bepkeley\ 
 LIBRARY 
 
 DIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA J 
 
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CITY OF THE DESERT 
 
 ®tf)er tpoemg. 
 
 Br OXONIENSIS. 
 
 PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 
 
 MDCCCLI. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 LONDON : 
 BKi^BtlRY AND KVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIAKS, 
 
oofc 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, 
 
 THIS SMALL VOLUME IS, BY SPECIAL PERMISSION, 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 BY HER ROYAL HiaHNESS' MOST GRATEFUL, MOST HUMBLE, 
 AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOK. 
 
 487 
 
TO THE READEE. 
 
 The following Rhymes have neither the excuse of 
 hurried preparation, for their imperfections, nor of 
 too partial friends' advice, for their publication. 
 
 They have all, with but few exceptions, appeared 
 from time to time in the various periodicals of the 
 day, and are now only issued in a collected form. 
 
 It is hoped, therefore, that since any approval they 
 then may have met with is, long ere this, exhausted, 
 the criticism they provoked is, as equally, allayed ; so 
 that, even though there be none now to point out 
 a redeeming feature, there may be quite as few to 
 discover an unpardonable fault. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cityofdesertotheOOoxonrich 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 FAGE 
 
 THE CITY OP THE DESERT 1 
 
 CHILDHOOD . ; 15 
 
 ANOTHER YEAR 18 
 
 SONG 22 
 
 CONGRATULATORY VERSES 24 
 
 THE SCOTCH EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL 28 
 
 WHAT IS A poet's LIFE? 31 
 
 CHARLES STUART 33 
 
 THE RING 46 
 
 THE PRIVATEER 50 
 
 STANZAS 55 
 
 NEWARK CASTLE 57 
 
 OLD LETTERS 60 
 
 FAREWELL TO COLLEGE 64 
 
 STANZAS 67 
 
 SCOTIA 70 
 
 "IN memoriam" .75 
 
THE CITY OF THE DESEET. 
 
 Queen of tlie wilds, awake ! — the minstrel flings 
 A daring hand across the trembling strings ; 
 Pain would he bid thee, Petea, jet once more 
 Arise in all the vaunted pomp of yore ; 
 Pain would he see thee once again appear 
 Through the dim mists of many a by-gone year. 
 And, like a giant shade of other days, 
 Amid the gloom thy mighty form upraise ! 
 
 There was a time, ere centuries had roU'd 
 Away unnoticed ' as a tale that 's told * — 
 Ere ages pass'd into Eternity, 
 Like heaving wavelets on a summer sea, — 
 
2 THE CITY OF THE DESEHT. 
 
 "When, onward led by an Almiglity hand, 
 Blest Israel's children sought the promised land ; 
 When thousands, erst so boastful of their might, 
 Now shrunk before them, speechless with affright. 
 And nations, stubborn as the earth they trod, 
 First learn' d to tremble at the name of Grod. 
 Presumptuous Edom ! in thine own brief hour 
 Of fleeting pride and transitory power. 
 In impious tone thou badest them turn and bow,^ 
 And, lo ! that vaunting pride — where is it now ? 
 
 Long, long ago, as evening's shadows fell, 
 Afar was heard the camel's tmkling bell, 
 By distance sweet, as o'er the desert waste, 
 In sight of home, right merrily they haste. 
 And, oh ! how beams the wanderer's weary eye 
 To gaze on scenes embalm' d in memory. 
 
 1 The Edomites forbade the passage of the Israelites through their terri- 
 tory : " And Edom said, thou shalt not go through." — Numbers, xx. 20. 
 
THE CITY OF THE DESEET. 
 
 Again to mingle with the loved of yore, 
 Each danger vanish' d and each sorrow o'er ! 
 
 And to thy footstool, Desert Queen, they bring 
 Wealth that would gladden India's richest king ; 
 The perfumed sweets of ' Araby the blest,' 
 That beauteous land where Phoebus loves to rest ; 
 The gorgeous purples from the Tyrian shore ; 
 Silks from a loom that ne'er may weave them more; 
 The priceless offerings of the golden East, 
 To deck the palace, or adorn the feast. 
 Princes were then thy guests, the great thy friends. 
 Thine all the charm that wealth to power lends ; 
 Old and renown' d thy high ancestral line. 
 And every hope and every wish was thine. 
 Then fill'd thy homes a thoughtless, merry throng ; 
 Then rung thy halls with many a minstrel song ; 
 Then music floated by on Zephyr's wing. 
 And Joy, unclouded, ruled it, triumphing. 
 
4 THE CITY OP THE DESEET. 
 
 How art thou changed! — in each once crowded 
 street, 
 No more again the princely merchants meet ; 
 No more again the lightsome laugh resounds, 
 JSTor pleasure speeds her fascinating rounds ; 
 No more, as grateful eventide draws nigh, 
 Awakes the voice of joyous reveby; 
 No dusty camel trains approach the gate ; — 
 All now is hush'd, and drear and desolate ! 
 
 Oft where the palm-tree's feathery boughs once 
 spread 
 A welcome shelter o'er the traveller's head. 
 Where bubbling springs well'd forth with icy wave, 
 Pilgrims were wont their weary feet to lave, 
 And, stretch' d at ease beneath the ample shade, 
 Still lingering, wonder' d not that yet they staid. 
 Full often, too, thy sunny daughters came, 
 And eyes, whose flash no northern sky might claim. 
 
THE CITY OF THE DESERT. i 
 
 Beam'd at some tale to Arab maidens dear, 
 Or, dim with pity, dropp'd the gentle tear. 
 
 Such Petra once ! Ah, never more again 
 Shall music sigh across the desert plain, 
 Nor ever more the shatter' d palm-trees fling 
 Their once green branches o'er the lonely spring ; 
 And summer flowerets that, around their feet, 
 Erst scented evening with a breath so sweet, 
 Erst bathed their beauties in the silver tide, 
 Now, dead and trampled, strew the fountain side ! 
 In silent sorrow droops the palm alone ; 
 The song is hush'd, the merry voices gone. 
 And thou, proud city ! now the giant tomb 
 Of grandeur sunk beneath a hopeless doom, 
 Who now beholds thee, in thy sculptured pride, 
 And marks not Euin's empire far and wide. 
 And asks not, as he stands with wondering gaze, 
 This mighty Edom's boast in other days ? 
 
6 THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 
 
 A chasm, ^ reft down througli the living rock, 
 Whose dusky sides Time's fiercest efforts mock, 
 Whose frowning precipices almost meet, 
 And threaten danger to intruding feet, 
 By one grey crumbling arch of triumph 
 
 spann'd. 
 As thrown across by some wild wizard hand, 
 So light, and yet with such proportions fair, 
 Seems as 'twere high suspended in the air, — 
 This is thy portal, Petra, — this the gorge. 
 Cloven by weapons from no human forge, 
 Torm'd all thy hidden beauties to protect. 
 The outwork bold of Nature's Architect. 
 
 Grioomy and dark at first, but wildly grand. 
 At length its narrow boundaries expand ; 
 
 2 *' The only entrance to Petra, on the east, is through a frightful chasm 
 in the rocks, not more than sufficient for the passage of twe horsemen ahreast. 
 The perpendicular sides of this pass vary in height from 400 to 700 feet, some- 
 times overhanging to such a degree as almost to exclude the light.''— -^''^^ 
 and Mangle! s Travels. 
 
THE CITY OP THE DESEET. 7 
 
 The beetling cliffs now arch not overhead, 
 I^or o'er the pass a chilly shadow spread, 
 But, streaming dow^nwards, pours a flood of light, 
 And Petra bursts upon the dazzled sight. 
 
 Here,^ from the solid cliff out-hewn, a shrine 
 Of finish' d workmanship and rich design, 
 "Whose poKsh'd shafts and master-chisell'd stone 
 Proclaim the worship of some god unknown. 
 Pile upon pile, in graceful beauty rear'd. 
 By storm unshatter'd and by Time scarce sear'd, 
 High o'er the head, in massive grandeur rise. 
 And * point their ' haughty * columns to the skies.' 
 
 Thou,"* too, wert here, fair Eome, imperial Queen ! 
 Where is the land thy glories have not seen ? 
 
 3 " This temple, called by the Arabs Khasne Pharaon, is hewn out of one 
 enormous block of freestone. Its position is one of the most beautiful and 
 striking that can be imagined, and the exquisiteness of its finish presents 
 a strong contrast to the savage scenery that surrounds it." — Laborde. 
 
 4 A Roman statue of Victory is one of the most conspicuous and interesting 
 objects in this shrine. 
 
THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Thou, too, hadst sought this city of the waste. 
 And thy proud eagles on her temple placed ; 
 And Victory's marble form — the emblem true 
 Of might that could, uncheck'd, a world subdue — 
 Eears high her head o'er Petra's sacred fane. 
 And tells of days she ne'er may see again. 
 
 There, stretch' d before the eye in wide extent, 
 Like pale Diana's arch in heaven bent, 
 Lies Petra's amphitheatre, — alas ! 
 A shadow of its former self ; a mass 
 Of crumbling stone ! No more a savage crowd 
 Awakes the echoes with its plaudits loud ; 
 No more the arena rings with warlike clang, 
 Nor victims bleed beneath the lion's fang ; 
 Nor gentle beauty views, with glistening eye. 
 Some cruel scene of captive butchery ; 
 A prince's envied seat no more is known. 
 And weeds ignoble shroud a monarch's throne ! 
 
THE CITY OF THE DESEET. 
 
 But,^ Petra ! ere the fleeting hour be sped, 
 Turn we a moment to thy mighty dead ; 
 With mingled feelings, half of grief and pride. 
 Thou gazest mournfully on every side. 
 Oh could I soar on Inspiration's wings, 
 To paint the pomp of thy sepulchred kings ! 
 For, 'midst thy palaces, where'er we stray. 
 Those gorgeous monuments our steps delay. 
 The wondering eye in every pile may trace 
 Corinthian beauty or Ionic grace ; 
 Or e'en, perchance, Italia' s hand has lent 
 Her art to rear each beauteous monument. 
 And Architecture's noblest powers, combined. 
 Embodied each creation of the mind ; 
 For future ages every fabric raised. 
 To gaze on each, and marvel as they gazed. 
 
 •^ " Some hundred yards below the springs, begin the outskirts of the vast 
 Necropolis of Petra ; the sides of the mountains are covered with an endless 
 variety of tombs." — Irly and Mangle's Travels. 
 
10 THE CITY OF THE DESEUT. 
 
 Mourn we for thee ? — thy destinies recall 
 Cities as proud — as humbled in their fall. 
 In vain the Capitol uprears her head, 
 The once fear'd Spirit of the Past is fled : 
 In vain the Acropolis frowns o'er the plain, 
 The tottering ruins now alone remain — 
 Their hour is o'er — but feebleness, their might, 
 ~For each sun set in an eternal night. 
 
 Yet, Petra, mark ! it was no common doom 
 That shrouded thee, alas ! in hopeless gloom : 
 Thou heard' st the voice when Heaven pronounced 
 
 thy fate, 
 * Thy habitations shall be desolate ! ' 
 And shuddering, conscience-stricken, at the 
 
 sound. 
 Shook thy whole trembling fabric to the ground. 
 "When Salem bow'd beneath a foreign yoke. 
 And Israel's sons a sound of mourning woke ; 
 
THE CITY OF THE DESEET. 11 
 
 When Eome's fierce armies, madden' d by her 
 
 blood, 
 Swept through her streets, a wild, resistless flood ; 
 When Judah's daughters, 'neath the cruel blade, 
 Eaised a faint shriek — a feeble cry for aid ; 
 When sons fell fighting round a murder' d sire. 
 And Sion's hill became one mighty pyre, — 
 Petra !^ 'twas thine, when Israel's courage died, 
 To dare the victors in their hour of pride. 
 On ready arms with boastful haste to seize. 
 And fling thy challenge-banner to the breeze. 
 But now — that vaunting banner never more 
 Again shall flutter proudly, as of yore ; 
 'Nor warrior steel, nor warrior trappings gleam, 
 Nor war-cry break again the warrior's dream. 
 The tangled briar, on the crumbling wall. 
 Mocks the rich hangings of the banquet hall. 
 
 '' At the siege and capture of Jerusalem, Petra, still in the zenith of her 
 power, made formidable opposition to the Roman forces. 
 
12 THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 
 
 And shatter' d columns scarce suffice to tell 
 "Where mighty monarchs once were wont to dwell. 
 The costly palaces of Edom's line, 
 In cheerless, solitary sorrow, pine, — 
 Yielding unwillingly to Time's decay, 
 Drop, stone by stone, in silent grief, away. 
 
 "When sunset spreads a shadow o'er the sky,^ 
 Thy echoes mock the wild owl's dreary cry ; 
 Forth from his den the crouching lion steals ; 
 High o'er the cliff the soaring eagle wheels ; 
 While the fierce cormorant and raven share 
 The bleeding quarry in the vulture's lair. 
 These, Petra, are thy only tenants now ; — 
 City of Esau, shroud thy haughty brow ! 
 The Lord but spoke — and, lo ! thy fate was seal'd ; 
 The threaten' d vengeance for thy crimes reveal' d ; 
 
 ^ " But the cormorant and bittern shall possess it ; the owl also, and the 
 raven, shall dwell in it ; and he shall stretch out upon it the lines of confusion 
 and the stones of emptiness." — Isaiah, xxxiv. 2. 
 
THE CITY OP THE DESEET. 13 
 
 The word went forth, and all thy grandeur fled, 
 
 Or linger' d but amidst thy many dead ; 
 
 And thou, low grovelling in thy kindred dust, 
 
 Art forced to own that Heaven is great and just. 
 
 What 'vail'd thy power when the prophet rose 
 
 And told the fatal advent of thy foes ? 
 
 "What 'vail'd thy pomp — thy name — thy pride — 
 
 when all 
 But served to mark, more signally, thy fall ? 
 E'en to this day, the wealth which thou possess' d* 
 Is doom'd, for ever, to deny thee rest ; 
 What Time has spared, the avaricious band 
 Of Desert-robbers mar with ruthless hand ; 
 And ever and anon, amid thy shrines, 
 The roving Arab marks some well-known lines, 
 In search of hidden wealth defaces each. 
 Whose fair proportions rise within his reach ; 
 
 ^ The Arabs have despoiled every tomb which, from its inscription, they 
 supposed might contain treasure. 
 
14 THE CITY OP THE DESERT. 
 
 And structures, beauteous as man could rear, 
 For gold's vile sake disfigured, disappear. 
 
 Petra, farewell ! — farewell, thou giant shade 
 Of by-gone pomp, and hopes that have betray' d ! 
 Once thou wert bless'd with allthat e'er could bless;- 
 What art thou now ? — a howling wilderness. 
 A signal monument of Holy Wrath, 
 Thy crumbling columns guide the Arab's path, 
 And heaven-ward pointing whence thy ruin came, 
 Mark thee a mighty city — but, in name ! 
 
15 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 My childhood's days— those sunny days of gladness 
 
 unalloy'd, 
 When this bright world of pleasure seem'd but made 
 
 to be enjoy'd, 
 When every morn but usher' d in mirth's endless 
 
 happy train, — 
 My childhood's days — ^where are ye now ? — would ye 
 
 wei'e here again. 
 
 My childhood's hopes — those rainbow hopes, that shone 
 
 in life's young sky. 
 Without one summer cloud to shade the gazer's 
 
 glistening eye ; 
 
16 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Without one storm to sweep across tlie Future's 
 
 vista' d plain, — 
 My cMdliood's hopes — where are ye now ? — would ye 
 
 were here again. 
 
 My childhood's joys — those simple joys, that sunn'd 
 
 the passing hour, 
 And made a little Eden plant of every smiling 
 
 flower. 
 And bound our hearts to days gone by, in memory's 
 
 golden chain, — 
 My childhood's joys — where are ye now ? — would ye 
 
 were here again. 
 
 My childhood's friends — those merry friends, so loved 
 
 long, long ago. 
 Who shared my every happiness, who wept my every 
 
 woe ; 
 
CHILDHOOD. 17 
 
 Who hallow' d many a beauteous spot : — for them I 
 
 look in vain ; — 
 My childhood's friends — ^where are ye now ? — would 
 
 ye were here again. 
 
18 
 
 ANOTHEE YEAR 
 
 — » — 
 
 Another year ! another year ! — ^how much the word 
 
 portends ! 
 
 How much of strange eventful change a twelvemonth 
 
 comprehends ! 
 
 Such mingled woe and happiness — 'twere hard indeed 
 
 to say 
 
 If joy or sorrow marks the year that 's passing fast 
 
 away. 
 
 Another year ! — how many hopes, all blooming once 
 
 so fair, 
 
 Have blossom' d but to wither 'neath the chilly blast 
 
 of care ! 
 
ANOTHER YEAE. 19 
 
 How many briglit and sunny morns, with beauteous 
 
 azure sky, 
 Have dawn'd upon us — but to sbow tlieir own 
 
 inconstancy ! 
 
 Another year! — how many hearts, erst warm with love 
 
 and life, 
 Lie cold and pulseless in that home that knows no 
 
 care nor strife ! 
 How often, 'mid some circle dear, chill death has dared 
 
 to steal. 
 And leave a wound that time itself can never, never 
 
 heal! 
 
 i Yet grieve we not : — though hopes may fade, there yet 
 are more to bloom. 
 And waft the soul on buoyant wings away from 
 sorrow's gloom: 
 
 c 2 
 
20 ANOTHER YEAE. 
 
 Though fairest morns have changed their smile, there 
 
 yet are days as bright, 
 That aye have summer's sunny skies from ruddy dawn 
 
 to night. 
 
 Though warmest hearts now beat no, more, why sigh 
 
 we o'er their bliss, 
 That they have sought a purer and a better world 
 
 than this ? 
 Why mourn we o'er some long-felt void in homes and 
 
 circles dear, 
 And rather cherish not the few that still may linger 
 
 here ? 
 
 Farewell, ye fleeting moments all ! and, chequer' d as 
 
 ye were, 
 
 Oh never may a darker day arouse the heart's 
 
 despair ! 
 
ANOTHER YEAE. 21 
 
 Afar adown the vale awakes, with deep though 
 
 soften' d tone, 
 The iron voice of passing time : — another year is 
 
 gone I 
 
22 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air—" Fleuve du Tage." 
 
 Oh, think of me but half as oft 
 
 As I shall think of thee, 
 When far, far sever' d, we may meet 
 
 But in the memory ! 
 I would not bid a tear-drop fall, 
 
 I would not ask a sigh ; 
 'Twould only show an aching heart, 
 
 And dim a lovely eye. 
 
 'No — let the merry laugh of yore 
 
 E/ing just as joyously ; 
 Let sadness cloud thy brow no more ; 
 
 But, oh ! still think of me. 
 
SONG. • 23 
 
 Awake, awake the blithesome song 
 
 I once so loved to hear, 
 And as thou singest, oh, believe 
 
 My spirit lingers near ! 
 
 And when the thoughts of other days 
 
 Come floating o'er the soul, 
 Which, bright as stars in yonder sky, 
 
 Through Memory's heaven roll, 
 Oh, sigh not o'er the happy past 
 
 As if the dream gave pain ! 
 But smile — perchance thy winning smile 
 
 May woo it back again ! 
 
24 
 
 CONGRATULATOEY YERSES 
 
 ON THE MARRIAGE AND ARRIVAL AT CULZEAN CASTLE, AYRSHIRE, OF THE 
 MOST NOBLE THE MARQUIS AND MARCHIONESS OF AILS A. 
 
 The harp, the harp ! — On this auspicious day 
 
 Shall Echo slumber on the mountain side P 
 Shall Carrick wake no tributary lay, 
 
 To welcome Ailsa and his lovely bride ? 
 Shall Scotia, while one bard may yet remain 
 
 To sweep a chord that trembles 'neath his hand, 
 Refuse to raise a rude though joyous strain. 
 
 And tell her gladness to each distant land ? 
 
 He comes, he comes ! — Bid martial music ring 
 Amid thine old ancestral walls, Culzean ! 
 
 Arouse far Cassilis with the echoing 
 
 That greets the chieftain in his own domain ! 
 
CONGRATULATOEY VERSES. 25 
 
 Far from the beauteous south he brings a dame 
 To halls, from which, oh, never maj she roam ! 
 
 Pair as that lovely land from whence she came, 
 
 Bright as yon sun that lights her to her home ! 
 
 Look forth, look forth, thou gentle stranger ! gaze 
 
 On those thy very smile hath power to bless ; 
 Accord this land thy meed of sweetest praise, 
 
 So passing fair in all its loveliness. 
 Say, did thine eye, when revelling among 
 
 Scenes whose bright memories are ne'er forgot, — 
 Hill, dale, and woodland, theme of many a song, — 
 
 E'er linger, raptured, o'er a lovelier spot ? 
 
 'Mid trees embosom' d, whose grey arms have spread 
 FuU many a long, eventful year, I ween, 
 
 A grateful shelter o'er the roe-deer's head, 
 Culzean's fortalice rises on the scene ; 
 
26 CONGRATULATOEY VERSES. 
 
 And proudly gazes slie across the sea, 
 
 Whose wintry waves have lash'd her sides in vain, 
 But now lie slumbering so peacefully 
 
 As if they ne'er would dare the deed again. 
 
 And many a bark, whose gallant pennons stream, 
 
 Light as the gossamer upon the gale. 
 Gray as the fairy visions of a dream. 
 
 To greet thee. Lady, furls each snowy sail : 
 And from the bosom of the glassy deep 
 
 A thousand voices burst upon the ear. 
 And answering Echo, from grey Ailsa's steep, 
 
 Eepeats in gladness each wild thrilling cheer. 
 
 High o'er Culzean's dark haughty donjon flaunt 
 The war-worn banners of the olden time. 
 
 As if they seem'd, in prideful joy, to vaunt 
 
 Of days that knew them in their warrior prime. 
 
I 
 
 CONGEATULATORY VERSES. 27 
 
 The rush of onset flutters them no more ; 
 
 No more around them wakes the battle cry ; 
 With triumphs wearied, once again they soar 
 
 In gladsome peace to hail the Kennedy ! 
 
 On Dowhill's ruddy brow the beal-fires blaze ; 
 
 The booming cannon roars across the firth, 
 Till far Grlen Hosa listens with amaze. 
 
 And wild Groat-fell takes up the cry of mirth. 
 Welcome, oh, welcome to our own dear land ! 
 
 Welcome, oh, welcome to your own Culzean ! 
 Blest as the bard could wish, whose trembling hand 
 
 Wakes the poor homage of this heartful strain. 
 
28 
 
 THE SCOTCH EMIGRANT'S FAEEWELL. 
 
 O'ee the east the dark clouds lower ; 
 
 Hark the breeze that sweeps the sea !- 
 Scotland ! ere another hour, 
 
 That breeze wafts me far from thee. 
 O'er my head the white sail, swelling, 
 
 Floats impatient at delay ; 
 On my cheek the tears are telling 
 
 How the wanderer fain would stay. 
 Scenes of all my earliest pleasure. 
 
 Bright as once ye were of yore, 
 Te are now a priceless treasure, 
 
 Wrapt in memory's golden store. 
 Scenes of sweet association, 
 
 Sunny brae and shady glen, 
 
THE SCOTCH EMIGRANT S EAEEWELL. 29 
 
 Loved witli youthful adoration, 
 
 I may view you ne'er again ! 
 Ne'er again, on yon blue mountain, 
 
 May I cull the heather-bell ; 
 Ne'er again, beside yon fountain, 
 
 Hear the strain once loved so well. 
 Gloaming comes, no merry voices 
 
 Float from far upon the gale ; — 
 Where 's the heart that now rejoices ? 
 
 They have seen the stranger sail. 
 Down amid yon valley, glistening, 
 
 Winds the burnie swift along; 
 Oh, how oft I 've linger' d, listening 
 
 To the music of its song ! 
 Oh, how oft, in childhood, straying 
 
 By its flower-enamell'd side. 
 Watch' d the speckled 'trouties ' playing, 
 
 Grlancing 'neath its amber tide ! 
 Little then dreamt I of sorrow, 
 
30 THE SCOTCH EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Little then thouglit I of pain ; 
 All was sunny — every morrow 
 
 Yesterday return' d again ! 
 Who could think, when all was shining. 
 
 Winter's chilly hour would come ; — 
 Were it not ungrateful pining, 
 
 Blest with such a happy home ? 
 Now, alas, sweet scenes, we sever ! 
 
 I must seek a distant strand ; 
 Bloom thou on as bright as ever ; — 
 
 Eare thee well, my native land ! 
 
31 
 
 "WHAT IS A POET'S LIFE?" 
 
 WfiAT is a poet's life, but scenes 
 
 Of sorrow and of grief ? 
 What is a poet's death, but means 
 
 Of giving such relief? 
 
 What is his boyhood, but a bright 
 And budding summer flower ? 
 
 What is his manhood, but the sight 
 Of this world's blighting power ? 
 
 WThat is his age ? a dying flame 
 That flickers in the blast: 
 
 What is his prayer ? a deathless name. 
 When he from us hath pass'd. 
 
32 ^"^WHAT IS A POET'S LIFE?"' 
 
 What does he ask ? a simple stone 
 In some sequester' d spot, 
 
 Where kindred souls may weep alone 
 And tell the poet's lot ! 
 
CHARLES STUART. 
 
 Weep, Scotia ! weep o'er dark Culloden's plain, 
 The grave of hopes that ne'er may bloom again ! 
 Mourn, Albyn!^ mourn o'er Moray's battle field,- 
 "Where hearts lie cold that never learn' d to yield. 
 Where friend and foeman, in the grasp of death. 
 Together sank upon the purple heath, 
 And chief and clansman, falling side by side. 
 For Stuart woke one feeble cheer, and died. 
 
 The morning sun look'd down upon a sight. 
 To thrill the tamest spirit with delight : 
 
 1 The ancient name of Scotland ; — vide Campbell's Poems. 
 
34 CHARLES STUAET. 
 
 Stretcli'd far and near, th' embattled armies laj, 
 Waiting, impatiently, the coming fraj ; 
 Bright gleam' d, as day-break saw each line advance, 
 Claymore and targe, Lochaber-axe and lance ; 
 Loud rose Locbiel's — Glengarry's gathering cry, — 
 Clansmen, lead on ! for James and Victory ! 
 
 When evening came, the coronach's^ low wail 
 In whispering accents told the mournful tale ; 
 A thousand forms, erst vigorous with life, 
 Lay cold and pulseless on the field of strife : 
 Scotia's proud thistle, trampled to the ground. 
 Strew' d her torn leaves of liberty around ; 
 All the bright dreams of victory and fame, 
 Like meteor stars, but vanish' d as they came ; 
 Low in the dust lay glaive and tartan sheen. 
 And Justice' self wept, sternly, o'er the scene ! 
 
 2 The Highland lament for the dead. 
 
CHARLES STUART. 35 
 
 Fatal Culloden ! ah ! thy memory 
 Eecalls the bitter tear to many an eye ! 
 The night- wind, sweeping Moray's lonely wave, 
 Sighs a sad requiem o'er the clansman's grave ; 
 Grreen springs the heather on Drummossie's breast, 
 Where Scotia's bravest ones together rest ; 
 And Nairn's dark waters, in a thousand rills. 
 Wake up the sorrows of their native hills. 
 Hush'd is the song on grey Benledi's side ; 
 Silent and lone Loch Ericht's glassy tide, 
 With anguish voiceless, doom'd, for aye, to mourn 
 Bright sunny days that never may return. 
 
 But where is he, in whose ill-fated cause, 
 Albyn's bold chieftains spurn' d their country's 
 
 laws? 
 Where is the prince, to whom each Highland heart 
 Clung with a hold that death alone could part ? 
 
36 CHARLES STUAET. 
 
 That morning saw him 'midst as brave a band 
 As e'er on battle field imsheathed a brand ; — 
 That eve beheld him, every comrade gone, 
 Defeated, hopeless, shelterless, alone. 
 
 Like some wild roe, upstarting as the gale 
 Wafts the deep bay of slot-hound on his trail ; 
 !From Arisaig to Invergarry's keep, 
 Beneath whose walls the loch's blue waters sleep, — 
 From strath to strath, from dusky glen to glen, 
 Where'er most distant from the haunts of men, — 
 From mountain side to mountain side he fled. 
 Life on his step — a price upon his head. 
 Some lonely hut, some far deep hidden cave, 
 A kindly shelter to the wanderer gave ; 
 And faithful guards, their chief's rude couch around, 
 Waked o'er his sleep, and watch' d for every sound. 
 And well the Stuart knew that he might dare 
 Entrust his safety to a clansman's care; 
 
CHAELES STUAHT. 37 
 
 For, while the strength of life could nerve an arm, 
 'Twas ready aye to shield their chief from harm. 
 For him they 'd shrink not at impending death, 
 But bless * Prince Charlie ' with their latest breath. 
 
 What 'vail'd the lowland gold^ with men like 
 those, 
 Pure as whose hearts no dew-bell gems the rose ; 
 What though the wealth of worlds essay' d to buy 
 The hardy mountaineer's fidelity ? 
 A traitor thought had tinged his cheek with shame, 
 And perfidy — ^he knew it but by name. 
 
 Such were the feelings of that gallant band * 
 Of clansmen, outlaw' d in their native land ; 
 Robb'd of their humble homes by stem decree. 
 That left them scarce a dear-bought liberty ; 
 
 3 Thirty thousand pounds was the price set upon the Pretender's head. 
 ^ "The seven men of Glenmoriston," who were, for some considerable 
 period, the protectors of Charles Stuart, are here alluded to. 
 
38 CHAELES STUAUT. 
 
 Men wlio liad, nightly, on tlie lone hill-side 
 
 Grazed on their * shielings ' burning far and wide ; 
 
 Heard the wild echo of the spoiler's cry, 
 
 As each new blaze lit up the starless sky ; 
 
 Or dash'd among their foes, as round they stood, 
 
 And quench' d the glowing embers with their blood. 
 
 No dastard dream of mercenary gain 
 Had o'er their souls cast e'en a passing stain ; 
 Though reft of all that worldliness could prize. 
 The Southron bribe ne'er glisten' d in their eyes : 
 Their spirit shrank not at oppression's smart, 
 Nor venal honour swell' d one manly heart. 
 Eold as on Benvenue the dappled roe, 
 True as the grey- wing' d arrow from the bow; 
 "With dauntless bearing and devoted blade, 
 Hands that would wither ere they had betray' d ; 
 How doubly welcome was their task to shed 
 A ray of safety o'er the outcast's head ! 
 
CHAELES STUAET. 39 
 
 And thou, fair Flora, noble-hearted maid ! 
 When thine own prince besought thy timely aid. 
 When foes surrounded him on every hand, 
 And gleam' d the red cross ^ over sea and land, 
 Could' st thou be callous to the Stuart's fate, 
 And on the brink of danger hesitate ? 
 From isle to isle, on those wild western shores, 
 On which the Atlantic all its fury pours, 
 From Uist's grey cliffs to Eaasay's dreary beach. 
 Moor piled on moor as far as eye can reach, 
 Eobed as thyself, his course the wanderer shaped, 
 And e'en when all escape seemed closed — escaped. 
 
 But, oh ! when sailing on those lonely seas. 
 Strange forms swept past him on the vesper breeze ; 
 Low wailing voices, as the night-wind sigh'd, 
 Came whispering round him on the heaving tide ; 
 
 5 The Red, or St. George's Cross, was the badge of the loyalist soldiers, 
 just as the White Eose distinguished the followers of the Pretender, 
 
40 CHARLES STUART. 
 
 They told of victims to barbarian laws, 
 
 Of lives all forfeited in Stuart's cause, 
 
 Of vengeftd scaffolds reeking with a flood 
 
 Of Scotia's dearest — aj, and noblest blood — 
 
 Of orphan tears and widows unconsoled, 
 
 Of homes all desolate, and hearths all cold ! 
 
 He saw and heard them — oh ! how, sorrowing, bled 
 
 His heart in pity o'er the early dead ! 
 
 O'er Elphin stone, and Tullibardine's chief, 
 
 Who fell, untimely, like the summer leaf; 
 
 O'er gallant Balmerino, doom'd to kneel 
 
 In Stuart's cause beneath the headsman's steel ; 
 
 O'er many a friend, in that devoted strife. 
 
 Who pledged his faith, and seal'd it with his life. 
 
 rive moons had gazed on Mona's waters deep,*"' 
 And waned again 'neath blue Corrada's steep ; 
 
 6 Charles Stuart was concealed for five months among the glens and 
 mountains of the West of Scotland. 
 
CHARLES STUART. 41 
 
 Morning's grey dawn and evening's gentle gale, 
 
 Alas ! had wafted no expected sail ; 
 
 O'er the lone beach the outcast wanderers stray, 
 
 To hail the keel that linger' d on its way. 
 
 Or, from some cliff, the deep's broad outline mark, 
 
 And chide the wave that brought no saviour bark. 
 
 At length the news came down — a sail was seen, 
 
 Wild, wintry Moidart ! near thy waters green ; 
 
 And G-allia's colours, floating from the mast. 
 
 Proclaim' d the wanderer's every danger past. 
 
 He stood on deck, and gazed upon a shore 
 
 He never might, perhaps, revisit more ; 
 
 His thoughts reverted to the sunny hour 
 
 That shone upon the birth of all his power. 
 
 Again he listen' d for the thrilling peal 
 
 That hail'd the white rose on thy shores. Loch 
 
 Shiel ! 
 Again he wander' d o'er the bright array 
 Led forth to battle on Culloden's day ; 
 
42 CHAELES STUAET. 
 
 Thought of fair hopes and prospects once so high — 
 Hopes that had bloom' d, but only bloom' d to die. 
 
 " Land of my fathers ! ere the shades of night 
 Shroud thee for ever from my straining sight, 
 Ere the breeze, waking o'er yon sleeping sea, 
 "Wafts me afar from happiness and thee : 
 Ere yet unfaded from my filial view, 
 Home of my forefathers ! A long adieu ! 
 I stood alone on yon wild, rugged strand, 
 With none to 'friend me save my own right hand ; 
 I raised the Standard in my father's name ; 
 And clan on clan around that Standard came ; 
 I swore to consecrate life's latest gasp, 
 To wrest the sceptre from an alien grasp. 
 And waft to Britain, upon Victory's wings. 
 Her hope of hopes — her ancient line of Kings. 
 Twice fifty years have scarcely pass'd away. 
 Since one Charles mourn'd o'er Worcester's fatal day ; 
 
CHAELES STUAET. 43 
 
 And dark Culloden's plain, by Heaven's decree, 
 
 Another Worcester was, alas ! to me. 
 
 Like Charles, preserved by superhuman power, 
 
 I live to smile at danger's deadliest hour ; 
 
 Like him, may fortune brightest at the helm 
 
 Guide back my bark to my ancestral realm ; 
 
 And Holyrood's grey echoing towers raise, 
 
 Eound James's throne, the song of other days. 
 
 Yet should it not be so, should hope delay' d 
 
 Turn a deaf ear to all my prayers for aid. 
 
 Then, oh ! forget that such there e'er has been, 
 
 And drop a veil o'er Stuart's closing scene. 
 
 Albyn, farewell ! e'en o'er thy mountains blue 
 
 The night mist, stealing, dims my fading view, 
 
 O'er my pale cheek the glistening tear-drops swell ; — 
 
 Home, friends and country, fare ye ever well!" 
 
 The morn dawn'd brightly over sea and land. 
 But saw no bark on Lochnanuagh's strand: 
 
44 CHAELES STUAET. 
 
 Far o'er the deep the favouring breezes bore 
 The flower of Scotia to fair Grallia's shore, 
 And weeping friends gazed anxious o'er the main, 
 And watch' d what gale should waft them back again ! 
 Long, long they look'd, year after year pass'd by, 
 And yet no sail lit up the weary eye ; 
 At length the whisper' d breath of rumour told. 
 That their loved, exiled, prince was waning old ; 
 That toils and cares, when struggling for the crown. 
 Had bow'd his once so buoyant spirit down ; — 
 Crush' d all the hopes that erst were wont to mock, — 
 His broken heart had sunk beneath the shock. 
 * * * * 
 
 Like some wild pibroch, at the close of day, 
 JSTow swelling full — now dying far away, — 
 So falls, in accents still to memory dear. 
 The Exile's story on a clansman's ear. 
 Whilst, fondly in their own * Prince Charlie's ' praise, 
 Fair Scotia's daughters wake immortal lays. 
 
CHAELES STUART. 45 
 
 And aged grandsires, on tlie village green, 
 Tell of tlie glorious days that once have been — 
 Of Falkirk's rout, and Preston's gallant fight — 
 Of Holyrood's brave chiefs, and ladies bright — 
 Of Cope's bold troopers rushing from the field — 
 Of Hawley's veterans forced to fly or yield : 
 Then, as the tear rolls down each wrinkled face. 
 Mourn o'er the last of Stuart's royal race. 
 
46 
 
 THE EING. 
 
 Sweet priceless relic ! thou art all that 's left 
 
 To tell of her who slumbers in the tomb ; 
 To soothe the sorrowings of the bereft, 
 
 And dry the tear shed o'er her early doom. 
 Thy little circle ne'er can comprehend 
 
 The speaking charms it fain would represent ; 
 Thy matchless lustre ne'er a ray could lend, 
 
 To brighten her soul's heavenly firmament. 
 
 Ah ! yes, the passing beauty of her form, 
 The faultless sweetness of her angel face. 
 
 The melting glance that might a cynic warm, 
 JN'o pen may paint, nor poet's fancy trace. 
 
THE EING. 47 
 
 The living beauty of her gentle heart, 
 
 In sunnier tints than e'er met human eye, 
 
 More truly faithful than by limner's art, 
 Is deeply graven on the memory. 
 
 Hemorseless Death ! could' st thou not have forborne 
 
 To snap the gentlest ties that ever bound ? 
 To snatch my ilow'ret on her budding mom, 
 
 And strew her leaflets on the cold, cold ground ? 
 Mysterious doom! that all that 's pure and bright, 
 
 Like meteor, glances — then is seen no more ; 
 Comes but to dazzle us with Heaven's own light. 
 
 Then leaves us darker than we were before ! 
 
 vSweet, beauteous Eba, whilst remembrance clings. 
 While this heart yet one last pulsation hath. 
 
 Thy form shall hover near on seraph wings, 
 And shed a halo round my darkest path. 
 
48 THE RING. 
 
 This little relic, oft on it I gaze 
 
 "With thougMs too sad for other eyes to read, — 
 Years, while thou livedst, seem'd but summer days ; 
 
 Days, since thou left us, winter years indeed ! 
 
 They tell me, Eba, that, as time rolls on. 
 
 Change after change will heal the heart that's torn:- 
 It shall be so — if but the sun, that shone 
 
 This lovely eve, lights not to-morrow's morn. 
 It shall be so — if but yon silent moon 
 
 May never cross the dark blue sky again. 
 Then will the sorrower, but, alas, too soon ! 
 
 Eorget thee, dearest — then, and only then ! 
 
 Eond gift, eternal emblem of our love. 
 
 More priceless far than India's golden streams ; 
 
 Thou guidest all my waking thoughts above, 
 And waftest Eba to my nightly dreams. 
 
THE RING. 49 
 
 Tears from a fountain time can never dry, 
 
 Burst forth fresh gushing o'er my swelling heart : 
 
 Sweet relic, only with my latest sigh, 
 
 Thou and her image in my breast shall part. 
 
50 
 
 THE PKIVATEEE.1 
 
 The farewell gun booms o'er the wave, big swells tbe 
 
 snowy sail; 
 The gallant bark bounds fearlessly before the rising 
 
 gale ; 
 The crested billows burst in spray across her glistening 
 
 bow ; 
 Oh, where 's the heart that beats not high to look 
 
 upon her now ? 
 
 Her crew, as fine a set of men as ever trode a deck. 
 To wield the gleaming marlin-spike, or snatch a soul 
 from wreck. 
 
 1 During the last war, a privateer manned with the flower of the West 
 Country, sailed on her first cruise from the shores of England. She was 
 never afterwards heard of. 
 
THE PRIVATEER. 51 
 
 Lean here upon the bulwarks, or there climb high the 
 
 mast, 
 To gaze in silence on the land they now were leaving 
 
 fast. 
 
 Perchance a tear-drop fills some eye, yet soon 'tis 
 
 brush' d away, 
 Tor tears but dim a sailor's glance, as showers, an 
 
 April day ; 
 Each grasps his cutlass-hilt, and turns a look of hope 
 
 above, 
 Tor they are going forth to guard the homes and 
 
 hearts they love. 
 
 And, from the shore, so cheerless now, waves many a 
 
 snowy hand. 
 And many a lovely eye is fix'd upon that gallant 
 
 band; 
 
 E 2 
 
52 THE PRIVATEER. 
 
 And many a soft-breathed prayer for them across the 
 
 waters came, 
 In battle's hour of fear — of fear ? — they knew it but 
 
 by name. 
 
 The foe had threaten' d Albion, they were now upon 
 
 the wave, 
 They knew not that their path must be o'er many a 
 
 Briton's grave ; 
 They knew not that till arm could wield the battle 
 
 blade no more, 
 They ne'er might set a stranger foot on our beloved 
 
 shore. 
 
 Eor these were men who, while the blood of life 
 
 bedew' d a vein. 
 Would shed it for old England's sake again, ay, and 
 
 again ; 
 
THE PRIVATEEE. 53 
 
 For Albion's beauteous daughters, too, would dying 
 
 grasp tbe foe. 
 And down together 'neath the wave, the dead and 
 
 Uving, go. 
 
 Their native shore had scarce grown dim in distance 
 
 far behind. 
 When, hark ! a sudden hurricane came sweeping on 
 
 the wind ; 
 Came sweeping on the wind across the blue Atlantic's 
 
 breast. 
 Too soon, alas 1 to shade the brief bright vision of the 
 
 West. 
 
 Wild raged the storm, in mountains high the billows 
 
 upward curl'd. 
 Then down, down from the blacken' d sky again seem'd 
 
 backward hurl'd ; 
 
54 THE PEIVATEEE. 
 
 A short wild scream of terror rose above the tempest's 
 
 roar, 
 And when the sun broke forth again the bark was 
 
 seen no more ! 
 
 Months — years have roll'd their course since then, 
 
 and still, each weary day, 
 An aged form may yet be seen to wander round the 
 
 bay; 
 Dull is the glance, so beaming once, ypt no one 
 
 wonders why, 
 For she has watch' d and wept enough to dim the 
 
 brightest eye. 
 
55 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Death, Death ! whom seekest thou, 
 Who is thy victim to-day ? 
 
 Stay, stay ! let mercy now 
 
 Plead for the mourner — oh, stay ! 
 
 Death, Death ! seest thou that eye, 
 
 Mark'st thou, 'tis dazzling bright ? 
 
 Stay, stay ! answer me why, 
 
 Must thou quench quickly its light ? 
 
 Death, Death ! seest thou that form, 
 Mark'st thou perfection and grace ? 
 
 Stay, stay ! the heart is yet warm. 
 Why would' st its beauty deface ? 
 
56 STANZAS. 
 
 Death, Death ! seest thou that soul, 
 
 Mark'st thou, 'tis buoyant and free ? 
 
 Ah, ah ! o'er it no control, 
 Tyrant, is given to thee ! 
 
57 
 
 WEITTEN ON VISITING THE BATTLEMENTS 
 OF NEWAKK CASTLE. 
 
 Behikd rude Groat-fell slowly sinks tlie sun, 
 As if 'twere lotli to lose so fair a sight, 
 
 And lingers, though its weary race is run, 
 Eor one last glance, as brief as it is bright. 
 
 Land of the Poet ! from grey Newark's wall, 
 I love to gaze on sununer's closing day. 
 
 And view tower, woodland, sunny streamlet, all 
 Once dear to those who now have pass'd away. 
 
 Land of the Painter ! from * brown Carrick's ' steep, 
 O 'er the sweet scene, enchanted roams the eye. 
 
 Where winding Ayr and Doon's bright waters sweep, 
 Half-hidden 'neath their verdant drapery. 
 
58 NEWARK CASTLE. 
 
 Land of tlie Patriot ! Arran's beauteous isle, 
 That sleeps so calmly 'midst a golden flood 
 
 Of western glory, points to where, erewhile, 
 
 The Bruce, an outcast on its strand, once stood. 
 
 Proud may'st thou be, thou fair, thrice-favour'd shore, 
 Te ' blue-capp'd hills,' right boastful may ye rise ; 
 
 Por ye have seen, what seen may be no more, 
 A "Wallace bleed to burst ' a tyrant's ties.' 
 
 Oh ! I could linger long, untired to gaze. 
 
 Enraptured, o'er a paradise like this ; 
 To trace each streamlet tln-ough its woody maze. 
 
 Pit haunt of love — ^fit scene of peaceful bliss. 
 
 Oft through yon groves, at this sweet vesper hour, 
 When the glad mavis caroll'd forth his song. 
 
 When Spring breathed fragrance thro' each dewy bower. 
 And ' bonnie Doon ' roll'd merrily along. 
 
NEWARK CASTLE. 59 
 
 Careless I 've stray' d, — or, 'neath some aged tree 
 Eeclining, watch' d the sun's departing beam ; 
 
 And thought of him, whose wood-notes, wild and free, 
 Have lent a sacred charm to ' brae ' and stream. 
 
 Offc shall the bard, his gloomy track to cheer, 
 This scene of passing loveliness recall ; 
 
 And gaze on memory's picture with a tear, 
 
 As if he look'd once more from Newark's wall ! 
 
60 
 
 OLD LETTERS. 
 
 Old letters ! oli, then, spare them ; they are priceless 
 
 for their age ! 
 I love, oh ! how I love to see each yellow time-stain' d 
 
 page! 
 They tell of joys that are no more-^of hopes that long 
 
 have fled, — 
 Old letters ! oh, then, spare them ; they are sacred to 
 
 the dead. 
 
 They tell of times, of happy times, in years long, long 
 
 gone by. 
 Of dear ones who have ceased to live, but in the 
 
 memory ; 
 
OLD LETTERS. 61 
 
 They picture many a hallow' d scene, in sunny days 
 of yore ; 
 
 Old letters ! oh, then, spare them ; for they are a price- 
 less store ! 
 
 Old am I now, and grey-hair' d too, deserted and 
 
 alone. 
 And aU of those, I once might call my friends, alas ! 
 
 are gone ; 
 Yet oft, when midnight veils the world, in solitude's 
 
 retreat. 
 With each one, in his silent tomb, I hold communion 
 
 sweet. 
 
 Old letters ! here is one — the hand of youth is on its 
 
 face ; 
 Ah ! that was from a brother young, in some far foreign 
 
 place ; 
 
62 OLD LETTERS. 
 
 A sailor boy, beloved by all, frank, open-hearted, 
 
 brave ; — 
 Cold, cold and lonesome is his rest, beneath the 
 
 Atlantic wave. 
 
 Another, stain' d with dark-red spots, as clasp' d by 
 
 bloody hands, 
 Was found beneath a father's corse, on dread Corunna's 
 
 sands ; 
 A stranger, with the kindliest care, convey' d the relic 
 
 dear, 
 Old letters ! ye are priceless, ye have cost a widow's 
 
 tear! 
 
 Another — know I not that hand ? Oh ! she was 
 
 bright and fair. 
 Too pure, too gentle, and too good for angels her to 
 
 spare 
 
OLD LETTERS. 
 
 63 
 
 More than a few brief years on earth : well, 
 
 Death, 
 
 thou might' st be vain, 
 
 
 Thou hast not such another flower in all thy dark 
 
 domain. 
 
 
 Oh ! ye are now the only links that bind me 
 
 to the 
 
 past; 
 
 
 Sweet, sweet memorials of the days too happy. 
 
 far, to 
 
 last; 
 
 
 The tear-drop fiUs again the eye which tears had 
 
 almost fled : 
 
 
 Old letters ! ye are precious ! ye are sacred 
 
 to the 
 
 dead! 
 
 
64 
 
 FAKEWELL TO COLLEGE. 
 
 Faeewell, farewell ! old venerable pile, 
 Ye dusky towers, a long, a last adieu ; 
 
 A tear-drop mingles with my parting smile, 
 Hope claims the one, — the other falls for you ! 
 
 Yes, Memory bids the liquid tribute flow, 
 
 To scenes, and friends who sunn'd life's early day. 
 
 To times so happy once — ^long, long ago — 
 All but whose memories have pass'd away. 
 
 And EecoUection paints our buoyant hearts, 
 In those our years of thoughtlessness and joy, 
 
 And oh ! the colour, which her touch imparts. 
 Ages of wearing care can ne'er destroy. 
 
FAREWELL TO COLLEGE. 65 
 
 For each green islet 'mid life's stormy sea 
 
 Wni rise more verdant from the passiag wave ; 
 
 Each fair oasis in the memory 
 
 Will seem the fairer as we near the grave. 
 
 And you, ye time-worn walls, oh ! could ye speak, 
 Could ye but picture sights thab ye have seen. 
 
 Then might ye tell of many a toil-blanch' d cheek, 
 How changed, alas ! from what it once had been. 
 
 Then might ye tell of many a laughing eye, 
 Lit with the smiles such eyes, alone, can wear. 
 
 Some mother doted on in years gone by, 
 Now dim and lustreless with early care. 
 
 Then might ye tell of hearts, that erst were light. 
 Crush' d down beneath misfortune's iron heel ; 
 
 Of youth's gay hopeful visions once so bright, 
 Doom'd stern Eeality's dark change to feel. 
 
QQ PAEEWELL TO COLLEGE. 
 
 Yet have ye sunny scenes. — Should some complain, 
 That they, perchance, have lost what most they prized, 
 
 When many come in triumph, and remain 
 To see their dearest wishes realised ? 
 
 No, no, let such go forth into this wide 
 
 And restless world ' unnoticed and unknown,' 
 
 They have but seen the picture's gloomy side — 
 Eate has but made that gloomy side their own. 
 
 No more, no more — another fleeting year 
 Will bring the Kalends of another May ; 
 
 And he, who now has dropp'd a parting tear, 
 Will, then, be battling onward, far away. 
 
 New forms, new features, will efface the scene, 
 Strange voices break at once the gentle spell ; 
 
 Thou wilt forget that such there e'er has been, 
 Yet still, old Alma Mater, fare thee well ! 
 
67 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 They tell me that my gallant boy 
 
 Fell cover' d with renown ; 
 They tell me Death can ne'er destroy 
 
 Glory's immortal crown ; 
 They tell me Victory, afar, 
 
 Peal'd o'er the ensanguined plain ; 
 "What care I for the voice of war ? — 
 
 He comes not back again ! 
 
 They tell me that he fought and bled 
 As dauntless warriors die ; 
 
 They tell me that around him, dead, 
 A thousand foemen lie ; 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 They tell me that my only one 
 EeU 'midst the honoured slain ; 
 
 What care I though he fell alone ? — 
 He comes not back again ! 
 
 They tell me that his dying voice 
 
 Proclaim' d our liberty, — 
 " Eejoice, my countrymen, rejoice, 
 
 Once more our homes are free ;" 
 They teU me that his single hand 
 
 Dash'd down the tyrants' chain ; 
 What care I, now, for slavery's band ?— 
 
 He comes not back again ! 
 
 On tower and hill the watchlight burns, 
 For triumphs wait the brave ; 
 
 But one that went, no more returns, 
 He sleeps beyond the wave ; 
 
STANZAS. 69 
 
 Each beaming eye is lit witli joy, 
 
 They think not of the slain ; 
 They mourn not o'er a gallant boy, 
 
 Who comes not back again ! 
 
70 
 
 SCOTIA. 
 
 Scotia, cradle-land of genius ! theme of many a poet's 
 
 lay; 
 
 O'er whose form a magic beauty seems to hold resist- 
 less sway ; 
 
 O'er whose rough and storm-cleft mountain, heathy 
 moor, or woody dell, 
 
 Lingers, and will ever linger, some wild, sweet, 
 enchanting spell ! 
 
 Happy land ! look but around thee, turn thy gaze from 
 
 shore to shore ; 
 Say, hast thou one glen unhaUow'd by some voice 
 
 that 's now no more ? 
 
SCOTIA. 71 
 
 Hast thou, 'mid thy sunny valleys, one bright stream 
 
 that ne'er has sigh'd 
 O'er the bard whose wont it was to wander by its 
 
 silver tide ? 
 
 Is it morning? — list, the music, wafted from yon 
 
 distant hill. 
 Mingles in harmonious sweetness with the murmuring 
 
 of the rill : — 
 Is it eve ? then, hark, the gloaming echoes with the 
 
 lightsome song ; 
 'Tis some village maiden singing, as she homeward 
 
 trips along. 
 
 Land of beauty ! fascination sits enthroned where'er 
 
 thou art ; 
 At thy sight, spontaneous worship bursts fresh-gushing 
 
 from the heart ; 
 
72 SCOTIA. 
 
 From far countries wondering strangers come, attracted 
 
 by thy praise, 
 All their toil at once forgotten, when entranced on 
 
 thee they gaze. 
 
 Pilgrim minstrels, too, have sought thee — ^laid their 
 
 offerings at thy feet. 
 Marvelling not that thine own poets warbled in such 
 
 accents sweet ; 
 Eoving 'midst thy glens and mountains, caught at 
 
 once the impassion' d strain ; 
 Seized their harps, and woke an echo they may never 
 
 hear a^ain ! 
 
 Mingling with their kindred spirits, inspiration 
 
 thrill' d the string, — 
 Scotia's breezes swept across it ; Scotia's beauties 
 
 bade them sing, 
 
SCOTIA. 73 
 
 Fired, as erst in ancient story, scarce they touch' d 
 
 the quivering chords ; 
 Scarce they raised their trembling fingers, ere the soul 
 
 broke forth in words. 
 
 Yet, what need hast thou of minstrels ? thou who, 
 
 aye, could' st boast a band, 
 Bright with gifted sons of genius, ever prompt at thy 
 
 command ? 
 Burns, whose harp thrills every bosom — his the touch 
 
 that knew no peer ; 
 Campbell, gentle bard, whose numbers fall like music 
 
 on the ear : 
 
 Scott, — the clang of border foray rings throughout his 
 
 martial line ; 
 Eamsay, — rural loves and beauty who could paint with 
 
 pen like thine ? 
 
74 SCOTIA. 
 
 Well such men canst thou appreciate, well thou 
 
 know*st the poet's meed, 
 
 All he loves, and all he lives for, honour to his humble 
 
 reed. 
 
 Tardy thou art not» t' award it ; proud thou art, and 
 
 justly too : 
 
 Few the lands so higlily favour' d ; ay, alas ! by far too 
 
 few; 
 
 Thus it is that wandering minstrels, whencesoe'er 
 
 their footsteps roam, 
 
 Ever meet from thee a welcome — ever find in thee a 
 
 home ! 
 
76 
 
 "IN MEMORIAM." 
 
 And art thou gone — for ever gone — my long-loved 
 
 early friend, 
 And is it thus that all the dreams of other days must 
 
 end? 
 And is it thus that hope deferr'd must glide away at 
 
 last, 
 And leave us nought to cling to, save the memory of 
 
 the Past ? 
 
 How dear to me that memory now — how dear — how 
 
 doubly dear 
 The hallow' d recollection of many a by-gone year ; 
 
76 ^^IN MEMOEIAM. 
 
 How cherisli'd each familiar spot, each well remember' d 
 
 scene, 
 Thus link'd to thee and happiness in days that once 
 
 have been ! 
 
 Each little word is treasured now — as treasured ne'er 
 
 before, 
 Since, ah ! the lips that utter' d it may never utter 
 
 more ; 
 The joyous echoes of thy voice we listen for in 
 
 vain, 
 For ever hush'd amongst us, they may greet us ne'er 
 
 again. 
 
 Our boyhood was a merry time — oft merrier than we 
 
 deem, 
 'Till once we 're hurried far adown life's rough and 
 
 troubled stream — 
 
'^IN MEMORIAM. 77 
 
 And sunny days those must have been, indeed, when 
 
 even yet, 
 Thought pictures them in colours we never can 
 
 forget ! 
 
 Methinks I see again the hill where we were wont to 
 
 stray, 
 Or, basking in the sunshine, dream the summer-tide 
 
 away; 
 Or, gazing o'er the ocean, mark the fishers' tiny 
 
 sail 
 Spread its white bosom eagerly to catch the evening 
 
 The wild bee round the heather-bell still sings her 
 
 little song. 
 Now near — now falling faintly, as she swiftly speeds 
 
 along ; 
 
78 
 
 ^^IN MEMORIAM.^' 
 
 
 The hum of yonder busy town, 
 
 borne far upon the 
 
 breeze, 
 
 
 
 
 By distance sweetly soften' d — comes 
 
 floating o'er the 
 
 trees. 
 
 
 
 
 Methinks I seek, 
 
 yet once again 
 
 the 
 
 river's sparkling 
 
 tide, 
 
 
 
 
 "Where we so oft. 
 
 in other days, have wander' d side by 
 
 side; 
 
 
 
 
 Methinks I trace its winding course 
 
 'neath bush and 
 
 ivied steep, 
 
 
 
 
 Until at last 
 
 its merry voice 
 
 ^ is 
 
 silenced in the 
 
 deep. 
 
 
 
 
 Its wavelets, in 
 
 the sunshine- 
 
 -just 
 
 as they did of 
 
 yore — 
 
 
 
 
 Are dancing still 
 
 right cheerily 
 
 from 
 
 woody shore to 
 
 shore ; 
 
 
 
 
'^IN MEMOEIAM/' 
 
 79 
 
 Or, weary of their pastime now, lie slumbering in the 
 
 shade, 
 
 
 Hush'd in the dark and rocky bed which 
 
 they 
 
 themselves have made. 
 
 
 The mill, half hidden 'mid the trees, still stems the 
 
 impatient flood. 
 
 
 And stands the monarch of the stream, just as it 
 
 ever 
 
 stood ; 
 
 
 The ancient bridge still boldly rears her tottering 
 
 arch 
 
 on high, 
 
 
 And seems yet more to tremble for her 
 
 own 
 
 stability. 
 
 
 I see them all but little changed, till once I 
 
 look 
 
 around. 
 
 
 And hear, alas ! no more again thy merry 
 
 [augh 
 
 resound, 
 
 
80 ^^IN MEMORIAM." 
 
 
 And miss an old familiar face, remember' d, 
 
 ah ! so 
 
 well, 
 
 
 And find a blank whose dreariness no tongue 
 
 :an ever 
 
 tell. 
 
 
 We each one, in our early youth, chose out his path 
 
 of life, 
 
 
 And each began his journey through a world of care 
 
 and strife ; 
 
 
 But, sever' d though in course of years, our 
 
 hearts, 
 
 united fast, 
 
 
 "Were ever buoyant with the hope that we 
 
 should 
 
 meet at last. 
 
 
 And so we will — what though, alas ! thine 
 
 was an 
 
 early doom, 
 
 
 Ere yet the fragile flowers of Hope had budded into 
 
 bloom, 
 
 1 
 
 
 

 ^^IN 
 
 memoeiam/' 
 
 81 
 
 Thougli I am left to battle 
 
 on, alone. 
 
 o'er Life's rough 
 
 plain, 
 
 
 
 
 
 If Heaven 
 
 in mercy 
 
 suffer it, we 
 
 still shall meet 
 
 again. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Sleep on — and peaceful be 
 
 thy sleep, i 
 
 my old companion 
 
 dear! 
 
 
 
 
 
 Thou hast, 
 
 at least, been 
 
 spared the griefs of those 
 
 who linger here ; 
 
 
 
 
 Thou hast, 
 
 at least. 
 
 felt 
 
 sorrow less — if even little 
 
 PJ— 
 
 
 
 
 
 For this world knows 
 
 no 
 
 happiness 
 
 that has not its 
 
 alloy! 
 
 
 THE 
 
 END. 
 
 
LONDON: 
 BRADDUBY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFBIAKS. 
 
I 
 
f 
 
 ^Cibw';27 
 
 i