in the
great cosmopolitan city of New York. He brought
with him letters of introduction to several influential
people here, but he soon found that his principal
passport to the friendship and the homes of these
parties consisted of a little volume of musings
entitled " Heather Blossoms," which he carried with
him. This little work he had published on the other
side some time previous to his becoming impressed
with the idea that he might possibly better his con-
dition and extend his fame were he to emigrate to

iwi

HECTOR MACPHERSON.

^99

as the
5oetry,
link of
2r hills
credits
itriotic,
gentle,
:, from
ovelists
out the

nt rep-
n, bade
LTit voy-
1 in the
Drought
uential
rincipal
3f these
musings
led with
le other
ipressed
his con-
grate to

America. In the course of time he obtained con-
genial employment in the office of a city newspaper,
and here we propose leaving him while we take a
look into the little volume referred to.

There is a wealth of poetic feeling and thought in
"Heather Blossoms" which promises much for the
future success of Mr. Macpherson as a poet. He
certainly gives evidence at present of being no nov-
ice in the art of writing poetry, as the majority of
his compositions have all the beauty and smoothness
and finish of a more experienced and more venerable
bard. He writes naturally, his Ian .ju age is delicate
and always well cho.sen, his style refined, his rhyme
perfect, and his ideas seem to have been carefully
studied out before being presented to his friends or
permitted to appear in print.

There are sixty-two pieces in the book, all more
or less characterized by a true poetic spirit. Here is
the opening poem, as dainty a piece of Scottish
verse, by the way, as we could wish to read. It is a

cry from the heart, a reaching out after home, a
lament from a foreign land, and it is sweetly per-
fumed with the fragrance of the heather:

SCOTLAND'S FLOWER.

There are flowers in lands afar, frien',
May cheer fond hearts out there,

And fling their gentle fragrance
Upon the caller air ;

Soo

A CLUSTER OP FOFTS,

But, ah ! my soul aft wearies

For hame across the sea,
Where bonnie heather sweetly blooms —

The dearest flower to me.

Brin's bairtis may weave a wreath

O' shamrock fair and green.
An' garlands o' the roses

May charm gay English een ;
Gi'e unto me the heath frae

The mountain's ragged broo^
It whispers tales o' those I kent.

The gallant, kind, an' true.

Whar thou, sweet flower, bloomed fairest.

Our fathers worshipped God ;
Out o'er thy regal purple»

A f oeman never trod ;
The sons o' Caledonia

Their hearts' blood aft did gi'e.
That thou might'st ever bloom amang

The noble an' the free.

There are many similiar poems to this, in " Heather
Blossoms." A sweet musical cadence runs through
all of them, and they possess more than a passing
interest for tiie Iov<»;rs of the Scottish muse.

**Lady Margaret," "Where He Sleepeth," "A
Woeful Tale," "Gathering Clouds," "A Curler's
Lilt," "Gloom and Glory," "Amid the Shadows,"
"After Many Days" and "My Bairn at Sea" are
all exceptionally good poems and will always win
friends for themselves wherever they become known.
The last named piece has been widely copied by the

I I .1

HECTOR MACPHERSON.

3»i

rest,

British press and not very long ago the writer met
with it in the columns of an American Journal.

MY BAIRN AT SEA.

^Wmen. the gtoamiii' creeps doon

Prae die tap o' the hill.
An' the beams o' the moon

Licht oor valley sae still,
Aften lanesome I rove,

While the tears dim my e'e,
For the bairn o' my love

On the turbulent sea.

Tho' lang years hae ta'en flicht

Since he gaed frae his hame ;
Ib my dream ilka nicht

Do I murmur his name ;
His kin' letters I seek.

They bring pleasure to me,
Pbr o* love do they speak

Prae my bairn on the

Heather
J through
a passing

eth," "A
^ Curler's
shadows,"
Sea" are
ways win
le known,
ed by the

When the storm-fiend doth sweep

Hiro* the woods on the brae,
Ne'er in peace can I sleep.

When my heart is sae wae,
But I pray that His han'

O'er the ocean may be,
An' bring safely to Ian'

My brave bairn on the sea.

Oh ! then hasten the morn
When ril greet him again,

An' wi' fear nae mair torn
When the win' mak's its mane,

Ui i '. i.t

302

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Frae the dawnin' till nicht
Shall my heart blythesonie be,

A' the dark shall be licht,
When my bairn's frae the sea.

Among the other English compositions in the vol-
ume is a sonnet on Shelley which is so talented in
every way that it at once proves Macpherson to be a
poet of no small merit. It is a perfect gem of its
kind, without a line or a thought which we could
wish to alter :

I 'M I

p. B. S.— 1792-1892.

'Tis but an hundred fleeting years ago,

When slumb'ring nature stirred her from her sleep.
And bade the soul of music sweetly flow

Across time's dark and dreary tuneless deep.
High Heaven bent an ear unto the cry.

Vowed earth no more should pine beneath such wrong.
Forthwith a minstrel true it sent from high,

A gentle soul whose only speech was song.
He seized his harp, and o'er a list'ning world.

From shades of lone seclusion's sacred sphere,
Such strains ecstatic he to all had hurled.

That ' ations, all entranced, had paused to hear.
We blejs thee for the song thou'st left behind,
•Tis but one joy the more to human kind.

In the Spring of 1896 Mr. Macpherson published a
second volume of poetry under the title of *' Here's
to the Heather." In reviewing this work, the Edin-
burgh Scotsmaft said:

•'Mr. Hector Macpherson's book, "Here's to the

HECTOR MACPHERSON.

303

Heather," will be read with interest as the work of
a Scotsman in America whose thoughts run easily
into rhyme when they revert to his native country.
The distinguishing quality of the pieces in dialect is
a tenderness for Scotland that is touched gracefully
by an exile's melancholy. Besides these vScottish
pieces the book has many in the standard English —
lyrics which reflect the spirit of the fashionable poetry
of the past generation — that of Byron and Moore —
rather than of the present day. It has been said of
Burns, to the offence of many indiscriminating ad-
mirers, though not without some reason, that he was
never so successful in English as in Scottish. The
remark is not applicable to Mr. Macpherson, or in-
deed to any but very few who have written since the
time of Bums. The dialect seems often affecfed for
the purposes of poetical expression. Mr. Mac-
phenson's Scottish is far from being the false or
manufactured article which one meets with in draw-
ng-room soncs and in the work of some poets. But
he wri*^cs ' . <t.er, on the whole, and with less remi-
niscen^'A) of mere bookish words and phrases, when
he drovs the dialect. But wh „ her in the homely or
in the ikerary speech, he wriu >: with so sincere a
regard for all that is most characteristic of Scotland
that r?aders here cannot but be touched as well as
pleased by the tender patriotism of his verses."

Hector Macpherson was born on the tenth of April,
1864, at Tain, i;. Ros^^shr e, T- cotland. His boy-hood
days were haj py (»rjCf!, bit in educational matters he

i«#

A CLUSTER OF POSTS.

was xxmmderaMy hampered by & defect in his dght.
This defect, however, has been in a ^eat me&^nre
happily remedied. At the age of fifteen he Tcmr>^*id
to Inverness, the great capital of the HighlfiUds, and
here it was that he first began to weave his thoughts
into verse. He gradually became perfec.' in this
work and for the last eight or ten years he has been
contributing articles and poems to some of th? !«> ^rl-
ing newspapers and magazines of the old worlJ, ^i.
few further details in connection with his life uiay
be gleaned from the following epistle addressed to
the writer:

GENEALOGICAL

TO JOHN D. ROSS, ON niS ASKING VOR 9DME
BIOGRAFHICAI. DATA.

My life's tale I unfold to view

Its dreams and hopes in order due,

Scant gold : much cboss ;
But mercy here yon shall extend,
For Scotia's minstrels found A friend

In John D, Ross.

1. i

My worthy frien', I scarce can tell
Wherein my forbears* footsteps fell
But haith, I doot that poortith snell

Did nip them sair
For ne'er in ae place wad they dweU

Noo here, noo there.

My grandsire^s is the oldest name
tTnto my listenin* ears that came :
He ance midst scenes well kent to fame

HECTOR MACPHERSON.

30s

nght.
ea^tire

s, and
mghts
n this
I been

? 1e nH-

sed tu

Stood staunch an* true ;
He fought for glwy an' his hame
At Waterloo.

Syne he m my anld native toon

When nigh full ninety years gaed roun',

Laid a' his heavy hurdens doun,

For a' naun dee ;
An' noo in peace he slumbers soun',

Fast by the sea.

Wha can Dame Nature's power restrain
When youthfu' ardour fires ilk vein !
My sire mang martial scenes was fain

To stand or fa* ;
While life's gay morn was a' his ain

He gaed awa'.

Ere lang 'fore Scotia's foes he stood
Where Death in strange and fearsome mood
Wrought 'mang the noble an' the good

Maist direfu' ill.
An' there he marked a brother's blood

Stain Alma's hill.

Syne oot upon far India's shore
The bloody brand of war he bore
Avenging mony a pang fu' soie

Hiat bled at hame,
Then wi' his wounds an little more

To Scotland came.

Faith shone upon his early days
He noo to cheer his aulder ways
Does good, nor censure heeds, nor praise,

So6

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

I ? M

\\"i\

<T>. I

i . -l

Aids a' he can ;
Thus doon life's gloamin' noo he strays
An honest man.

My aged mither blessings cheer
Her life's lang journey year by year,
May sorrow ne'er again draw near

To wake a plaint,
She's to the bosom far mair dear

Than queen or saint.

War's glamour for oor race is spent
Where furious passions madly blent.
Nor e'er midst bloody scenes intent

Was I to stray,
Fain wad I rove in sweet content

In peacefu' way.

Mr. Macpherson is a yoiin^ man with hopeful
optimistic views of life, and it is no doubt due to
this fact that many of the poems contained in his
books are on the subject of love. These poems, as
may readily be surmised, are characterized by a
great purity of thoui^^ht, added to which is an in-
tensely affectionate spirit. Besides this they contain
numerous lines of really exquisite poetry. Among
the best of them are those addressed '* To a Lady,"
•'To Love's Truant," "Love's Charms," •* Love's
Recompense," "Love's Petition," "Jessie Mine,"
and "A Lassie's Lament." There are also some
very tender and touching little poems that might
appropriately be termed " Serious Love Poems," and
of these we attach a specimen :

,'■(.:.

HECTOR MACPHERSON.

307

WILT THOU FORGET?

When I am laid among the dead,
My darling, wilt thou weep for me ?

Or when my spirit thence havS fled,
Shalt thou forget who loved but thee ?

Yet if from earth first thou should'st stray,

I'd fret my drooping soul away.

Let no vain show of inane art
Oppress the tomb where I shall rest.

My monument — a loving heart
Is all I seek, 'tis still the best ;

And may that heart be thine alone,

Where memory sets her sacred throne.

hopeful

due to

i in his

)ems, as

d by a

an in-

contain

Among

Lady,"

Love's

Mine,"

;o some

might

IS," and

Let nature deck the lowly mound
With wild luxuriance, rich and rare ;

May only woodland choirs resound
To wake the hallowed stillness there.

If there thy way thou e'er would 'st trace,

Let not death's shadow dim thy face.

Forbear the wild impassioned tear,
Thy riven heart may bid thee shed,

For know my spirit hovers near,
Tho' I may slumber with the dead.

E'en Heaven cannot Heaven be.

Until there thou shalt dwell with me.

In Mr. Macpherson's brief preface to his first
volume he says :

'• To a volume of verse in this part of the world a
preface has become a regular institution, the writers
giving a detailed account of the

disadvantageous

3o6

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

circumstances under which their lines were composed,
and their disinterestedness in the publication — merely
getting their volume out to please a few friends.
Having nothing to offer in extenuation of my crime
in venturing to intrude myself among such modest
singers, I place myself at the mercy of the critics to
atone for my sins as they see best. "

To this we would add that the critics have had
their say in the matter and their verdicts, as far as
the writer has seen, must have been exceedingly
pltpg rinp- to the feelings of this yoimg and talented
author.

mposed,
—merely
friends,
ly crime
L modest
critics to

Lave had
IS far as
eedingly
talented

^■1

i' : (

i 1

* . ' '

' '' \

prr

ii il

. ij

i t

JOHN MACFARLANlv.

JOHN MACFARLANE.

("JOHN ARBORY.")

It is a singular fact that many of the finest Scot-
tish poets of our time are to be found in the United
States and Canada * * Indeed it may well be doubted, ' '
says a writer in the North British Advertiser, **if
the living poets who still remain in Scotland equal
those now in exile," It is unnecessary, we presume,
to mention the names of the various bards now
domiciled here and in Canada in support of this
assertion. We have all listened at one time or other
with rare pleasure, as they warbled forth their sweet
and affectionate notes in our midst, and we have
applauded and praised their efforts so heartily that
they have at length been encouraged to lay their
productions in book form before the public, and, in
the majority of cases, we think they have been amply
remunerated for the venture which they made.
Aside from this, however, they have assisted in the
building np of American and Canadian poetical
literature, and th&r books will become valuable, and
will no doubt be treasured long after the present
generation has passed away.

Among the poets who have established a reputa-
tion for themselves in the new world, there are few
more deserving of notice than Mr. Macfarlane, the

■-■■■v^j*?.

S^o

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

i Hi

"John Arbory" whose musings are so frequently
met with in the newspapers and weekly publications
of to-day. Within the past few years this gentleman
has produced a very large number of highly meritor-
ious poems and lyrical pieces, and we feel assured
that he will ere long attain a prominent position
among the more notable modern Scottish poets. He
certainly possesses a fine literary taste, and a healthy
poetic imagination. His poems are intelligent,
powerful and fascinating. They embrace a wide
variety of subjects, and in most instances, are dis-
tinguished by original and lofty ideas. His expres-
sion is graceful and touching, his diction pure, his
style earnest and dignified. Mr. Macfarlane was
born in 1857 and spent his boyhood years in Abing-
ton, a romantic little village situated almost on the
borders of Lanarkshire and Dumfriesshire, and near
to the source of the river Clyde. (In the immediate
vicinity are Arbory Hill, Arbory Glen, etc., hence
the nom-de-plume ' ' John Arbory. ") In his poem en-
titled "The Bonnie Banks o' Clyde," he gives us an
interesting and graphic account of the impressions
which the natural surroundings of his birthplace
conveyed to his young mind. These were happy
and pleasing impressions, and time has seemingly
stamped them all the more indelibly on his memory.
We quote the little poem referred to here as it forms
as exquisite a piece of Scottish descriptive postry as
we could wish to read:

JOHN MACFARLANE.

jquently
lications
ntleman
meritor-
assured
position
its. He
, healthy
elligent,
s a wide
are dis-
; expres-
pure, his
ane was
1 Abing-
t on the
and near
imediate
;., hence
poem en-
'es us an
pressions
rthplace
e happy
jemingly
memory,
it forms
Dostry as

THE BONNIE BANKS O' CLYDE.

! sweet are the smiles o' the siinnier sun,
Whaur the sil'vry Severn shines,

An' many the gardens glittering rich,

That the winding Wye entwines ;
But fancy flies — an' I stand ance mair

In the purple gloaniiiig-tide,
An' the gowden licht o' auld lang syne,

On the lx)nnie banks o' Clyde.

1 hear the croon o' the wee hill-burn.
That sings thro' the lang green glen;

Whaur the muircocks craw thro' the misty daw'

And the red fox bigs his den,
Whaur the harebell chimes to the westlan' breeze.

An' doun frae the broon hillside
The scent o' the heather fills the air,

On the bonnie banks o' Clyde.

The lavrock lilts in the cloudless blue

An' the wee wild gowans bloom,
An' the linty chirms a lown luve-plaint,

In the bield o' the yellow broom.
The blackbird pipes, an the cushat wails.

An' faur through the plantin' wide
The springs o' life are fresh an' young,

On the bonnie banks o' Clyde,

In the howe o' the nicht wher t^^e wan munelicht,

Ivies sleepin' on cot an' ha ,
When the finger o' silence has touched the hills,

An' the stars glint doun owre a';
The heart grows grit wi' the thocht o' the rest,

Whaur God's ain deid abide,
In the auld kirk-yaird on the breist o' the brae.

On the bonnie banks o' Clyde.

3^^

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Very beautiful and tender also, is the little piece
entitled " A Flower, " composed by Mr. Macfarlane
only a few months ago. There is a char ^ sim-
plicity about it, and it recalls to our minds many
scenes and incidents of days now lonjj gone by, but
over which we Hngfer lovingly. It is written in the
pure lowland Scotch, and it will be welcome to many
for the sweet thoughts embodied within its lines.

A FLOWER.

It cam* wi' a glint o' the scenes langsyne,

Prae the hills that I ca' my ain ;
An' the glens that aye wi* my dreams n* twine.

In the howes o' my waukrife brain.
Nae doubt 'twas a feckless thing to sen',

But it thrilled my heart, forsooth !
Wi' a nameless joy that few can ken,

That flow'r frae the hame o' my youth.

I hae look't on grander gems o' licht.

An' fresher frae Nature's hand,
But nane that were bnrden't wi' thocht mair bricht

In the length or breadth o' the land ;
For it brocht wi' its blinks o' dew-deck'd lea,

An' its pearlins o' muirlan' truth,
A kiss frae the mou' that I fain wad pree, —

Sweet flow'r frae tiie hame o' my youth.

The smilling o* Portmie may e*en gang by,

An' the histre o* coroaets wane,
But love, like a star in the gloamin^ sky,

Beams aft in the gloom alane ;

JOHN MACFARLANE.

3'3

:le piece
icfarlane
^ sim-
Is many
5 by, but
n in the
to many
lines.

twine,

lair bricht
lea,

th.

An' tho' 'neath the blasts o' misfortune chill,

The blossoms o' Hope may fa',
A Han' frae aboon has plantit still

A fiow'r in the warld for a'.

Another excellent little production, but altogether
different from the foregoing, shows how eminently
adapted Mr. Macfarlane is for composing brief poems
in connection with any subject on which his fancy
may alight. "In Yarrow" is a perfectly finished
poem in a very few lines. It is highly melodious in
composition, yet plaintive and almost sad in senti-
ment, and no one can r ad it without feeling satisfied
that the author possesses true and finely cultivated
poetical talents.

IN YARROW.

I lay on the braes of Yarrow,

In the deepening, gloaming tide,
And my heart was stirred to a sad sweet tune.

Like the chaunting of some old bride.

Like a song from the land of Faery,

In the mystic days of yore.
Of a ladylove to her own true knight,

When his elfin spear he bore.

For so weird was the wold and lonely,

And the emerald sward so green,
That a dreamer of eld might fancy there

The morrice was danced yestreen.

And the hills and the streams around me,

In the light of song were fair.
And a sad gray beauty that died away,

On •• The Bush Aboon Traquair."

*■■ >

■p. I

3^4

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

So I thought of Wordsworth's ballads,

'Neath the full red harvest moon,
Of the Ettrick Bard and Sir Walter Scott,

And Thomas of Erceldouue.

Of the band of nameless singers,
lyike the aun in the west sunk down,

The magic spell of whose glamourie,
Still haloes each tower and town.

And my heart was moved in Yarrow,

As the night wind moves the sea,
By the touch of a far-off strange unrest,

From the ages of gramerye.

While our author spent a number of years at the
village school, he received the most important part
of his education at what Caryle styles *'the best
imiversity of these days, viz: a collection of Books."
His father was a man of considerable learning and
good intellectual abilities, but it was from his mother
that he inherited his poetical tastes. In his sixteenth
year he left his native village and proceeded to
Glasgow. Here he obtained employment for some
time in a nierchantile house. He was next employed
in England, and then returned to Scotland. A few
years ago he crossed over to Canada, and he now
holds a responsible position in a large dry goods im-
porting house in Montreal. He began contributing
poems and sketches to various newspapers and maga-
zines when only a boy, and some of his many
effusions display considerable merit and promise.
The following production, for instance, is a very

JOHN MACFARLANE.

3^5

•s at the
ant part
the best •
Books.**
ling and
|s mother
iixteenth
seded to
or some
jmployed
A few
he now
lods im-
;ributing
id maga-
lis many
Ipromise.
a very

creditable one for an author who had just attained
his twentieth year. It was written for the inaugura-
tion of the Glasgow Burns' statue, which was un-
vailed by Lord Houghton on the twenty-fifth of
January 1877.

A POET KING.

What meaneth this wild commotion ?

Why surgeth the crowd along ?
'Tis the natal day of a poet king,

The chief of Scottish song ;
And lo ! tliey come in thousands

From mountain and strath and glen,
As free in soul as the air they breathe.

To honor a Saul of men.

And grandly, hark ! is ringing

On the silv'ry stream of day,
** The rank is but of the coin the stamp,

The man's the gold for aye."
No lyric dream is this.

To thrill with its magic thrall,
No fancy caught from the wilds of thought,

But a cry from the hearts of all.

The soul of manhood leaps

In the toil-encircled throng,
They shake the earth with their bounding tread.

For he hath made them strong ;
For wreathed with the light of genius,

The labor-warrior stands,
And the bulwarks e'en of a throne might fall

If smote by his horny hands.

Si6

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

And the blindM god of Mammon,

Hath paled at Uie minstrel's name,
And a shiver hath passed to his crusted soul

'Neath the blaze of the heavenly flame ;
The tyrant with glc "ui in his heart.

And the brand of Cain on *"*" brow.
Like a craven quakes in his \ ite-lipp'd fear,

At the gleaming of Freedom now.

The shroud of the past hath vanished,

And the mighty-given-of-God,
Looms forth entranced with the meanest flower,

That springs from the verdant sod ;
Oh ! wildly impassioned spirit !

In the throes of thy great unrest.
Thou gavest the golden chalice of Thought,

But we called for the ribald jest.

The stamp of the mind unfettered.

The smile and the orbSd fire,
No magic touch to the image brings.

We garnish a broken lyre :
But scarr'd with the fight of ages,

Triumphantly Scotia turns,
With a queenly glance of pride in her eyes.

To gaze on her laureate Bums.

The patriotism and love for their mother land
evinced by Scotsmen abroad has become proverbial ;
and that distance does not lessen their ardent admir-
ation for the genius of their great national bard, the
return of each succeeding 25th of January is sufficient
evidence.

JOHN MACFA ^LANE.

3'7

In this latter respect, our author has lost none of
his youthful enthusiasm for Bums, as the following
tribute written on Canadian soil will show :

[ear,

flower,

tht.

res,

ler land
)verbial ;
t admir-
ard, the
ufficient

ROBERT BURNS.

To-night, amid Canadian snows,

In lordly hall and cottage home,
Where e'er the blood of Scotsmen flows.

Where e'er the feet of Scotsmen roam ;
One name upon the lips grows sweet, —

More rich than wine from purple urns, —
With thrill electric, flashing fleet,

The name of Robert Bums.

Young hearts thro' all the golden years

Proclaim the magic of his wand,
And aged eyes are wet with tears

With music from his loving hand ;
He is not dead — he cannot die —

A king of men he still returns.
And rules as erst with spirit high

The land of Robert Burns.

In clouds of glory, dash'd with rain,

With heavenly light-gleams bound and furled.
From his high Caucasus of Pain

He casts a song-wreath round the world ;
And weakest souls beneath his spell

Have gathered strength as he who spurns
The might of tyrants : it is well !

God bless you ! Robert Bums.

A considerable number of Mr. Macfarlane's poems
refer to the Covenanters and their times. **Simp-

msmm

Elv 'i

ll I

>! tj

""I ';!

IfS

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

son's Traditions of the Covenanters," he writes ** was
the real ' Arabian Hights ' of my boyhood. I was
a veritable Covenanter, and it required no great
stretch of imagination to be so, as I lived in the very
heart of the Southern Moors consecrated by the
heroism of that dark period of Scottish history.
That and the fact that the blood of some of the
sufferers ran in my own veins is reason enough, I
suppose, why my youthful fancy was captivated by
the romantic side of the great struggle. I, myself,
would be very far from being in intellectual touch
with a Covenanter projected into the present age,
but all the same, as Carlyle says, and Burns sings,
the Covenanters were the true heroes and not the
Cavaliers." " It is to be regretted," he adds, " that
the great genius of Sir Walter Scott was not in
sympathy with the genius of his race on this point."
The following brief poem will give an idea of his
work in this direction :

THE MARTYR'S GRAVK.

Hid in the depths o' the iiiuirlan' mists,

Un watched on tlie slope o* the mountain green,

The Martyr's grave that we kent langsyne,

Pleads wi' the heart in the wilds unseen ;

An' the glen whaur forfouchen an' hunted sair,

He socht for a den by the roebuck's lair.

Alane, on the hill-tap stern an' gray,
Alane, in the fa' o' heaven's ain dew,
He thocht o' the Lord and His promise guid,

JOHN MACFARLANE.

319

5S "was

I was

10 great

the very

b}^ the

history.
3 of the
nough, I
vated by
:, myself,
aal touch
sent age,
•ns sings,
i not the
ds, "that
as not in
tis point."

ea of his

Irecn,

sair,

For the faith o' the covenant life was true ;
An' a sweet dream cam' ower his wearied sicht,
Like a gleam straucht doon frae the starns o' licht.

Chased frae his hame, an' the bairns he lo'ed,
Far frae the luve o' his kith an' kin,
He still was leal to the grand auld league,
For he couldna bide in the tents o' sin ;
An the croun was his that the sainted wear,
For it glintit aft on his broo o' care.

Abune was the treasure he lang had hained,
Abune wi' the host o' the pure an' just,
Sae he didna flee frae the hour o' doom,
His father's God was his only trust ,
An' his saul ta'en flicht to the realms sae blest,
Tho' his shroud was a shroud o' mornin' mist.

Among our author's other poems on the subject of
the Covenanters and their times, we would specially
refer to " Auchensaugh, " " Dowie Howms o' Both-
well," "The Nameless Martyr," and "The Last o'
the Hilhnen. " These are written in a pathetic and
masterly style, recalling with r. startling reality the
times and deeds on which they treat. Apart from
this subject, however, Mr. Macfarlane has written
many valuable poems of a deepiy religious cheracter.
These display considerable talent in their general
composition, and, taken altogether, are productions
to which he can point with satisfaction and pride.
Take the following one as a specimen :

320

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

A DREAM OF DEATH.

" Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death."

— Tennyson.

i >

"i 'iVL

Death to a loved one came so very near
That waking thoughts within my vision crept,
Till all before the Shadow draped with Fear,
In agony I wept.

And cried in human weakness to the gods,
For some strong arm of more than mortal mould,
To dare like His who brought from high abodes
The sacred fire of old.

To thrust aside the flaming sword and stand
A new Prometheus by the immortal tree,
When lo ! to stay the impious wish, a hand
Thro' darkness fell on me.

And calmly sweet as sunlight from on high,
From out the East a voice of sadness came
Breathihg into my heart whose wilder'd cry
The lips had moved to frame:

" Behold the man !" and dimly bright there stood,
(With sorrow crowned, ah ! diadem supreme !)
One pure of life by Calvary's sacred rood.

Who spake above the ages' fevered dream :

" l<et not your souls be troubled," — and around
The shining feet of Him the shackles lay
Of vanquish'd Death — a captive made and bound.
Whose power had passed away.

With whom doth ever walk unstained of crime,
And heavenly-wise this stricken earth of ours.
An angel-band within the Night of. Time
Uplifting weary hours.

JOHN MACFARLANE.

32f

Bearing throughout the regions of the tomb,
The mystic symbol of the Holy Dove,
Wherefrom is shed — dispelling deepest gloom,
The nimbus of His love.

And so forever fled the fear of death,
Like mists that roll before the breaking day ;
I knew the Spoiler with the Cypress Wreath
Could only take the clay.

Mr. Macfarlane has been honored by having a
number of his lyrics set to appropriate music and
pubHvShed in sheet form, and in each instance they
have commanded a very extensive sale. In review-
ing his little volume, "Heather and Harebell" in
the Edinburgh Scotsman, the writer remarks of one
of these — "The Lost Langsyne" — that "it is
destined to find a permanent place among the
already numerotis celebrated songs of Scotland:"

THE LOST IvANGSYNE.

The lost langsyne ! O, the lost langsyne !
Wi' the day-light sae sweet, an' the gloamin sae fine,
The heart yirms aye, an' the thocht winna tyne,
For the years far awa' i' the lost langsynv .

We trysted at e'en — an' acourtin' gaed we
When the 'oors sped sae swift 'neath the auld thorn tree,
Sae blythe an' sae blate — dae ye min ; dae ye min :
In the years far awa' i' the lost langsyne.

32»

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

•i

;l !

Or, the hairst was afit, an' the liltin' was free,
An' the sangs that were sung were sae pawky and plee, —
For the luve-licht was glintin', and young hearts were kin',
In the years far awa' i' the lost langsyne.

The lost langsyne ! O, the lost langsyne !
The hopes that were yours, an' the loves that were mine,
Hae shed a' their bloom like a flow'r i' the dwine,
Far, far awa' i' the lost langsyne.

As a closing specimen we quote his well-known
song:

THE LAND O' CAKES.

I carena for Italian skies,

Tlio bricht nae doubt they be,
I lo'e the mountains o' the North,

Wi' tempests fierce an' free ;
I lo'e the bonnie bumies a',

The grand majestic lakes,
O' Mither Nature's sternest isle,

The guid auld land o' cakes.

Tho' fortune smile on ither climes,

An' sunlicht purer fa',
They canna gild a tyrant's croon.

Or dicht its stains awa' ;
Where slav'ry binds wi' gowden chains,

There freedom never wakes ;
But liberty v/as born an' bred,

In Scotia's land o' cakes.

Tho heather twines the breckan roun',

The thistle shields his bride.
And love frae mony a lassie's e'e,
s glancin' oot wi' pride ;

JOHN MACFARLANE.

3^3

ind Flee, —
ts were kin',

The blackbird liltin' sweet at morn,
His love-mate ne'er forsakes ;

Leal hearts hae cast a halo roun'
Tlie bonnie land o' cakes.

were mine,
ine,

veil -known

And still to ilka wanderer dear,

Ayont the dark blue sea —
The scenes o' youth aft haunt his dreams,

Tho' clouded frae the e'e ;
And aye the siller cord leads back.

To where the wild wave breaks.
On rocks that guard the queen o' isles.

To Scotia's land o' cskes.

In conclusion, we may state that Mr. Macfarlane
is the editor of a work recently issued from the
press of Mr. Alex. Gardner of Paisley, entitled
"The Harp of the Scottish Covenant" — an anthology
of poetry intended to do for the Covenanters what
has long ago been done for the Cavaliers and the
Jacobites — and to judge from the newspaper notices,
the book is likely to have a wide circulation among
Scotsmen, both at home and abroad.

Lains,

in ,

REV. WILLIAM WYE SMITH.

■■■I

I; 'i!

In 1850 there was published in Toronto, Canada,
a small volume of verse by William Wye Smith,
then a young man, 23 years of age. This little vol-
ume soon commanded considerable attention, as its
contents proclaimed its author an excellent scholar,
an original thinker, and a gentle, pure-minded man.
Since that time Mr. Smith has given to the world
many sweet and beautiful poems and religious pieces
of a lyrical character, and his name is known and
honored from one end of the Dominion to the other.
He possesses two special characteristics in the writ-
ing of poetry, the first being a preference for religi-
ous composition, the other a love for writing in the
Scottish dialect, and in the possessing and using of
these two features combined, he surpasses any Scot-
tish poet of to-day. It is a very easy matter to
quote poems in illustrations of this, as there is such
a large number to select from, and the following one
is, therefore, simply taken at random as a specimen :

A FEVER-DREAM.

O dawtie, let your een
See my face, sae calm, serene ;
And I'll tell ye whaur I've been,
In my fever-dreams and a' : —

REV, WILLIAM WYE SMITH.

3^5

:o, Canada,
^ye Smith,
s little vol-
ition, as its
ent scholar,
linded man.
o the world
Lgious pieces
known and
to the other,
in the writ-
he for religi-
riting in the
md using of
;es any Scot-
matter to
here is such
oUowing one
a specimen :

I was mony and tnony a mile,
Through the ever-widening smile
O' a day that kens nae toil,
In the sweet Far-Awa' !

There were mony bright and blc-t.
That about me fondly pressed,
But sair I needed rest,

In that joy, and peace and a*.
Were ye ever fann'd wi' wings
O' an angel while he sings ? —
Oh, the rest sic slumber brings,

In the sweet Far-Awa' !

Whaur the laddie, puir, forfairn,
Hears nae mair the tyrant stern ;
Whaur the mither finds her bairn.

And her tears are dried and a' ;
Whaur the pilgrim finds his hame,
And the outcast has a name,
And our folly isna fame.

In the sweet Far-Awa' !

Oh, to bide forever there !
Drap this wearin'-dud o' care,
And breathe that caller air,

Wi' its bliss, and joy and a' !
Whaur the vera thocht o' sin,
Dimmin' heart and hope within,
Nevemiair can enter in
To that sweet Far-Awa' !

Whaur the dream that gliutit by,
Fadin' as it neared the sky,
Rises bloomin', fair and high.
On the glory -fields I saw !

! f

IJy.

lt:i'

i
i I

' >

? !' 1!

i : |, Ulilli
m . ilili

11!

J^6

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Wi' the wish that wantit might,
And the doubt that wantit light,
And the faith that turns to sight
In the sweet Far-Awa' !

I am gangin' hame the morn !
For the Faither willna scorn
A puir weary wight forlorn,

When his Son says, *' Come awa' ! "
And the Freend I lang hae lo'ed,
Bids me lippen till the blude,
As I cross the Border-flude

To the Land that's Far-Awa' !

From an excellent sketch of Mr. Smith, written
by the well-known Scottish poet, Mr. John Imrie, of
Toronto, and recently published in the " Maj^azine
of Poetry," we lenrn that he was only 3 years of
age when his parents and their yoimg family left
Scotland to better their circumstances in the New
World. His father's intention was to sail for New
York, but, on account of delays in shipping, he and
his family took passage for Baltimore, where they
arrived safely, and soon afterwards pushed forward
to the southern part of Ohio. His father, finding
the " rough and tumble" life of a new country some-
what distasteful, betook himself to liih iginal
destination, that of New York, '" Id more con-

genial and better suited to th are educ :onal

requirements of his young famil} He emained in
New York, doing business as a clothi jr, six years,
and here the subject of our sketch received his first
public school tuition, proving himself an apt pupil,

REV. Wit. LI AM WYE SMITH.

3»7

and there laying the foundation of his future literary
career. His father's health somewhat failinji;^, and
with a fancy for farming, he removed his family to
the neighborhood of Gait, Upper Canada, where he
bought a cleared farm, and thus was brought about
a break of eight years in the education of our young
aspirant for learning; but, being a great reader, and
thirsting for knowledge, he read and inwardly diges-
ted every good book he could lay his hands on. A
volume of Burns' poems was one of his peculiar
treasures, and his inborn taste and talent for poetry
were thereby educated and stimulated, and the style
of some of his best productions display the fact that
his ideal poet was the Ayrshire bard. With the
exception of about six months in a country school,
Mr. Smith had no means of a practical education
other than his own untiring diligence after working
hours on his father's farm. How successful he was
may be judged by the fact that at eighteen he
obtained a position as school teacher in the village of
St. George, which position he held for a year, and
thus earned funds for future travels in search of a
higher education. He went to New York and was
greatly benefited by industrious application during
two terms in the classical department of the Univer-
sity Grammar School in that city. By this time our
young poet had gathered together almost a volume
of creditable effusions which had appeared from time
to time in local papers in Canada, and in New York
city.

cmv!

i m i m ' ^ w im m JKK» '. . -*wmmmm mm i mmim mi

1 I

i^5

,7 CLUSTER OF FOE IS.

In 1 85 1 he married, and started business as a
general storekeeper ir. St. George. About this time
his success as a writer of prose as well as poetry was
demonstrated by a prize of $100 being awarded him
by the Sons of Temperance for an essay advocating
the Prohibitory Liquor law in Canada. Early in
the year 1855 he removed his business to Owen
Sound, on the Georgian Bay, then a very isolated
part of the country. A couple of years afterward,
on being appointed to a clerkship of one of the
courts, he gave up his business as storekeeper, and
devoted himself for the next six or seven years to
the duties of his office. During these years his
spare time was spent in courting the muse, and as
editor and publisher of the ** Sunday School Dial," a
monthly publication, the first illustrated S. S. paper
printed in Upper Ctmada. The yea* 1862 was
spent in revisiting the land of his birth — "bonnie
Scotland" — and he returned, benefited in health,
improved by intellectual travel, and a more than
ever an enthusiastic Scottish-Canadian. In 1863 he
bought out the Owen Sound "Times," and contin-
ued to edit and publish it for a period of two years ;
but in 1865, being invited to become the pastor 01
the Congregational Church in Listowel, Ontario, he
sold out the "Times" to the present proprietor.
For about twelve years he was the Canadian corres-
pondent of the Edinburgh "Daily Review." and
acted as their special correspondent at the Centen-
nial Exhibition in 1876. After a pastorate of four

REV. WILLIAM WYE SMITH.

329

less as a
this time
)etry was
rded him
ivocating
Early in
to Owen
y isolated
ifterward,
ne of the
eper, and
n years to
years his
se, and as
bl Dial," a
\ S. paper
1862 was
— *'bonnie
in health,
nore than
n 1863 he
ind contin-
two years ;
pastor o£
ntario, he
I'oprietor.
lian corres-
liew." and
le Centen-
ite of four

years in Listowel, he accepted a call to the congre-
gation of Pine Grove, near Toronto, which position
he held for nine years. Afterwards he served a
Congregational Church for three years in the Eastern
Townships of Quebec, near the Vermont border.
He is now a resident of vSt. Catharines, Ontario, and
devotes his time to editorial work in connection with
the "Canadian Independent," the organ of the Con-
gregational body in the Dominion. During all these
years many a poetical production of his appeared in
the daily press of Canada, the United States, and
the motherland."

The bi/thplace of Mr. Smith is given as the
old historical town of Jedburgh; and this reminds
me of a weird piece of poetical writing that appears
in his latest volume. It is written in a peculiar and
quaint measure, and contains quite a large number
of rare old Scottish words. The title is :

THK GHOST THAT DANCED AT JETHART.

When glide King Aylsander was marriet,

'Twas lung syne, kinimer, i' the town o' Jethart ;
Stane-biggit, Abl)ey-crowned, auld Borler chichan,
Whiles I hae thocht on greetin', and whiles lauchin',
Just as fond memory wi' the past forguther't,
And down Time's stream was carriet.

And the King strode through the Abbey ha',

Wi' the stride o' a battle field ;
He was neither a callant to mind your ca',

Nor yet was a man o' eild.

■-♦";!

r ;ri

330

> I

' llilMi
i 'ill.' ii

W CLUSTER OF POETS.

But a man — we never saw but ane,

Nor ever saw him more !
The King we wiss't for aye could reign,
And the gentle queen on his arm remain,
A treasured jewel in joy and pain.
And gladness come to ilk hame again,

The braid land o'er !

And at his knee the courtiers bowed,

And gentle ladies fair ;
Nor kenned that the Abbot grumbled loud,
That a' the town had come, a loyal crowd.

To bend the knee, and then a measure take,
A generous dance, wi' lord and lady in't —
And landwart lassie, fresh frae pu'in lint —

A' merry for his sake !

But the King said, " Every ane enjoy hisel' ;

For a king's no marriet every day !
And the only thing a man can tell
Is, Tak the sunshine while ye may ! "

When gude King Aylsander was marriet,
The provost and the bailies o' the town.

The waukers, wabsters, and the smiths and souters.

The merchants, millers, and the caudron-clouters.
And every cadger frae the country roun'.

Wad celebrate the Weddin'.

And a' the town was ta'en wi* dancin',

Frae the Town-fit to the Abbey !

A' dancin' to the weel-bein o' the King ;

An' Ringan Hastie cam',

The first Town-Piper o' the ancient borough.

And a lang lad wi' a bassoon yet langer,

And whillie-wha's, and instruments o' clangor.

And kettle-drums, and fifes to pierce lugs thorough,

And harps, and men to sing !

REV. WILLIAM WYE SMITH.

33'

take,

pl';

Ind souters,
clouters,

jlangor,
rs thorough,

And the King sate at his Marriage-feast,

Wi' the Queen at his left hand ;
And lords and ladies gather't there,
Round the table heaped wi' dainty fare,
And that stretched awa' to the outer air ! —
(And wha' coudna find a seat to spare,

Gat ilk ane's leave to stand !)

Then flowed the yill, as large as Jed in simmer.

And whangs o' cheese and bannocks

High towered in cairns along the groanin' board

Wi' pears and apples frae the carefu' hoard
o' burgess loyal ;
An' h-ggis, tripe, and every dainty stored

For feast sae royal !

And, like a hailstorm through the forest grand,

A rushing dinnle.
Began the dance, sworn to keep on till morn —
E'en crazy eild intil the swirl was borne —

And " Jethart's Here ! " roar't out bow-legged Tam
Tinnle
When sudden cam a stand !

Bvt still the patter o' a pair o* feet

Was heard fu' right !
The lad had fainted wi' the lang bassoon.
An' kettle-drums an' fifes were in a swoon.
And harpers glowered atween their silent thairms

On sic a sight !

It jousl't wi' its elbucks e'en the King —

And maskers fled —
For ne'er in masquerade had sic a thing

Been seen or read !
It wasna leevin', yet 'twas dancin', loupin',
An' ower the provost it was nearly coupin',

Sic whirls it led !

\ \

!!»' '

332

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

It had a plume as it had been a baron,

Wi' feathers hie —
A kilt wi' gold brocade an' siller lacin',
An' dainty doublet wi' a braw, braw facin',

But hon-och-rie !
It was an atomy, a thing o' banes,

That wadna dee !

It lightly trod the airy min-e-wae.
An' crackt its fleshless thoombs ;
An' linked wi' unseen partners down the floor,
As country-dance was never danced before !
An' girned an' boo'd to leddies on the dais —
Then flittit frae the place !

•• Ho ! Tarn the Tip ! " cried out the Provost bauld,

"Bring back yon loon !
We'll pit him where he winna be sae yauld,
An' gie him time to blaw his parritch cauld !
He might hae hid his banes wi' decent garb —

Affrontin' the Town ! "

i i

-liHIl

But ne'er was seen that merrie ghost again,

In Jethart dear !
Her battle-axes fell on Southron shields,
Her sturdy spearman won victorious fields —

And " Jethart's Here ! "
Rung down the ages, as the battle plain

Its heroes gather 't —
But one, and only one, shall that remain —

The Ghost o' Jethart !

''I have not invented this ghost," says Mr. Smith,
' * I find it narrated as something that would be the
better of explanation, but has never been explained,

\\\\ I

REV. WILLIAM WYE SMITH.

333

that at a masquerade ball given in Jedburgh, in
1285, on the occasion of the marriage of Alexander
III., a ghost danced 1 Sir Michael Scot (the 'Wiz-
ard,') who was then living, was the best man to have
explained it; but, though he wrote of everything —
rams' flesh and bishops — pot herbs and wicked
women — kings and emperors and the roasting of
cggF —the dignity of friendship and whether fishes
chew their food — he has never told us a word in
explanation of * The Ghost that Danced at Jethart /
It was perhaps a pious fraud of the Abbot and
monks, not well pleased at so much hilarity in the
Abbey. Hector Boece distinctly says ' A skeleton
danced ! '"

In 1888 Mr. Smith published through Messrs.
Dudley & Burns, of Toronto, a collection of his
poems in a .small octavo volume of 265 pages. The
volume was well received by his admirers every-
where, and several of the leading papers in Canada
and in Scotland devoted considerable space to favor-
able notices of it. There are no less than 175 pieces
in the volume, and these are classified under the
headings of ''Miscellaneous," "Canadian," "Scot-
tish," "Religious," "Psalms," and "Children's
Pieces." It is needless to say that all of these com-
positions are in a masterly style. Open the book at
random and the eye will alight on the musings of a
true poet. There are beautiful lines, inspiring
thoughts, bright similes, melodious rhymes, and the
choicest of language displa5cd on every page, and

rll

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

when Mr. Smith published his poems in this perma-
nent form he added a valuable contribution to the
now steadily increasing poetical literature of Canada.
Among the poems in the book are many of tender
and deeply pathetic interest, and which serve to
show that Mr. Smith is possessed of a large and sym-
pathetic heart. "Wee Jeanie," "Our Bonnie
Bairn's Asleep," "James Guthrie," "The Martyr of
Solway Sands," "Wallace's Farewell to Marion,"
and various others are exceedingly touching poems,
and will always be treasured by people who are
specially interested in this particular kind of poetry.
There is another poem, however, "Robert Fergus-
son," which also belongs to this class, and which
possesses a peculiar interest for all lovers of the
Scottish muse. In Whitelavv's "Book of Scottish
Song "we read, "An incident strikingly illustrative
of the unhappy destiny af the young poet, and at the
same time of the honorable esteem in which he was
held by those who knew him, must not remain un-
told. Shortly after his death a letter came from
India directed to him, inclosing a draft for ;^ioo,
and inviting him thither, where a lucrative position
was promised to him. The letter and draft were
from an old and attached school fellow, a Mr. Bur-
net, whose name deserves to be forever linked with
Fergusson's for this act of munificent, though fruit-
less generosity." And on this incident Mr. Smith
composed the following:

REV, WILLIAM WYE SMITH.

335

tiis pertna-
ion to the
of Canada.

of tender
h serve to
e and sym-
>ur Bonnie
- Martyr of
o Marion,"
ling poems,
le who are
d of poetry,
jert Fergus-

and which
Dvers of the
; of Scottish
^ illnstrative
3t, and at the
vhich he was
t remain nn-
came from
\it for £^oOy
ative position
,d draft were
V, a Mr. Biir-
ir linked with

though fmit-
nt Mr. Smith

ROBERT FERGUSSON.

" O come to the Indies, Rab !

For the skies of the East are aglow ;
There's hope for thy bosom, and light for thine eyes,

There's wealth at thy bosom to flow ! "
'Twas thus to the minstrel he sent.

With a pledge from his brotherly hand ;
As he lay at noon in his sultry tent,

And dreamed of his native land !

Swift sails the message bore

Through spicy isles of the sea ;
But the bard or ever it reached the shore.

Had laid down his head to dee !
They could kindle and glow at his strains,

Or weep 'neath his minstrel wand —
But they left him to die amid clanking chains.

In the heart of his native land 1

Alas, for a friend at hand

Wi' a bosom as tender and true —
And a cheering word for the hapless bard.

Like the lad ower the ocean blue.
Soon, soon was thy harp untuned

That might lang hae been strung wi' glee —
And mony wakened to find thee fled,

They wad hae gien gowd to see !

O sweetest and kindliest Rab ;

Heart broken, yet brither to a' ;
How young and how fair thy brow to bear

The sorrows that were thy fa' !
I4ke the minstrel wha set thee a stane.

The Plowman Laddie o' Ayr,
"We'll drap a saut tear ower thy lowly bier,

And a' that lies buried there ! "

■^t \

''Sa

;|?.

!!i:.

336

A CLUSTER OF POE'IS.

^ h

Gifted but ill-fated Robert Feri^usson ! Death
claimed him at the ajj^e of 28, and in the midst of the
most gloomy and miserable surroundini^s of all — a
madhouse. Burns, it inay be remembered, on his
first visit to Edinburgh, sought out the poet's almost
neglected grave in the old and historic Canongate
Churchyard, and at his own expense erected a stone
at the head of it. All honor to the memory of
Burns, were it for nothing more than this noble and
generous action \ The late true-hearted Scottish
poet, James Ballantine, took Fergus.son's grave
under his special care, and had a margin of shells
around it, brought from Ayr. After reading the
above poem, he wrote to Mr. vSmith :

'•Should we have met when you were here, I
should have joined you in your pilgrimage to Fer-
gusvson's grave, and shed tears together over the
poor, dear fellow, and true Scotsman."

Included in Mr. Smith's latest volume are many
beautiful lyrical pieces^ all of which are deserving of
special mention. There is a simplity of language
used in their composition, and they are remarkably
sweet, both in thought and exprCvSsion. They prove
that their author is possessed of an exquisite lyric
note and a pure taste. We quote the following as
specimens.

THE BIRDIE THAT'S WANTIN' A WING.

They say there's a birdie that's wantin' a wing,
Ower the sea ; ower the sea ;

RF.V. WIIJJAM WYE SMITH.

337

He neither can flie, nor yet can he sing —

Ower the sea ; ower the se i,
Bnt he finds him a mate— sae he's no sae I)ereft ;
He h.as a rijjht win.tj, and she has a left ;
And they link on thej^ither, and aff they ^ac daft

Ower the sea ; ower the sea !

They say there's a birdie that wantin' a note,

Ower tlie sea ; ower the sea ;
And a' the hij^h sounds seem to stick in his throat,

Ower the sea ; ower the sea.
Rut he finds him a mate wi' the hij^h notes sae clear —
He has the bass, and she has the air —
And "Turn about, Tibbie?" — the sang's rich and rare! —

Ower the sea ; ower the sea !

I teirt it to Kate ; and I thought I was slee ;

By the dyke-stane ; by the dyke-siane.
And in the bit birdie I ho{)ed she'd see me,

Dowie and fain ; dowie and fain.
*' It was a daft ditty," she sai<l, " she must say ;
And when a chield tuubi his love-tale in that way,
She thought it was time that his tongue he let play,

And spak his mind plain ! and spak his
mind plain !"

O, the sun it cam out, and the birds they sang clear !

Ower the lea ; ower the lea !
And the lass that I lo'ed seemed never sae dear

Ever to me, ever to nie !
The wing that was wantin', I faimd it complete !
The sang that was mantin', was perfect and sweet !
And twa Scottish lovers, twa hearts with ae beat,

Sat there by the sea ; sat there by the sea !

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A CLUSTER OF POETS.

A SIMMER MORN.

'Tis the lilting o' the laverock,

As he flits the clouds amang,
And the wind is blawin' mouthfu's

To the pulses o' his sang —
I never kent what gar't the wind

Blaw mouthfu's at a time,
Till I heard the mornin' laverock,

And the owerconie o' his rhyme !

And it's up, and ever upward.

Till he canna farther win,
Unless through Heaven's unsteekit yett

He fairly enters in —
And the bonnie gowan waukens.

And her blush becomes a lowe,
Whaur 'mang the dew she hiddlit

In the shelter o' the howe.

And the sun is shining on the fell.

And rising as he shines,
While the mellow-throatit mavis chirms
A wheen unstudied lines ;
And the shepherd whussles in his joy,

His collie at his fit ;
Till, fain to feel sic happiness,

My vera heart grows grit !

And there, amang Creation's joy.

My bannet in my han' —
I pour my thanks for sic a morn,

My thanks for sic a Ian' !
And ever pray my future day

Sic simmer suns may see ;
And aye some laverock singin' clear

At ween the Heavens and me !

REV. WILLIAM WYE SMITH.

339

A prominent New York weekly, in rcviewinjif Mr.
Smith's volume, said :

'• The Rev. Wm. Wye »Smith has published a vol-
ume of his collected poems which oiijjht to be
warmly welcomed throughout the Dominion and
wherever lovers of true poetry are to be found. The
poems, which refer to Canada, have the true ring
about them. They are sturdy, independent and
hopeful. Many of the Scotch poems are marked by
pure patriotism, lofty sentiments and pretty fancies.
The Doric is simple, natural and unaffected. The
religious poems possess great merit, and many of
them have enjoyed a wide popularity. We cordially
commend this volume to our readers everywhere. "

Were it necessary we might say considerably more
in regard to Mr. Smith's poetical abilities. But we
presume our readers will agree with us that he is in
all respects a true son of song, without our saying or
quoting anything further. He is actively engaged
in literary work, and accomplishes much in this di-
rection every year. He has also won renown from
the many portions of Scripture that he has translated
into the Scotch, and each of these is, to say the
least, a literary curiosity.

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ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE.

Mr. Albert E. vS. Smythc is entitled to a promi-
nent place amonp; risini,^ Canadian poets. His volume
entitled " Poems Grave and Gay," recently pub-
lished by Messrs. Imrie and Graham, of T(<ronto,
contains numerous poems of dislinj:fuished merit,
while there is not a sinecle piece in it v/hich one
mi^dit term frivolous or insignificant. In reviewinij^
the book soiue time aj^^o, the Dominioti Illustrated
said: " His poems show him a man of rare insight,
high thought, pure taste and good education," while
Canada paid him a unique and well deserved compli-
ment by saying: "The author has more than
ordinary poetic talent. There is thought and sense
and imagination in the book, and this is certainly
more than can be said of much of the verse that is
publivshed nowadays." Delicacy, tenderness and a
sacred feeling of the highest order are depicted in
most of our author's work, while his st3ie, except in
his humorous poems, is of a subdued and gentle
character, his taste refined, his similes original and
his langiiage graphic and musical. The following
brief piece may be taken as showing these particular
qualities:

THE FIRST WORD.

An angel came
And stood beside the cradle of a cliild
And spoke its name ;

ALliERT E. S. SMYTIIE

34'

And near ))y lay the mother, sleep beguiled,
A little space to sorrow reconciled.

His whisper woke
The babe, who feared not at the {.gracious si;;ht,

And smiles outbroke
Upon its infant face, and sweet and bri^dit
His answering smile made suining in the night.

Gently he took,
As with a father's care, the fatherless,

And let it look
On her who lay in widowed loneliness,
Half-happy in some dreamed of, dead caress.

There he instilled
In it the knowledge of her motherhood,

Forever filled
With love, and care, and quick solicitude.
Guarding from evil, guiding unto good.

And having trained
The infant lips to voice that darling name

That lives unstiiined
Beyond all speech of blessing or of blame.
He passed away in silence as he came.

At break of day
The babe awoke upon its mother's breast.

And as it lay
Called her that dearest name. And she confessed
The Lord is God who makes affliction blessed.

Other poems of the same affectionate caste are
"Evangeline," ''Betrothed," ''Dark Eyes," "Life's
Fairy Tale," and "Lough Swilly." In a brief note
to his volume, Mr. Smythe says :

!!'i

343

rl CLUSTER OF POETS.

"In the autumn of '82 the writer first discovered
himself in the columns of a leading London journal.
Perhaps nothing that a stern critic might say could
evoke chagrin equal to that felt on learning that
certain friends and acquaintances had escaped hear-
ing of the occurrence; and perhaps no lenient
reviewer could give more pleasure than the congrat-
ulations of those who had been more alert. Nine
years since then of hard-working commercial life in
Belfast, in Chicago, in Edinburgh, and in Toronto
might indeed have dulled one's susceptibilities, but
as enough spare time has been found for the plan-
ning and penning of these pages, so the sensitiveness
has not been wholly stifled which derives great satis-
faction from a kindly reception. "

The poem referred to at the beginning of the
above note as having appeared in the London
Graphic \^ ihQ owe. entitled "Eva," as sweet a piece
of lyrical poetry, by the way, as one would wish to
read. The sentiment is exceedingly tender, the
melody fascinating, the moral tone pleasing, and
taken altogether it is perhaps the finest of Mr.
Smythe's poems.

EVA.

High, high, in the westerly sky

Lingers the day as I linger by thee ;
Slow, slow, from the darkness below

Creeps the night over the brim of the sea.

Soft, soft, to the sea-birds aloft,

Whisper the waters that toss on the shore,

ALBERT E, S. SMYTH E.

3i3

Rare, rare, from the mermaiden's hair,
Scattered and sparkling, the jewels they wore.

Far, far, there is shining a star
Pure as the ';v iicon a seraph woixld burn,

Clear, clear, tliat poor wanderers here,
Seeing it lead them, a pathway might learn.

Soon, soon, will the silvery moon
Glow through a glory of luminous mist,

Pale, pale, in her vaporous veil,
Down on the flowers thai look up to be kitised.

Then then, when the children of men
Seal up their souls with a slumbering spell,

Sweet, sweet — and till morn when we meet
Angels will guard thee and comfort thee well.

In his humorous poems, sech as *'In Lodgings,"
"OiiLOtthe Left," -'The Peanut Ballads," ''Fate
the jViilkman," ** Eye Wisdom," and various others,
l»ir. Smythe proves himself to be a capital story-
teller as well as an excellent poet. Nor are these
humorous pieces simply of local or passing interest.
They contain many linet: and similes which are
worthy of preservation, and although the incidents
which they chronicle have necessarily to be written
or explained in a humorous vein, still there is always
a lesson to be learned from them, or else some good
wholesome thoughts for reflection will be found
em.bodied in them. Take the following for example :

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,/ CLUSTER OF POETS.

BOB AND THE STARS.

A VKPSION.

We went to the window, Bob and I,
Sonieoiie declaring the night so fine,

And watched the wonderful winter sky
Sparkle with frosty stars and shine,

And gleam, I thought, like the hugely high
Cavern-roof of a jewel mine.

r;ob is a small philosopher ;

I am the sire of the teiider sage,
And lialf expect him to make a stir

Out in the world when he comes of age,
Though as yet his infant character

Only lias reached th'e hopeful stage.

Bobby has curious thoughts and wise ;

Some, like himself, could stand alone.
Yet might, when they leave a father's eyes,

Tumble down or be overthrown,
For norie can properly sympathize

With thoughts or children not his own.

Now this winter night in the starry light,

liol) said a notable thing to me ;
He asked and his voice so low and slight

Sounded somewhere about my knee —
" If the bottom of heaven looks so bright,

Father, what must the inside be ? "

The Toronto Globe referring to Mr. Smythe's
work on one occasion, remarked that some of the
poems in the volume are very channini^ bits of fancy,
and the author excels as to the daintiness of his com-

ALliEKl E. S. SMYTH E.

345

parisons in the flower poems of which there are
many in his book. This remark is indeed very true.
Some of his poems on flowers are really remarkable
for their beauty and freshness and finish. They
possess a pure poetic sound which no one who reads
them can fail to note. Among the principal ones
we may mention "Flowers," "Breeze and Blos-
som," "Roses," "January Violets," "May Blos-
soms" and "Lilies," the last named piece touching
on "The Calla Lily," "The Tiger Lily," "The
Water Lily," and the "Lily of the Valley," as
follows:

LILIEvS.

I. THE CAUvA UI<V.

When the lofty peerless lily,
Silver-browed and chastely chilly,
Hides the dream on which she museth
What a world the poet loseth !
She is queenly on her stem,
Though she wear no diadem.
And she knows she is a queen,
Self-contained, self-ruled, serene ;
No supremacy requiring.
No predominance desiring,
Owning such estate of beauty
Reverence becomes a duty.
Thus there dwells the stainless form
Even fancy fails to warm
With the dainty blossom-hues
Morning freshens with her dews.

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rl CLUSTER OF POETS.

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II. THE TIGER I.I1,Y.

Edith's throat of marble whiteness
Shamed the tiger lilies' brightness
Where they blazoned, fiery, flaming,
Their imperial rank proclaiming.
They were proud and passionate,
She was haughty, but sedate ;
Heedless in her tranquil pride
Though neglected or belied ;
But they courted admiration
And grew faint with emulation.
Thus for contrast Edith wore them,
And a comely one she bore them ;
They, all eager to be seen,
Curled their leaves with conscious mien,
Edith passed along too proud
To regard the gazing crowd.

III. THE WATER I<II,Y.

Lonely, beautiful and stilly

Floats each leafy water lily,

Never rival claim contesting.

Only radiant — only resting

Through a pleasant summer dream

On a gentle, gentle stream :

Dying on the brimming flood

Calmly as they came to bud.

All the lilies, liquid-lustred

With the dew-drops that have clustered

In their shallow, limpid hollo ws

Where the gnats avoid the swallows.

In the loving waters grow.

While their shadows shine below,

But their sheltered hearts of gold

Unreflectedly unfold.

. / /. BER T E. S. SM ) THE.

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IV. THE Ijr.Y OF THE VALI^EY.

Tiny tinkling bells of beauty

Peal forth elfin calls to duty,

And the fairy people rally

Round the lilies of the valle}'.

Lady Alice one day took

From the valley where they shook

ySuch a burden of the bells

Silence fell among the dells.

Cn her bosom, though, she hung them

Where her laughter lightly swung them

Till the fairy forces hearing

How they chimed, all came careering,

And they crowded close and pressed

Round her lily-laden breast ;

There she bound them — snared with art —

Slaves forever in her heart !

Included in "Poems Grave and Gay " are also a
number of deeply pathetic pieces which prove that
Mr. Smytlie possesses a warm Christian heart, and
that he can extend true sympathy and consolation to
others in an hour of trouble, or when the ang^el of
death passes over their beloved thresholds. There
is a hopeful, resigned spirit ring-ing- throughout
them, and they will always be classed among our
author's most successful compositions. "Jessie,"
"Edith's Grave," "In the Twilight," -'Good-bye
My Wife " and " Fading" are all very beautiful and
touching poems, and they appeal to th • heart in a
very direct manner, and help to bind un the wounds
of the afflicted. W<: append the last named piece as
a specimen :

.1* ^3

348

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

FADING.

She moved about with quiet tread,

With weary steps we still remember ;
The sunshine kissed he*- drooping head,

Like golden leaves in sad September.
But though the chilling winds would shake,

As yet they only breathed a warning ;
And though she slept, she still would wake,

And still we found her with the morning.

'< n

Her evtry act, and all her words

Were flowers untimely in October,
That gladdened faintly when the birds.

Growl' silent, left us grave and sober.
We scarcely felt that we were glad

To have her yet a little longer.
We dared not think that we were sad

She did not leave us to be stronger.

\X^e knew she was not yet to go —

Alas ! the little while was fleeting —
She fed a robin in the snow.

She kissed us for a New Year's greeting ;
But when the snowdrops trembling hung.

Then bowed we dumbly, sorrow-laden,
The Angel of the Lord had flung

A snow-white robe around the maiden.

Mr. Smythe was born in the Moravian settlement
of Gracehill, in county Antrim, Ireland, on the
twenty-seventh of December, 1861, the anniversary,
by the way, of the death of Charles Lamb. Some
of his early experiences are reflected in a number of

ALBERT E. S. SMYTH E.

349

his poems, but at the ajj^e of ten he was in the town
of Ballymena, where he remained till 1876.. "The
atmosphere of Ballymena," he says, "is favorable
to poetry, and many a local singer is embalmed in
the memory of the district, and chief among them,
perhaps, is Davie Harbison, the bard of Dunclug. "
Education in the National Schools is not very ad-
vanced, but it is, at any rate, thorough^. Going to
Belfast, the commercial metropolis and now the lar-
gest city in Ireland, he learned a little and taught a
little and contracted that appreciation of transatlan-
tic ways which Belfast more than any other British
city is calculated to inspire. 1884 proved a peculiar
year in many ways for him, love and death and
heaven and earth and the mysteries of life all
seemed to present themselves at once, and, without
any idea of running away, emigration seemed to
suggest a solution of the problems.

A very valuable friendship inaugurated in 1882
during a visit to the vScotch lakes with an Illinois
gentleman, gave the direction to his travels, and he
first tasted the sweets of American hospitality at the
Christmas season among the fertile farms of McLean
county, A business engagement in Chicago fol-
lowed, and until 1887 he learned to look on the
wonderful western city as a second home. The
spirit of unrest, however, again manifested itself and
we next find him in Edinburgh, Scotland, filling an
im lortant engagement and adding a little more to
his cosmopolitan S3'mpatbies. His connection with

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3SO

A CULSTFR OF POETS.

the choir of the celebrated St. Giles' Cathedral was
one of the pleasantest experiences of that time, and
the constant contact with the broad and liberul ten-
dencies of Dean Cameron Lees during that period,
he considers one of the most valuable educative
influences of his life. With the Dean there is neither
Jew nor Gentile, bond or free, male or female, all
are one in the divine body. In Edinburgh he also
first became acquainted with the teachings of Occult-
ism and of the Theosophical Society, which he
subsequently joined and which he says has been a
guide and stay to him ever since. In 1889 he sailed
to Canada, where he arrived in due time. That he
sincerely loved Scotland may be readily inferred
from the following sonnet which he composed when
leaving it:

F.VENING LARK vSONG.

At a niral railway station en-roiite to Glas|tfow, lea\'inEr
Scotland, 9 p. in., 20th May, iRS^.

There's the last lark in Scx)tland \ Hear him pour
His sweet enchantment on the quiet air —
A benedietion or a vesper prayer,

Or praise for all the gladness gone before.

Still there is light to sing and light to soar
And all the glowing wester 1 heavens wear
Gold promise of the morrow. Does he dare

Exultantly rejoice for gifts in stone ?

While I, with heart more like the shamefast flower
That grows beside his nest and shuts its eye

Ere daylight fades, dreading the sunset hour,

Leave these bright Scottish years and each dear tie,

athedral was
at time, and
liberul ten-
that period,
le educative
2re is neither
r female, all
irg-h he also
gs of Occiilt-
■, which he
; has been a
589 he sailed
e. That he
lily inferred
iposed when

ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE.

35r

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pt flower
jye

:h dear tie.

Faces of friends, kind hands, wami hearts — IvOve's
dower,
Unthrifte<l, yet secure, while Time rolls by.

Mr. Smythe has since resided in Toronto. Here
we must take our leave of him althouj^^h not without
according; him our best wishes for his continued
prosperity in commercial and literary ventures. He
has a mission to fill in life and we feel very confi-
dent that if he will continue to devote his spare
moments to the cultivation and exercise of his poeti-
cal faculties he will ultimately produce poetry that
will entitle him to rank among the most prominent
Canadian poets. We have not touched upon his
religious musings but we conclude with one of his
religious sonnets, leaving the reader to judge for
himself of the merit of his work in this direction:

DEATH THE REVEALER.

I know that death is God's interpreter ;

His quiet voice makes gracious meanings clear

In grievous things that vex us deeply here
I^tween the cradle and the sepulchre.
We, gazing into darkness greatly err,

And fear the shrouded shadow of a fear

Till dawn reveals the vestments of a Seer
With gifts of gold and frankincense and myrhh.
There is a mystery I cannot read

Around the mastery I no more dread ;
For love is but a heart to brood and bleed,

And life is but a dream among the dead
Whose wisdom waits for us, God give me heed

Till the day break and shadows alJ be fled .'

WILLIAM ANDERSON.

Ill

In business a mechanic, a manufacturer and a
merchant; in public life, a soldier in the state and in
the Civil War; an enthusiastic member of the
G. A. R. ; an Alderman in the city of Auburn 1876-7
and Superintendent of Charities for six years; Chief
of the Auburn Caledonian Club for several terms;
President of the North American United Caledonian
Association for one term and Secretary of the same
for four terms; add to this that Mr. Anderson is a true
son of song and has written some very excellent
poetry and we have, in outline, the record of a man
who may justly be termed a representative Scot in
American.

Mr. Anderson was born at Duntocher, Dumbar-
tonshire, Scotland, on the 8th of March, 1836, He
came to America in 1853 and has since resided in
Auburn, N, Y. At present he holds the position of
Clerk to the Water Board.

In 1867 he married Margaret Allen Dyer, the
grand daughter of Robert Allen, the Kilbarchan poet,
and a very worthy woman in all respects. They
have a family of four sons and one daughter.

As a poet Mr. Anderson receives honorable men-
tion in Dr. Peter Ross' latest work, "The Scot in
America." He has written quite a number of what
may be called National pieces (such as " Old Glory ")

ir/L A LI M A N PERSON.

353

Jturer and a
I state and in
iber of the
nbiirn 1876-7

years; Chief
veral terms;
d Caledonian

of the same
jrson is a true
ery excellent
)rd of a man
itive Scot in

that have attracted attention all over the country.
His Scottish pieces arc full of patriotism and deep
feelinj^ and all of them have the genuine ring of the
poet in their composition. " Whatever merit any of
my efforts may possess." writes Mr. Anderson, " it is
certain that those which has given me the greatest
pleasure are the poems I have written of the happy
meetings I have had from year to year at the Con-
ventions of the N. A. U. C. A. such as the "Great
Caledonian Raid," "The Gathering Day," "The
Opening of the Mine," etc.

Mr, Anderson has frequently been advised to is.sue
his poems in book form and contemplates doing so
at an earlv date. Thev are certainly well worthv of
being placed before the public in this permanent
form. Here are a few specimens;

T. Dumbar-

, 1836. He

|e resided in

position of

Dyer, the
irchan poet,
jcts. They
Iter.

arable men-
^he Scot in
ki* of what
)ld Glory ")

OLD GLORY.

A song to the flag of onr country we rai.se

The grandest ere vaunted in song or in story.
Thou emblem of Freedom ; our lips sinj; thy praise
And our hearts' full devotion, we pledge thee, Old
Glory.
The sun, in his course, sees none braver than thee ;

The breezes of Heaven kiss none that is fairer.
And where'er thy proud folds float, by land or by sea.
All beneath, in thy glory and power become sharer.
Our hands will defend thee, our tongues tell thy

story.
Our hearts aye will cherish and love thee, f)ld
Glory.

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354

A CLUSTER OF POETR

yiii

A salute to the flag of the " Stripes and the Stars,"

The bravest, the fairest, the proudest in story,
In the forefront of battle, in freedom's just wars,
Firm hands and bold hearts aye hath borne thee. Old
Glory.
O'er the clouds at Lookout, with the hosts of the free ;
At Vicksburg, triumphant, thou shone in thy splen-
dor ;
At grand Gettysburg, on the " March to the Sea."
Until treason bowed down unto thee, in surrender.
Our hands will «lcfend thee, our tongues tell thy

story.
Our hearts aye will cherish and love thee, Old
Glory.

A toast to the flag of the red. white and blue,

In peace, as in war, aye the matchless in story.
May ever the loyal, the brave and the true,

vStand guard to defend and preserve thee, Old Glorj'.
And beneath thy dear folds over all our fair land.

From ocean to ocean, o'er mountain and river.
May all dwell united, a patriot band,
And Freedom and Justice and Peace reign forever.

Our hands will defend thee, our tongues tell thy

story.
Our hearts aye will cherish and love thee. Old
Glorv.

THERE'S NAE LAND LIKE AULD SCOTLAND.

*.t

There's nae land like fair Scotland,
Her vales sae bonnie, hills sae hie ;

There's nae lanrl like Auld Scotland —
The battlefield o' liberty.

II 7A A LLV A XD/iA'SOX.

355

love thee, Old

ove tliee, Old

OTLAND.

For there, in days o' yore, proud Rome

First met a foe knew no retreat.
And fields o' L,args and Hannockburn

To Freedom's foes brought sore defeat.

Chorus — There's nae land, etc.

II.
There's nae flowers like Scotia's flowers,

The bonnie bluebell, waving free ;
The primrose and the buttercup.

And sweet wee daisies deck the lea.
And whaur's a flower sae bauld and Strang

As Scotia's thi.stle rears its head? —
Ye loons wha ettel vScotland wrang

Ye daunia on her thistle tread !

Chorus — There's nae flowers, etc.

III.
There's nae sings like auld Scotch sangs

To cheer the heart when we are sad —
To whisjjer true love's melting tale,

To voice our joys when we are glad.
And want ye sangs to nerve the arm

And fire the soul that wad be free,
Then " Scots wha hae " and " Stirling Bridge,"

Are trumpet tongues o' liberty !

Chorus — There's nae sangs, etc.

IV.
There's nae men like Scottish men.

In battle brave, in friendship true ;
When duty, or when country calls,

•• Aye ready !" they to dare and <lo.
And whaur's the lassies like oor ain ?

The warld owre there's nane we ken
Sae Ixmnie, gude — sjie fit to 1^

The wives ar.d mithers o sic men !

Ckonis — There's nae men, etc.

I ;

356

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

WE'RE A' DAFT.

We're a' daft, we're a' daft,

Sonle wantin' warp, some wantin' waft.

Some temper'd hard, some temper'd saft,

Some crack't, some bent,
But ane an' a' we're a' daft,

To some extent.

\\ \

In proof that my assertion's true,
Juist pass mankind in brief review ;
Tak' heathen, Christian, Gentile, Jew,

A' class an' craft.
As scon's their mainspring meets )'our view,

Ye'll see they're daft.

Let's wi' the great o' earth begin,

Pope, Emp'ror, Prince or Sovereign King ;

To rule by Right Divine's the spring

O' a' King-craft —
A monstrous lie ! to which they cling,

An' mak's them daft.

The crafty statesman plots an' schemes.
To guide the flow o' human streams ;
Power, fame an' fortune are his dreams ;

He drinks the draught.
Which promises but ne'er redeems —

He too is daft.

An' priests o' every name an' creed.
Presume to know, to teach to lead,
To punish, to absolve — indeed,

The haill priestcraft
Wad fain to Heaven's power succeed ;

They're unoo' daft.

WILLIAM ANDERSON.

357

Araft,

1 saft,

k't, some bent,

fcteut.

' craft,
ur view,
ley'ie daft.

King ;

craft —

r
»i

hem daft,
es,

ns;

le draught,

Ft.

The rich man wi' his bonds an' stocks,
Banks, railroads, steamships, mines and docks,
Wi' fears an failures get sic shocks.

His brain grows saft,
An' syne ahint some Bedlam's locks

Stan's ravin' daft.

The man wha boasts his pedigree,
An' wad look doon on you or me,
Because we hae nae family tree.

Has never quaff'd
The wine o' human liberty —

He's just clean daft.

In every land, in every age.

At every hero, saint an' sage,

Whase name illumines History's page,

The warld has laugh 'd
To see them acting on life's stage,

VVhyles waur than daft.

But baud ye there ; tho' this be true,
Talc' ye nae pessimistic view ;
All's for the best, truth will accrue ;

The years will waft
The better sense, and love subdue

What dings us daft.

estcraft

' daft.

The grandest soul o' a' his time,

Rob Burns, wha set these words in rhyme —

" To mak' a happy fireside clime,

For weans an' wife,
That's the true pathos an' sublime

O' human life."

3JS

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Nae sweeter lines e'er flowed frae pen,
Nae grander thocht than this we ken ;
Yet he wha wrote sae wiselj', when

He wasna' chaiT'd,
Was aften juist like ither men —

A wee bit daft.

We're a' daft, we're a' daft,

Some wantin' warp, sotne wantin waft,

Some temper'd hard, some temjxjr'd saft.

Some crack 't, some bent,
But ane an' a' we're a' daft.

To some extent.

f-iv

JAMIK'S WEE BACK ROOM.

There's mony places tauld aboot, in story and in .song

Made famous by heroic deeds whaur richt has owrecome
wrong ;

There's places 'mang the mountain taps, and ])y the sound-
ing sea,

That lift ye up and fill ye wi' their ain sublimity.

But this wee place o' which I sing, 'tis neither great nor

grand,
Its praises ne'er before's been sung, nor sounded in the land ;
And yet to mony honest hearts, 'twill pleasure bring to

croon.
Recalling happy mem'ries o' Jim Longwill's wee back room.

This wee back room o' Jamie's, sae cosy an' far ben,
'Twill only hand, when in't himsel', aboot a dizzen men ;
But, oh, sic men as here ye'll meet that come frae far and

nigh !
There's nane frequent this wee back room but what's the

''rale Mackayr

ill,
11 ;

chaiT'd,
Llaft.

aft,

I saft,

k't, some bent,

stent.

.1.

ui in son^

it has owreconie

id by the sound-

nity.

;ither great nor

ded in the land ;
easure bring to

wee back room.

ar ben,
dizzen men ;
ne frae far and

but what's the

WILLIAM AXnilRSOX.

359

Will Shakespeare siiid, lang time ago, " The very walls have

ears ; "
If that be sae, then whatna tales these wa's hae heard for

years !
And, carrying fancy further, if they had a tongue as well.
Then, oh, what unco' stories this wee room wad hae to tell !

What curlin, and what quoitin' ploys hae often been here

plann'd !
What happy nieetin's here o' freens lang pairtit in the land ;
What i)oliticians here hae focht, and richtit a' the wrangs !
And here wee Dugald Cockbuni, aft has sung his sweetest

sangs.

Here Smiddy Jock, and Fairnier J<»ck, "in perfect health,"

thegither,
Wi' Collier Tam. and Weaver Sam, hae toasted ane anither ;
Here Border Willie, fu' o' fun, wi' Rhyming Wull's sat doon.
To hae a swap o' jokes and cracks, in this wee cosy room.

Haun, frae the Hielands, Printer John, Van Cleef, learned in

the law,
Carlyie, and Sinclair, liowery Tom, gle this wi' room a ca';
McKnight and Stevens, Mitchell, Booth, Case, Irving, Rose

and Moore.
Aft meet and spend in this wee room fu' mony a happy o'or.

To name the feck o' Jamie's freens wad mak a list owre

lang—
They couldna a' be mentioned in the compass o' my sang ;
But every honest, social chiel wha's ever here sat doon.
May rest content, his name's weel keut, in Jamie's wee Ixick

room.

I cannot here resist the temptation to in.sert one
more specimen of Mr. Anderson's muse, a piece

?A»

/i CLUSTER OF l\)ETS.

composed last summer and which now appears in
print for the first time. It is a noble song in honor
of Old Scotland ; grand, patriotic, dignified and
inspiring. It is one of Mr. Anderson s best produc-
tions and is certainly well worthy of a prominent
place in this volume.

SCOTLAND FOREVER.

Oh ; Scotia, the land never tro<l by a slave,
Made free by the blood of a martyr and yeoman.
Where the tyrant invader ne'er found but a grave,
Where a traitor is held to be doubly a foetnan,
The land of our sires, our own dearly loved land,
Aye ours to remain, mountain, valley and river,
All her rights, as of yore, we'll maintain sword in hand.
Our motto and watchword be " Scotland Forever."
Scotland Forever ; Aye Scotland Forevea
Our motto and watchword be, Scotland F'orever.

When Northern hordes, under " Haco," their king
From their war-ships had landed our conquest intending.
They found, erst, at Largs, how Scotch thistles could sting.
Their own soil from the tread of the tyiant defending.
And the mid-night surprise of our camp — as they planned,
Met such brave repulse, foiled their boldest endeavor,
'Gainst the sweep of our broadswords no foeman could

stand.
Whilst the cry of the victors was " Scotland Forever."
Scotland Forever ; Aye Scotland Forever,
The cry of the victors was Scotland Forever.

And again, with tne might of all England, arrayed.
When Edward, his barons and knights — famed in story,
With ten times ten thousand, marched forth to invade,
And subvert our dear land, freedom, honor and glory.

IV IL L J A M A NDERSON.

361

On th)- banks, Bannockburn, they were stayed by "The

Bruce,"
Who, tho' o'ermatched, yet scorned he to falter or waver,
And that red field he won, ere his " bugles sang truce,"
And his broadswords gave freedom to Scotland Forever,
Scotland Forever ; Aye Scotland Forever,
His broadswords gave freedoui to Scotland Forever.

When the war-god of iVance, in the height of his power,

Wrecking dynasties ; thrones ; making nations to tremble;

When against him, the dial of Time, told the hour,

For the forces of Order and Peace, to assemble.

There, at dread Waterloo, in the heat of the fray,

Rode the famous "Scots Greys," in a charge equalled

never,
And the valor of Scotia helped win that great day,
Inspired by the slogan of *• Scotland Forever."
Scotland Forever ; Aye Scotland Forever,
Inspired by the slogan of Scotland Forever.

Thus aye it hath been, and for aye it shall be,
Asat" Alma,"at"IvUcknow," "Quebec" and ''Corunna,"
In defence of her home, or her rights beyond sea.
Her war-pipes shall aye proclaim Scotia's hosannah,
In the front rank of progress her sons will aye stand,
For right ; and for truth, and all manly endeavour,
And God will protect by the might of His hand,
And bless with His love our dear Scotland Forever.
Scotland Forever ; Aye Scotland Forever,
And bless with His love our dear Scotland Forever.

'^^#€#

i/.,

■'1

„ '■'

• i'.:

CHARLES REEKIE.

I ■:

'• Day Dreams," a volume of excellent poetry, by
Mr. Charles Reekie, of Hoboken, N. J., is one of
the latest contributions to the poetical literature of
our time. Mr. Reekie is a graceful writer of poetry,
and many of his compositions are far above the
average productions usually found in an author's
first volume of poems. He is patriotic and musical,
thoughtful and gi-aphic, while a deeply pathetic note
seems to vibrate through all of his musings, thus
adding a peculiar charm to them and making them
delightful and instructive reading. *' Apart from
their great literary merits," writes Mr. George T.
Leslie, an esteemed teacher in the old school where
Mr. Reekie learned his A. B. C's, *' there is a vigor-
ous manly ring about the poems which can only be
a reflex of the personal character of the writer.
How he has managed during so long a residence in
his adopted country to preserve * the mither tongue, '
is to me wonderful indeed." I have gone very care-
fully over "Day Dreams" and it has certainly
pleased me greatly. Among the poems that I have
a preference for are "The Hame Where I was
Bom," '♦ Nellie Graham," ** Gae Bring to me a Heath-
er Bell," "Lines on the Birthday of Robert Bums,"
"Columbia," "Fair Belmar by the Sea," "The
Scottish Shepherd," " In a Dream of the Night " and

CJHh*Ll':S REEKIL.

Jdj

it poetry, by
J., is one of
literature of
:er of poetry,
tr above the
an author's
and musical,
pathetic note
nusings, thus
making them
•Apart from
r. George T.
school where
>re is a vigor-
1 can only be
f the writer,
residence in
ither tongue,'
me very carc-
las certainly
that I have
Vhere I was
o me a Heath-
obert Bums,"
Sea," ''The
le Night "and

"In Memory of John Reid." Did space permit I
would like to (juote fnjm a few of the many press
notices that have appeared in favor of Mr. Reekie's
book, and I really regret very much that I am com-
pelled to refrain from doing so. They have all
accorded it a welcome that is both satisfactory and
gratifying. Mr. Reekie is a native of Scotland, bom
and reared on the estate of Carphin in Fifeshire.
He has been forty-five years in this country and as
an architect has acquired considerable eminence in
his profession. He has made several visits to the
land of his birth and each of these visits seems to
have inspired him to undertake greater flights in the
realm of poesy. But he is a voluminous writer and
his muse readily alights on various subjects. The
following are a few specimens:

THE HAME WHERE I WAS BORN.

Oh, for an hour in yon wee bower

That lay ayont the corn,
Or a keek again, through the window pane,

Of the hame where I was born !

Oh for a glint of the auld gray hills,

That rang with the harvest horn.
And a touch of the hand that woke me there,

In the hame where I was born !

Oh for a nicht wi' the auld lamp licht,

Or an hour of the simmer morn.
To hear the breeze amang tlie trees,

Around where I was born !

:!»' I V

3^4

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

Oh for the mirth of the auld stane hearth,
When the uarvest rigs were shorn,

And the guid auld sang, when the rafters rang,
In the hame where I was born !

Oh for a note frae the lintie's throat,

That sang in the auld hawthorn,
Or the robin's trill on the window sill.

Of the hame where I was born !

Oh the memries there of the hamely prayer,

That no scoffer dared to scorn !
But the voice has gane frae the auld hearthstane.

In the hame where I was bom !

NELUE GRAHAM.

I oft again, in fancy's dream.

Revisit youth's auld hame.
And linger there by wood and stream.

Where I wooed Nellie Graham ;

And roam the paths we loved of old,

Amang the yellow whins.
O'er mossy braes of russet gold.

Up whaur the glen begins ;

And list the sound of summer bells,
Across the heath's perfume.

With skylark ringing in the dells.
And Unties in the broom ;

And live again those hours of bliss,
In groves without a name,

And touch again with burning kiss
The lips of Nellie Graham.

CHARLES REEKIE.

3^5

rs rang,

lyer,
irthstane,

tn,

But now the skylark's song is o'er,

The lintie's voice is tame.
And my fond lips will touch no more

The cheeks of Nellie Graham.

And love's young harp is silent now

In that deserted hame,
While death's cold frost is on the brow

Of my lost Nellie Graham.

OAK BPING TO ME A HEATHER BELI..

Gae hring to me a heather l)ell,

Across the deep blue sea,
A token of iry native dell

Of Scotland ere I dee.

Gae bring it frae my native shore,
Kroi.1 youth's immortal shrine.

And let it thrill iuy benrt once more
With dreams of auld lang syne.

Oh ! bring it frae my native hills,

Flower oi my native sky,
A blossom from the mountain rills

To bless my latest sigh.

And whei; my heart has gaen to rest
With one fond breathed farewell,

Then lay it on my silent breast.
Dear Scotland's heather bell !

I.INES ON THE BIRTHDAY OF ROBERT BURNS.

Awake the lyre with music and with song.

Strike the wild harp, and roll the anthem forth
From distant isles, where tropic suns are known,

366

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

'■;m

ill

Back to the regions of the " starry north."
Ten thousand tongues swell out the jubilee,

Ten thousand lips the chorus grand encore,
And send it flashing underneath the sea,

And roll it onward still from shore to shore.

Awake the echoes of old Scotland's hills,
Where blooming heath her rugged cliflFs adorn,

Aiid bring us music from her silver rills,
To hail the day her " poet king was born ; "

And let us honor her immortal dead,
And hang the laureate's wreath upon his tomb.

While fancy lingers in the classic shade

Beside the waters of old rippling Doon.

No banners waved from city's glittering domes.

No marshaled pomp, nor thunder peal is heard,
Nor tinseled crowds, around earth's gilded thrones.

Awaits the coming of the peasant bard.
Not from the mighty on the scrolls of fame.

Not from the sires that blaze their names on high.
That humble shieling gives the world a name

That will not perish till the nations die !

He touched the chords that thrill the human heart.

That makes man kith and kin in every clime.
And sung that rank was but the gild of art,

That honest manhood only was divine.
Strike the wild harp ! with music and with song

Awake the echoes as the day returns !
And send the swelling anthem rolling on

To hail the day that gave us Robert Burn.s \

COLUMBIA.

Columbia dear ; child of the ages^ thou
Hast much to reckon with the age to be :

LlJ

CHARLES REEKIE.

3^7

Long may the crown of justice wreath thy brow-
Right not might, the standard on each prow

That bears ihy starry flag from sea to sea ;
Nor cancerous envy warp thy native power,
Nor craven bhister e'er bequeath its dower,

But as thine eagle, may thy heart be free !

FAIR BELMAR-BY-THE-SEA.

I've stood upon the bounding deck

Where ocean tempests roar,
And heard the Arctic thunders break

On Greenland's icy shore ;
I've watched the golden sunset gleam

Ac-oss the tropic lea.
But the greenest spot on memory's dream

Is Belmar-by-the-Sea.

I've roamed alone through pathless glades

Where Indian skies are clear,
And heard tl:e song of her dusky maids,

In the vales of fair Cashmere,
And dreamed where echo still enfolds

The Arabian maiden's glee ;
But the fairest scene that memory holds

Is Belmar-bv-the-Sea.

I've heard the curfew fading still

On gloaming's soft decay,
And heard the flute-toned bulbul thrill

The wilds of far Cathay ;
But sweeter than the wildbird's note,

Fond fancy turns to thee,
The gem of nj.emories unforgot —

Fair Belmar-by-the-Sea.

368

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

1;'

! 'il' I

IN MEMORY OF JOHN REID.

And thou art dead, my friend —
Passed like a breath away ;
While we are left to say,

Is this the end ?

And thou art still, great heart \
To friendship ever leal ;
While we in sorrow feel

Thou hast the better part.

Those lips are silent now f
Thy life-long deeds remain
With neither blush nor stain

Upon thy brow.

And hearts that loved thee well
Bow 'round thy silent bier,
To drop a parting tear.

With one long, sad farewell.

No more beneath the sun.
In busy mart or street,
We hear thy tireless feet \

Thy race is run.

Had early fate but willed.
Where feebler tongues debate
In lofty halls of state,

Thou mightst have thrilled !

Or worn the ermine crown,
Where sculptured bronze,
With lettered scroll, enthrones

Deathless renown.

I !P,

,Vf

CHARLES REEKIE.

3(»9

But faultless Nature drew,

With happier mold,

Thy heart of gold.
To honor ever true.

Oh, fleeting breath,
Brief as the taper light.
Quenched in the starless night,

Of unrelenting death !

True friend in need,

Thy crown is won,

Thy race is run.
Beloved, lamented Reid !

REV. DUNCAN ANDERSON, M. A.

! 'Ill I

The Rev. Duncan Anderson, M. A., is a native
of Aberdeenshire, having been born in the parish
of Rayne in 1828. He first attended the old Aber-
deen Grammar School and at quite an early age
attended King's College and University. He was
licensed to preach in 1853 and in 1854 left Scotland
and settled in Levis, Province of Quebec, Canada. For
many years we are told "he was Chaplain to the Im-
perial troops, and for two decades he occupied the
position of Presbytery clerk, fulfilling the duties of
the oftlce in a most unexceptional manner. Mr.
Anderson is also known far and wide as an Ornithol-
ogist of fine attainments, and the labor of his hands
has found its way to Kensington Palace, and the
castle of Inverary; as a preacher he occupies a high
place among the divines of his church, his sermons
are encircled by classical allusion and their literary
finish and poetic beauty entitle them to a good place
among the pulpit utterances of the day."

As a poet Mr. Anderson is entitled to high honors.
His " Lays of Canada," is a handsome volume and a
valuable addition to Canadian poetical literature. It
certainly contains numerous poems of great beauty
and merit. '* His writings are true to life and reach
the heart," says one of his critics. In particular, his
descriptive poems combine a great clear intellectu-

REV. DUNCAN ANDERSON, M. A.

37'

ality, combined with natural refinement of soul and
tender sensiblility. He is evidently a man of high-
toned piety, and this, with his fine endowment of
feeling and aspiration, makes his utterances profit-
able, as they are pleasing.

Dr. Louis Frechette of Montreal, says of Mr.
Anderson :

" A man of great learning, a fluent talker, endowed
with a spirit the most capacious and the most concil-
iatory. Mr. Anderson is one of the most sympathetic
men that I know. . .

*'The ' Lays of Canada ' let me know that I lived
side b}' side without knowing it, with an original
poet, full of animation and intelligence {de verve et (V
esprit)., endowed with a powerful poetic temperament,
served by a language which is very harmonious and
well coloured. Among the poems I would partic-
ularly refer to the 'Death of Wolf,' a picture from
the hand of a master.

" Mr. Anderson was not born in Canada; but no
one among us is more Canadian than he. In adopt-
ing our country many years ago he cordially espoused
our past, our glories and our sorrows. He sings our
struggles of earlier days and salutes with enthusiasm
the dawning of our future.

"With him there is no cxclusiveness, no narrow-
ness of view, no prejudices of race. If he acclaims
the illustrious Conqueror of the Plains of Abraham,
he does respectful obeisance to the glorious con-
quered. Not one vsyllable in all this poem, is calcu-

37'

A CLUSTER OF FOE'IS.

lated to wound the French ear, however enthusiastic.

'* In his verses, as in his person Mr. Anderson is
courtesy itself. His poetry is completely himself,
with his grace, his native kindness, and his delicately
impressionable nature. The ' Lays of Canada ' have
their place in all Canadian libraries, and their author
takes his place in the first rank among our native
poets. I am happy to offer him my hand in token of
the most cordial welcome." Mr. Anderson's latest
work is a volume entitled ** Scottish Folk Lore." It
is an excellent prose work and has already had a
large sale.

Following are three specimens of his muse :

SONG.

TO BENNACHIE.
Tunc : " O ! gin I war whaur Oadie rins."

I'm weary o' the guglue's sang,
And a' the gaudy feathered thrang,

And would ance mair I war aniang
Thy rocks, bauld Bennachie.

Chorus: -O ! gin I war whaur clear Don rins,
By fair Pitfichie's gowden whins,
Whaur tunefu' linties wauk the linns
That sing to Bennachie.

My ploughboy soughs but foreign tunes ;

My bairns are rocked to Frenchie croons' ;
Ah ! would that I could hear the souns

I've heard near Bennachie.

REV. DUNCAN ANDERSON. M. A.

373

Awa ! vast lakes, proud commerce' throne ;

Awa ! broad streams that ships sail on ;
Mair sweet's to me the wimpliu Don

That rows near Bennachie.

Fair Fancy, lend your son your wing,
That back my boyhood's joys can bring,

And tune my lips again to sing
The sangs o' Bennachie.

And when this heart is cauld and still ;

My heart unstrung without a thrill ;
Lay there ae stane fresh frae the hil,

A stane frae Bennachie.

TO A WHITE CROWNED SPARROW.

SEEN IN A SNOWSTORM ON 2ND DECEMBER 1895, AT MONY-

MU.SK, NEAR QUEBEC.

Sweet little birdie cowrin' low

In bed of crisp and cruel snow,
From what far region hast thou sped,

Where blizzards fierce are born and bred,
And Boreals blow ?

When Indian Summer smil'd with glee,
And pour'd its warmth o'er mead and lea,

Why did thy laggard wing delay
To mount the sky, and hie away
To flower and tree ?

Perchance on some lone Arctic shore,
Where glaciers frown and lichens hoar

Scarce bloom, the dread Jer Falcon came
Thy loving mate to fiercely claim,
And leave thee sore.

37^

A CLUSTER OF POETS.

■-^'■;,l !

Did niem'ry keep thee near the nest,
Where oft in summer time thy breast

Thy nestlings warned, tiil strong of wing,
They wandered free to sport and sing,
And give thee rest?

Or didst thou linger on the way,
To honour Scotland's festal day ;

The merry toast and dance to mark.
And men aye ready for their wark
At feast or fray ?

Ah ! hast thou seen the icy pole.

Where storm fiends rave, or soft waves roll ;
Hast view'd the cairn where Franklin sleeps,

Or where brave Hall, tho' dead, yet speaks,
A living soul ?

Sweet wand'ring songster hie away,
We would not tempt thee here to stay ;

Hark ! loud the northland tempests blow,
Aud high, and higher drifts the snow
O'er dale and brae.

The squirrel seeks his nut-stored tree,
To shelter creeps the chick -a-dee,

The song of birds is heard no more,
Lone is the lake, and icebound shore —
No home for thee.

God temper then, to suit thy wing,
Those biting winds that storm clouds bring,

And guide thy flight to sunnier lands
Where welcomes from sweet tuneful bands
Shall round thee ring.

REV. DUNCAN ANDERSON, M. A.

375

TO A SHEEP'S HEAD AND TROTTERS.

ST. ANDREW'S DAY, 1892.

(DEDICATED TO THE PRESIDENT OF ST. ANDREW'S SOCIETY,

QUEBEC.)

" We'll hae nane but Hielan' bonnets here."

Na ! Na ! nane but a kinly Scot
Can join us roun' the toothsome pot
That frae our Patron Saint we got

In days of old ;
Frae guid St. Andrew, sans a blot,

Or rust, or mould.

It may be true that when we stand.
Ranked for the foe wi' ready brand,
Leal John is there at our command.

And Paddy bright,
But when a sheep's head is on hand,

Wha then 's in sight .?

We weel may boast our haggis bauld,
That keeps Scotch stamacks frae the cauld ;
But pleasures aft are twins we're tauld

To Peers or Cott'rs,
And some new Burns may frae the fauld

Sing " Head and Trotters."

Sae leeze me on your honest face ;

Tho' somewhat grimed, 'tis nae disgrace ;

Ye've passed like mony a nobler race.

Thro' scathin' fires ;
And proud are Scotchmen aft to trace

Sae in their sires —

I; I'r

)

hi )

i!| ■'

4tt

■in

376

A CLUSTER OF WETS.

Nae doot bold Jason, as they say,
Wha bore the " Golden Fleece " away,
And shared Medea's Wedding Day,

For work weel sped,
Refreshed his sair forfon>?hten clay

Wi' gnid Sheep's Head.

And Saul, but at his crimes we blanche !

Wha raided cruel Agag's ranch.

And cleaned him out, — root, — stock, — and branch,

Made Sanmel wroth,
Because he showed a love prepense

For Sheep's Head broth.

Sae set it doon, the lordly dish,

That bangs them a', — flesh, — foul,— and fish,

And fills a Scotchman's ev'ry wish.

However great ; —
Wha douts I'd mak the Maiden * kiss ;

Puir bladderscate.

And when we've pickt the juicy banes.
Till they be bare like chuckie stanes,
And cripples m«»ist could stand their lanes,

Then up as ane,
And slug like mad, — Man, — Wife, — and Weans —

•' God Save the Queen."

♦As sheep-stealers in Scotland were, at a compara-
tively recent date, executed for this crime, the poet
has scarcely availed himself of poetical license when
he suggests a kiss of the Maiden (the finisher of
political treason in Scotland) as a suitable reward to
everyone who differs in opinion or taste from him-
self with regard to sheep's head and trotters.

wmm.

ay,

che !

, — and brunch,

-and fish,

iss ;

les,

' lanes,

and Weans —

t a com par a-
le, the poet
icense when
finisher of
le reward to
5 from him-
tters.