3> I .. liiriiiiiiii v=^it^^i mai^ ^^oxmmW ^^omimi'^ ^mwiov^ '<^/smmm' mmo/: t "^^n B >^ I ^tllBRARYQf, '&Aavaan# ^^OJIIVDJO"^ ^OF-CAllFO/?/^ PI ■"% c-» ,\WEUNIVER% %13 . ,\\>L urn > uiiJ///, _j/\lliii 4t> /ji ■'./ j«j ^t•UBRARYa<^ %OJI1V3JO -j^^iUBRARYQc. «S3 i ir-' ^ so K^OJI1V3'JO^ <>. Y aofcalifo% aOF-CAIIF0% v/^aj; ^^Aavaaii-# <5^1:•UBRARYQ^^ Cs 5^ ^MEUNIVER% ^lOSANCrifx^ Jill |-^C/| |>-i| ISANCElfXA CO so 3> <^IUBRARYQ^ ^§ iiMf/niwv^ ^(JOJiivD-Jo^ %ojnv3-jo^ o "^/sajAiNnjwv )S-ANGtLfJ'^ 13AINa-3WV CO > ^OFCAIIFOJ?^ ^OFCAIIFO/?^ /5J\EI)NIVERS/A <^HlBRARYQr^ ^l-llBRARYOc. a3AiNn-3V\^ ^^m\m\^^ >^10SANCEI^^ 03 SO > SO ■^/5a3A!Nn3V\V^ 3 .OSANCEl% a3AiNn-3\<^ ^OFCAllFOMi^ ^^Aavaan# ^OF'CAIIFO^, ^ I ? ^^UBRARYQ^, 4>^HIBRARYG^ \m i * i ' Copyright, 1S75, by IlAiirEn & BKOTnEEG. < t < c < rn CON TENTS. Portrait — Thomas CAjrPBELL— From the picture by Lonsdale, .froiitis. John Wilson (' Christopher Xorth ')— From the picture by Lauder, to face D. M. MoiR (' Delta ') — From a Pliotograph, „ HoRATics BoNAR — From a Photograph, » Robert Buchanan — From a Photograph, » 1 72 1G6 308 491 List of Acthors, xv Campbell, Thomas (1777-I844), 1 The Pleasures of Hope, ^> Death of Gertrude (extract), .... 17 Hallowed Ground, 19 Lord Ullin's Daughter, 20 Ye IMariners of England, 20 Lochiel's "Warning, 21 The Last Man, 22 ■ Battle of the Baltic, 22 Hohenlinden, 23 Glenara, -3 The E.Yile of Erin, 24 Cora Linn, 24 Lines written in Argyleshire, .... 25 Ode to Memory of Burns, 25 ■ Lines on Re\nsiting Cathcart, .... 26 The Soldier's Dream, 26 To the Evening Star, 27 The Dirge of Wallace, 27 Brown, Thomas (1778-1820"), 28 The Faithless Mourner, 28 The Non-Descript, "... 29 Consolation of Altered Fortunes, ... 29 The Lute, 29 Teain, Joseph (1779-1852), 30 Blooming Jessie 31 Wi' Drums and Pipes, 31 Garryhorn, 31 My Doggie, 32 Old Scotia, 32 Watson, W^altee (i7so-i854), 33 Maggie an' Me, 33 The Braes o' Bedlay, 34 Sae will we Yet, 34 My Jockie's far awa", 35 Laidlaw, William (1780-I845), 35 Her bonnie black E'e, 36 Lucy's Flittin' 36 Alake for the Lassie! 37 Jamieson, Egbert (1780-1844), 37 Sir Oluf and the Elf -king's Daughter, . 38 Annie o' Tharaw, 38 The Quern Lilt, 39 My sweet wee Laddie, 39 Balade, 40 Go to him, then, 40 My Wife's a winsome wee Thing, ... 40 Gray, Charles (i782-i85i), 41 The Lass of Pittenweem, 41 When Autumn, 41 Sequel to Maggie Lauder, 42 Louisa's but a Lassie yet, 42 The Minstrel, 42 Nicholson, William (1 782-1849) 43 The Brownie of Blednoch, 44 The Braes of Galloway, 45 My ain bonnie May, 45 Finlay, John (i7R2-isio), 46 Archy o' Kilspindie, 47 I heard the evening Linnet's voice, . . 48 ! come wdth me, 48 Tennant, William (i7S4-is48), 48 Anster Fair (canto i.), 50 Tammy Little, 55 Ode to Peace, 56 To my Mother's Spiiming-wheel, ... 57 Rodger, Alexander {i784-i846), 57 Shon M'Nab, 58 Behave yoursel' before Folk, .... 59 Sweet Bet of Aberdeen, 60 Robin Tamson, 61 Cunningham, Allan (i7S4-1842), 61 The Mermaid of Galloway, 64 The Poet's Bridal-day Song, .... 66 The Downfall of Dalzell, 67 She's gane to dwall in Heaven, ... 67 De Bruce! De Bruce! 68 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, ... 68 M r^€r^ir\ci> VI CONTENTS. PAGE The Lovely Lass of Preston-mill, ... 69 It's Hame, and it's Hame, 69 My Nanie, 0, 70 Saturday's Sun, ......... 70 Awake, my Love, 70 The Thistle's grown aboon the Rose, . . 71 The Sun rises bright in France, ... 71 Bonnie Lady Ann, 71 WiLsox, John (ir8o-i8ri4), 72 A Lay of Fairy-land, 74 My Cottage, 77 Lines written in a Highland Burial-ground, 79 Address to a Wild Deer (extracts), . . SO To a Sleeping Child (extracts), .... SI Mary Gray's Song, SI The Three Seasons of Love, S2 The Past, 83 The Evening Cloud, 83 Loughrig Tarn, S3 Gr.\xt, Robert (1785-1838), S5 Litany, Sf/ "Whom have I in Heaven but Thee?" . 83 "Blessed is the Man whom Thou Chas- tcnest," 86 Comfort under Affliction, 86 The Brooklet, 87 Beattie, George (i786-i823), 87 .John o' Aniha' (extract), 88 The Dream, 90 Carrick, John Donald (irsr-iss:), 91 The Muirian' Cottars, 91 The Song of the Slave, 92 The Harp and the Haggis, 92 Laing, Alexander (irsr-iso-), 93 Archie Allan, 94 Tlie Brownie of Feamden, 9li The Trysting-tree, 97 The flappy Mother 97 Adam (Jlen, 97 Auld Eppie, 98 The Young Inipiirer and Aged Christian, 98 Carmle, Alexander (iTss-iSflo), 98 Wha's at the Window ? 99 The Vale of Killean, 99 The Corbie and Craw, 99 .My BroUiers are the Stately Trees, . . 100 PniNGLE, Thomas (i-sn-iiinO 100 Afar in the Desert, ID] Tlie Lion and (lirafTc, I(i2 Come awa', come awa', 103 Farewell to Tcviotdale In:! Maid of my Heart, lo;; BuRTT, John (i7«o-i8(i«), 104 On the Divine Mercy, !().'> Tlie Farewell, . ." Ki.", O'er the ^list-shronded Cliffs, .... Klf) PAGE 0! Lassie I lo'e dearest, 106 Sweet the Bard, lOo Knox, William (i789-i825), 106 The Wooer's Visit, 107 Mortality, 108 HarpofZion, 109 The Dear Land of Cakes, 109 To-morrow, 110 The Season of Youth, 110 Glen, William (i789-i82e), 110 The Battle-song, Ill Wae's me for Prince Cliai-He, . . . .112 How Eerily, how Drearily, 113 The Battle of Vittoria, 113 The Maid of Oronsey, 114 Mary Gray, 114 MacDiarmid, John (i7no-iSo2), 114 Evening, 115 My Faithful Somebody, 116 Nithside, 116 On the Death of a Child, ...... 117 Vedder, David (1790-1854), 117 Sir Alan Mortimer, 118 The Temple of Nature, 120 Gideon's War-song, 120 Jeanie's Welcome Hame, 121 The Sun had slipped, . 121 Nevat, John (1792-1870), 122 The Fall of the Leaf, 122 A Summer Love-letter, 123 The Dreaming Lover, 124 AiNSLiE, Hew (b 1792), 12,5 " Stands Scotland where it did?" . . .126 The Rover o' Lochryan, 126 The Sweetest o' them a', 127 On wi' the Tartan 127 The Last Look of Home, 127 The Ingle Side, 128 A Hamewartl Sang, 128 Sighings for the Sea-side, 128 Lyle, Thomas (i792-is.to), 129 Kelvin Grove, 12'.t I ance knew Content, 130 Dark Dunoon, 130 FiNLAV, William (1792-IS47), 131 The Mighty Munro, 131 The Dream of Life's Young Day, . . . 132 The Widow's Excuse 132 Beattie, William (1793-1875), 133 Monody on llcath of Thomas Campbell, 134 Lines on a Portrait, L">6 Evening Hymn of the Alpine Shepherds, 136 Lyte, Henry Francis (179.3-1847), 137 Evening, 138 On a Naval Officer buricl in the Atlantic, 138 CONTENTS. vn PAGE Grace Darling's Death-bed, 139 "Lo, we have left all," 140 Abide with Me, 140 LocKHART, John Gibson (ir94-i8o4), 141 Captain Paton's Lament, 143 Broadsvvords of Scotland, 144 The Lamentation for Celin, 144 Bernardo and Alphouso, 145 Zara's Ear-rings, 146 Beyond, 147 Lines written on Tweedside, . . . .147 The Bridal of Andalla, 148 Hamilton, Janet (1795-1873), 149 The Skylark— Caged and Free, . . .150 Gran'faither at Cam'slang, 150 Carlyle, Thomas (b. 1795), 151 Tragedy of the Night-moth, .... 152 The Sower's Song, 153 Adieu, 153 Cui Bono? 154 Psalm xlvi., 154 Mason-lodge, .... 154 The Frog and the Steer, 155 Wetr, Daniel (i796-is3i), 155 The Midnight Wind, 156 On the Death of a Child 157 'Neath the "Wave, 157 Raven's Stream, 157 Motherwell, William (1797-1S35), 157 The Master of Weemys, 159 The Wooing Song, 160 The Merry Summer Months, .... 161 Jeanie Morrison, 162 My Heid is like to rend, Willie, . . .163 The Mermaiden, 164 Wearie's Well, 164 The Midnight Wind, 165 The Dying'Poet, 165 The Cavalier's Song, 166 MoiK, David Macbeth (179s -isoi), 166 Casa Wappy, 167 The Winter Wild, 168 Heigh-ho! 169 To my Infant Daughter, 170 MaryDhu, 170 The Sabbath, 171 Moonlight Churchj^ard, 171 Rural Scenery, 171 The School Bank, 171 Smart, Alexander (i798-i8G;), 172 Spring-time, 172 Madie's Schule, 173 Oh, leave me not, 173 Picken, Joanna B. (i798-i85fl), 174 An anld Friend wi' a new Face, . . . 174 The Death-watch, 175 PAGE CONOLLY, ErSKINE (1798-1842), 175 The Greetin' Bairn, 176 Mary Macneil, 176 To my first Gray Hair, 177 Gilfillan, Robert (uas-isv ), 177 The Autumn Winds are blawing, . . . 178 0! what is this Worid i 178 Manor Braes, 178 Janet an' Me, 179 The Happy Days o' Youth, 179 The Exile's Song, 180 Fare thee well, 180 The Bonnie Braes o' Scotland 180 In the Days o' Langsyne, 181 Hyslop, James (1798-1827), 181 The Scottish Sacramental Sabbath, . . 182 The Camcronian's Dream, 184 The Camcronian's Vision, 185 A Love Song, 188 Song — To You 188 Let Italy boast, 189 Fragment of a Dream, 189 PiiDDELL, Henry Scott (i79s-iS7c), 190 The Crook and Plaid, 192 Our Mary, 193 Would that I were where wild woods wave, 194 Scotland Yet, 194 The wild Glen sae Green, 194 The Minstrel's Grave, 195 The Emigrant's Wish, 195 PoLLOK, Robert (1798-1827), 196 The Course of Time (book i.), . . . .197 Helen's Tomb, 202 Thom, William (1799-1848) 202 The Blind Boy's Pranks (No. 1), . . .204 Dreamings of the Bereaved 204 Jeanie's Grave, 205 The Mitherless Bairn, 205 The Drunkard's Dream, 205 Hervey, Thomas Kibble (i709-isj.), 206 The Convict Ship, 206 The Dead Trumpeter, 207 The Gondola GUdes, 207 Lawson, James (b. 1799), 208 The Approach of Age, 209 ToaLintie, 209 Wlien Spring arrayed in Flowers, . . 210 Campsie Glen, 210 Imlah, John (i799-is4c), 211 Where Gadie rins, 211 Auld Scotia's Sangs, 211 Thou'rt sair Alter'd, 212 The Gathering 212 There lives a Young Lassie, 213 via CONTEXTS. PAGE Kennedy, William (1799-1549), 213 The Arrow and the Rose (extract), . . 214 The Dirge of the Last Conqueror, . . 215 The Pii-ate's Serenade, 216 I love the Land, 216 The Grave of William Motherwell, . .217 Telfer, James (isoo-isc2), 217 The Gloanij-ne Buchte, 218 Saint UlUn's Pilgi-im, 220 Oh! wiUyeWalk? 222 Pexxev, WiLLi.vjr, Lord Kinloch (1S01-1S72), 222 Gift«toGod, 222 A Lost Day, 223 Djing in Darkness, 223 Desire of Death, 223 The Star in the East, 223 Litany, 224 Bread on the Waters, 224 Wilson, William (isoi-isoo), 224 To my Children, 226 Sweet Lammas Moon, 227 Auld Johnny Graham, 227 A Welcome to Christopher North, . . 227 Jean Linn, 228 Richard Coeur de Lion, 228 Britannia, 228 Jennie Graham, 229 Sabbath Morning in the Woods, . . ,229 Work is Prayer, 230 Waning Life and Weary, 230 Atkinson, Thomas (isoi-1833) 230 To the Aurora Borealis, 231 The Proud Heart's Pain, 231 Alas! I cannot Love! 232 Mary Shearer, 232 The Hour is Come, 233 Wilson, Robert (b.isoi), 233 America 233 Humbie Wood, Aberdour, 234 The Old Churchyard of Abordour, , . 235 Macnish, Robert (1S02-1837), 236 To the Rhine, 237 The Lover's Secret, 237 To a Child 238 Chambers, Robert (i802-i871), 238 The Peerless One 240 Scotland 241 The Prisoner of Spcdhns 242 Young Randal, 242 Lament for the old Highland Warriors, 243 The Ladyc that I Love, 243 AiRD, Thomas (i802-i87g), 243 The Captive of Fez (extract), .... 244 Tlie River, 245 The Swallow 246 FACE The Holy Cottage, 246 My Jlother's Grave, 247 Bennet, William (b.1802), 248 Blest be the Hour of Night, .... 249 I'll think on thee. Love, 249 The Rose of Beauty, 250 Ode to Craigdarroch Water, .... 250 Miller, Hugh (i802-is5g), 250 Oh ! softly sighs the Westlin' Breeze, . 252 On Seeing a Sun-dial in a Churchyard, . 253 Sister Jeanie, haste, we'll go, .... 253 Ode to my Mither Tongue, 254 Picken, Andrew Belfrage (isc2-is4c), 254 The Bedouins (extract), 255 The Home Fever, 256 Mexico, 256 White, Robert (b. 1802), 257 Lady Jean, 257 My Native Land, 258 Morning, 259 The Caged Bird, 260 Ramsay, John (b.]8C2), 260 On seeing a Redbreast shot, .... 261 Farewell to Craufurdland, 261 Hetherington, Wm. Maxwell (i8C3-i866), 261 The Heart's Dij-ge, 262 The Torwood Oak, 263 The Hawthorn Tree, 263 The Graves of Bessie Bell and ]\Iary Gray, 264 The Voice of Streams, 264 Bethune, Alexander (1804-1843), 265 Musings of Convalescence, 266 A Mother's Love, 266 On his Brother's Death, 267 Moore, Dugald (1805-1841), 267 The Voice of the Spirit, 268 To the Clyde, 268 Hannibal on Drinking the Poison, . . 269 Anderson, William (1805-I866), 269 To a Wild Flower, 270 At E'ening whan the Kye, 270 I'm Naebody noo, 271 Dryburgh Abbey, 271 Through the Wood, 271 Bell, Henry Glassford (1805-1S74), 272 Mary Queen of Scots, 273 The King's Daughter, 275 Blossoms, 276 I loved Thee, 277 My Vis-d-Vis, 277 The End, 278 Why is my Spirit sad ? 278 Allan, George (isoc-isss), 279 Is your War-pipe asleep ? . . . . 279 CONTENTS. IX PAGE Old Scotland, 280 Young Donald 280 I will think of thee yet, 280 Sterling, John (i8oe-i844), 281 To a Child, 282 The Rose and the Gauntlet, .... 282 The Spice-tree, 283 Shakspere, 283 The Husbandman, 284 The Two Oceans, 284 Louis XV., 284 Mirabeau, 285 Brydson, Thomas (isog-isso), 286 The Fallen Rock, 286 All Lovely and Bright, 287 Dunolly Castle, 287 Po'kdiead Wood, 287 I kenna what's come ower Him, . . . 288 The Earthquake, 288 The Gipsies, 288 Falling Leaves, 288 Retrospection, 288 A Remembered Spot, 289 A Thought, 289 Park, Andrew (isor-ises), 289 Silent Love (extract), 290 Sandyford Ha', 290 Hurrafor the Highlands! 291 The Auld Folks, 291 Flowers of Summer, 291 The Banks of Clyde, 291 There is a bonnie Flower, 292 Macdonald, James (i8or-]84s), 292 The Wilderness Well (extract), . . . 293 The Three Ages, 293 Hymn — Oh, God above, 295 The Thistle, 296 O, Leeze me on the Glen, 297 The Pride o' the Glen, 297 Ballantine, James (b. isos), 298 Harvest-home, 299 The Snawy Kirkyard, 300 Falling Leaves, 301 The Feeding Shower, 301 Lay up Treasures in Heaven, .... 301 Wifie, come Hame, 302 Naebody's Baim, 302 A Stieve Heart and a Sturdy Step, . . 302 Ilka Blade o' Grass, 303 MacColl, Evan (b. isos), 303 Glory to the Brave, 304 A Visit to Staffa, 304 My Rowan-tree, 305 A May Morning in Glenshu'a, .... 306 To the FaUing Snow, 307 The Child of Promise, 307 Evening Address to Loch Lomond, . . 308 * PAGE BoNAE, HoRATIUS (b. 18US), 308 A Little While, 309 Newly Fallen Asleep, 310 Heaven, 311 The Martyrs of Scotland, 311 Lucy, 311 No more Sea, 312 All Well, 312 The Meeting-place, . 313 Hume, Alexander (isod-isji), 313 MenleHay, 314 My Bessie, 314 Sandy Allan, 315 I've Wandered on the Sunny HJU, . . 315 Oh ! Years hae coma, ....... 315 Blackie, John Stuart (b. isao), 316 The Death of Columba, ...... 317 The Laj' of the Brave Cameron, . . . 319 Benedicite, 320 The Two Meek Margarets,, 320 The Emigrant Lassie, ....... 321 October, 321 A Song of the Country, 322 The Highland Manse, 322 Beautiful World! 322 Smibert, Thomas (i8io-iS5i), 323 The Widow's Lament, 324 The Hero of St. John d'Acre, .... 324 My ain dear Land, 325 The Voice of Woe, 325 Stoddart, Thomas Tod (b. is:o), 326 Loch Skene, 326 The Angler's Tiysting-tree, 327 The British Oak, 328 Let ither Anglers, 328 Musings on the Banks of the Teviot, . . 328 Flower-life, 329 Bethune, John (1810-1839), 330 Hymn of the Churchyard, 332 A Spring Song, 332 Sacramental Hj'mn, 333 Withered Flowers, 333 Miller, William (i8io-i872), 334 Willie Winkle, . . . ' 3-35 Cockie-leerie-la, 335 The Wonderfu' Wean, 336 Gree, Bairnies, gree, 337 Spring, 337 Lady Summer, 337 Hairst, 337 November, 338 John Frost, 338 Our ain Fire-end, 339 When Jamie comes Hame, 339 The Blue Bell, 339 The Haw Blossom, 340 Sonnet to a Lady, . . . . ... -. • 340 CONTENTS. Maclagax, Alexander (b. I'^n), 340 A Sister's Lavo 341 The Outcast, 342 Love's Evening Song, 343 The Auld Meal Mill, 343 Curling Song, 344 Aye keep your Head aboon the Water, . 345 " Dinna ye hear it ? " 34o "We'll ha'e nane but Highland Bonnets," 346 Success to Campbell's Highlandmen, . . 346 To a Wounded Sea-bird, 346 Scott, William Bell (b. isu), 347 Sonnet— My Mother, 348 Woodstock Maze, 348 Parted Love, 350 Saint Margaret, 350 Simpson, Mrs. Jane Cross (b. isu), 351 The Longings of Genius, 351 Good Angels, 352 Going to the Country, 353 Tedium Vita;, 354 I know not, 354 To a Friend, 354 Prayer, 355 Sinclair, William (isu-isro), 355 The Royal Breadalbane Oak 356 Is not the Earth 356 Bennoch, Francis (b. 1S12), 357 May-) 366 The Unseen 367 The Links o" Barry, 367 The Minstrel's Lay, 368 Forget her! 368 Wills' Bonnie Braes, 368 The Bonnie Braes o' Airlie, 369 The Howcr of Strathmore, 369 NicoLL, Robert (isu-issr), 370 Life's Pilgrimage, 371 TAGE The Morning Star, 372 A Maiden's Meditati . n, 373 The Ha' Bible, 373 Orde Braes, 374 We are Brethren a', 374 The Herd Lassie, 375 Be still, thou beating Heart, .... 375 The Place that I love best, 375 The Puir Folk, 376 Milton — A Sonnet, 377 Death, 377 Hedderwick, James (b. ish), 378 First Grief, 378 The Emigrants, 379 Sorrow and Song, 380 The Land for Me, 380 Middle Age, 380 Waiting for the Ship, 381 Mackat, Charles (b. isu), 381 The Child and the Mourners, .... 383 The Good Time Coming, 383 Remembrances of Nature, 384 ye Tears, 384 Under the Holly Bough, 385 What might be Done, 385 A Candid Wooing, 385 Little and Great, 386 A Lover's Dreams, 386 -f- To the West, 387 Apologue from " Egeria," 387 Lament of Cona, 387 AiRD, Marion Paul (b. isis), 389 Hope, 389 The Fa' o' the Leaf, 390 Far, far away, 390 The Auld Kirkyard, 391 The Ministry of Angels, 391 The Herd Laddie, 391 A Memory Dear, 392 Martin, Theodore (b. isir,), 392 The Interment of Thomas Campbell, . . 393 The Dying Girl's Song, 394 Mark Bozzari, 394 Napoleon's Midnight Review, .... 395 The Serenade, 396 Crawford, Jdhn (isio-is;:!), 396 My Auld Wife Jean, 397 The Land o' the Bonnet and Plaid, . . 397 Ann o' Coniylee, 398 The Wacs o' Eild, 398 Macdonali), Hcgh (i8i7-i8ot), 398 Wee Annie o' Auchineden, 399 The Birds of Scotland, 400 To the Clyde, 401 The Bonnie Wee Well, 402 To October, . 402 CONTENTS. XI PAGE M'Lachlan, Alexander (b. isis), 403 I winna gae Hame, 403 Old Hannah, 404 The Halls of Holy rood, ...... 404 May, 405 Lord Lindsay's Return, 4(l5 Scotland Revisited, 406 Maxwell, William Stirling (b. isisf, 407 Ruth, . 407 The Abdication of Charles v., . . . .408 Shallum, 410 Latto, Thomas C. (b. isis), 410 The Grave of Sir Walter Scott, . , . 411 The School Examination, 413 When we were at the Scliule, . . . .414 The Kiss ahint the Door, 415 Tell me, Dear, 416 The BHnd Lassie, 416 Sly Widow Skinner, 416 Macduff, John R. (b.isis), 417 In Menioriam, 417 David Livingstone 418 Farewell to Palestine, .,,.... 420 Nature's Hymn, 421 " The City of the Crystal Sea," . . .422 Shairp, John Campbell (b. isis), 424 The Sacramental Sabbath, 424 The Clearance Song, 426 The Moor of Rannoch, 427 The Bush aboon Trai|uair, 428 Paton, Joseph Noel (b i82i), 428 The Tomb in the C^hancel 429 Song, 429 Sir Launcelot, 430 Ulysses in Ogygia, 430 Love and Friendship, 431 The Chieftain's Coronach, 431 LiiaHTON, Robert (b. 1822), 432 The Bapteesement o' the Bairn, . . . 433 Scotch Words, 436 Incense of Flowers, 437 Burns, James D. (i823-18B4), 437 Porto Santo, 438 Discovery of the North-west Passage, . 439 The Wanderer, 440 Rise. Little Star, 440 Friends I Love, 440 Chastening, 441 The Death of a Believer, 441 Murdoch, "William (b.1823), 441 The Bagpipes, 442 Address to my Auld Blue Bonnet, . . 443 The Highlander's Wife 444 Smith, James (b. 1824), 445 Wee Cockielorum 445 PAGK Wee Joukydaidles, 446 Burd Ailie, 447 Doun Fair Dalmeny's Rosy Dells, . . . 447 The Lintwhite, 447 Lilly Lorn, 448 Clap, clap Haudies, 448 The Harebell blossomed rarely, . . . 448 MacDonald, George (b. 1824), 449 The Sheep and the Goat, 450 An old SeiTnon with a new Text, . . . 450 What makes Summer ? 451 Baby, , . 452 O Lassie ayont the Hill! 453 The Waesome Carl, 453 Time and Tide, 454 Annie .she's dowie, 455 A Parable: Tell me, 455 Symington, Andrew J. (b. 1S25), 456 On hearing Jessica play sweet Music, . 456 The Dream Harp, 457 Summer Evening, 458 Bertram's Last Picture, 458 How much ow'st thou ? 459 "Wingate, David (b. i828), 459 The Streamlet, 460 October, 461 The Deein' Fisher, 462 A Day amang the Haws, 463 John Frost, 464 Veitch, John (b. 1829), 465 Cademuir (extract), 465 The Cloud-berry, 466 The Hart of Mosfennan, 466 Among the Hills! Away! 467 Smith, Alexander (isso-isor), 467 Squire Maurice, 469 The Night before the Wedding, . . . 474 Glasgow, 475 Knox, Isa Craig (b. issi), 477 Ode on the Centenary of Burns, . . . 477 The Way in the Wood, 479 A Song of Summer, 480 Going out and Coming in, 481 My Mary an' Me, 481 "Our Father," 481 Macfarlan, James (is32-is6i;), 482 The Lords of Labour, 483 Bookworld, 483 The Midnight Train, 483 The Widow's Wake, 484 The Ruined City, 484 Shadows on the Wall, 485 Gray, David (isss-isei), 485 The Yellow-hammer, 486 The Harebell, 487 xn CONTENTS. The Golden Wedding, 487 An October Musing, 488 Sonnet, 488 Leighton, William (i841-i86ii), 488 The Leaf of Woodruff, 489 Summers Long Ago, 489 The Cloud 490 Baby Died To-day, 490 Buchanan, Robert (b. i84i), 491 Willie Baird, 491 The Dead Mother, 495 The Ballad of Judas Iscariot, .... 496 The Battle of Drumliemoor, 499 The Starling, .500 Anderson, Alexander (b. 1845), 501 Blood on the Wheel, 502 Agnes Died (extract), 503 The Lost Eden found again, .... 504 A' his Lane, 504 Keats and David Gray, 505 Lorne, Marquis of (b. 1845), 505 Guide and Lita (extract), 506 APPENDIX. Alexander, Williaji Lindsay (b. isos),... 511 Tlie Last Wish, 511 ANDER.SON, John, 511 The Fountain of Life, 511 Binning, Lord, Chas. Hamilton (1090-1732), 512 Ungrateful Nannie, 512 Blackie, Walter Graham (b. isio), 512 My Mammy, .512 BuRNE, NrcoL, 513 Leader Haughs and Yarrow, .... 513 Cameron, William (b.isni),. 514 Sweet .Jessie o' the Dell, 514 Campbell, Mhh. Elizabeth (b. iso4), 514 Willie Mill's Burn 514 Douglas, William, 515 Annie Laurie, 515 Dunbar, William (i78o-i8ci), 515 The Maid of Islay, 515 DuNLOP, John (ir5.vi82o), 516 Oil! dinna ask me, 516 Erskine, Hon. Andrew (d. 1793), 5I6 How sweet this Lone Vale, 516 EwEN, John (1741-1S21), 516 weel may the Boatie row 516 Galloway, Egbert, The Twa Lairds of Lesmahagow, Glover, Jean (1758-I801), O'er the Muir, 51 Gordon, Duke of (1743-1827), Cauld Kail in Aberdeen, Graham,»Dougald (1724-1779), Turnimspike, Graham, Janet (1724-1805), The Wayward Wife, Graham, Kobert (1750-1797), tell me how to woo thee, Grant, Mrs., of Carron (1745-1S14), Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch, Grieve, John (i78i-i83o), 'Twas Summer Tide, Halket, George (d. 1750), Logic o' Buchan, Hall, G. Buchanan, Muckle-mou'd Meg, Hamilton, Mrs. Elizabeth (i7r)8-i8i6), My ain Fireside, Hastings, Lady Flora (18O6-1839), Faith and Hope, Hogg, Robert (1799-1834), When Autumn Comes, Jeffrey, Erancis, Lord (1773-1850), Perish the Love, While yet my Breast, Johnston, Ellen {d. 1873), Lines to the Memory of a Beloved Wife, Lewis, Stuart (i7r)0-i8i8), Annan's Winding Stream, Lyon, Mrs. Agnes (1702-1840), Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky, . . . M'Cheyne, Robert Murray (1813-1843), ... The Sea of tialilee, Macduff, Alexander (1817-1800), Isabelle: a Legend of Provence, . . . MacPhail, Hugh Buchanan (b. 1S17), On the Death of Wollington, . . . . Malcolm, Lieut. John (1795-1835), A Christmas Reverie, Mayne, James (d. 1842), Maggy Maclanc, Mercer, Andrew (i77.")-i842), The Cottar's Sang, 518 5LS 518 519 519 519 520 520 520 520 520 520 521 521 521 521 521 521 522 522 522 522 523 523 523 523 524 525 525 526 526 526 526 527 527 527 527 529 529 530 530 530 530 .531 Moffat, James C. (b. 1811), Alwyn: a Romance of Study (extracts), , 532 532 CONTENTS. Xlll PAGE Murdoch, Alexander G. (b. isis), 532 The Flittin' o' aukl Aunty Gartley, . . 532 NidOLL, William, 533 The Poet's Grave, 533 OuTRAii, George (isoo-issc), 533 The Annuity, 533 Pattison, Thomas, 535 Dear Islay, 535 EiCHARDSoN, Mrs. C. E. S. (irrr-isss), 536 The Fairy Dance, 536 EoBERTSox, John (i-cr-isio), 536 The Toom Meal Pock, 536 Small, James G. (b. isir), 537 Voices from Heaven, 537 Spottiswoode, Lady John Scott 537 When thou art near me, 537 Tait, John (ms-isn) 537 The Banks of Dee, 537 Tytler, James (ir47-i806), 538 I ha'e laid a Herring in Saut, .... 538 Wake, Charlotte, Lady (b. isoi), 538 Grizell Coclu-ane; or, the Daughter Dear, 538 Wanless, Andrew (b. 1824), 539 Our Mither Tongue, 539 Watson, Thomas (isor-isrs), ... 540 The Log, 549 Webster, David (irsr-issr), 540 Tak' it, man, tak' it, . 540 Wright, John (iso5-i853) 541 Kiss the Goblet, 541 Yester, Lord (i645-m3), 542 Tweedside, 542 Young, Andrew, 542 The Happy Land, 542 Lndex, 543 Glossary, 549 LIST OF THE AUTHORS, SELECTIONS FROM WHOSE WRITINGS ARE GIVEN IN THIS VOLUME. Ainslie, Hew, . . . Aird, Marion Paul, . Aird, Thomas, . . Alexander, WiUiam Lind Allan, George, . . Anderson, Alexander, Anderson, John, . . Anderson, William, . Atkinson, Thomas, . Ballantine, James, . Beattie, George, . . Beattie, AVilliam, Bell, Henry Glassford Bennet, William, Bennoch, Francis, . Bethune, Alexander, Bethune, John, . . Binning, Lord, . . Blackie, John Stuart, Blackie, Walter Graham Bonar, Horatius, . . Brown, Thomas, . . Brydson, Thomas, . Buchanan, Robert, . Burne, Nicol, . . . Burns, James D., Burtt, John, . . . Cameron, William, . Campbell, j\Irs. Elizabeth, Campbell, Thomas, . Carlile, Alexander, . Carlyle, Thomas, . . Carrick, John Donald, Chambers, Robert, . Conolly, Erskine, Crawford, John, . . Cunningham, Allan, Douglas, William, Dunbar, William, Dunlop, John, . 125 . 389 . 243 ay,511 . 279 . 501 . 511 . 269 . 230 . 298 . 87 . 133 . 272 . 248 . 357 . 265 . 330 . 512 . 316 , . 512 . 308 . 28 . 286 . 491 . 513 . 437 . 104 514 514 1 98 151 91 238 175 396 61 515 515 516 PAGE Finlay, John, 46 Finlay, WiUiam, .... 131 Galloway, Robert, . . .517 GilfiUan, Robert, .... 177 Glen, WiUiam, .... 110 Glover, Jean 518 Gordon, Duke of, ... 518 Graham, Dougald, . . .519 Graham, Janet, .... 520 Graham, Robert, .... 520 Grant, Mrs., of Carron, . 520 Grant, Sir Robert, ... 85 Gray, Charles, .... 41 Gray, David, 485 Grieve, John, 521 Guthrie, James Cargill, . 366 Erskine, Hon. Andrew, . 516 Ewen, John, 516 Halket, George, . . . .521 Hall, G. Buchanan, . . . 521 Hamilton, Mrs. Elizabeth, 522 Hamilton, Janet, . . .149 Hastings, Lady Flora, . . 522 Hedderwick, James, . . 378 Hervey, Thomas Kibble, . 206 Hetherington,Wm.MaxwcU,261 Hogg, Robert, .... 523 Hume, Alexander, . . .313 Hyslop, James, .... 181 Imlah, John, 211 Jamieson, Robert, ... 37 Jeffrey, Francis, Lord, . . 523 Johnston, EUen, .' . . . 525 Kennedy, WiUiam, . . , 213 Kinloch, Lord, .... 222 Knox, Isa Craig, .... 477 Knox, WiUiam, .... 106 Laidlaw, William, ... 35 Laing, Alexander, ... 93 Latto, Thomas C, . . .410 Lawson, James, .... 208 PAGE Leighton, Robert, . . . 432 Leighton, William, . . . 488 Lewis, Stuart, .... 526 Lockhart, John Gibson, . 141 Lome, Marquis of , . . . 505 Lyle, Thomas, .... 129 Lyon, Mrs. Agnes, . . . 526 Lyte, Henry Francis, . . 137 M'Cheyne, Robert Muri-ay, MacCoU, Evan MacDiamiid, John, . . . MacDonald, George, . . Macdonald, Hugh, . . . Macdonald, James, . . . Macduff, Alexander, . . Macduff, John R., . . . Macfarlan, James, . . . Mackay, Charles, . . . M'Lachlan, Alexander, Maclagan, Alexander, . . Macleod, Norman, . . . Macnish, Robert, . . . MacPhail, Hugh Buchanan, Malcolm, Lieut. John, . . Martin, Theodore, . . . ]\IaxweU, Sir AVm. Stirling, Mayne, James, .... Mercer, Andrew, .... MiUer, Hugh, Miller, William, . . . . Moffat, James C, . . . Moir, David Macbeth, . . Moore, Dugald, . . . . I\Iotherwell, William, . . Murdoch, Alexander G. , . Murdoch, WiUiam, . . • Nevay, John, . . . Nicholson, WiUiam, . NicoU, Robert, . . NicoU, WiUiam, . . Outran! , George, . . 527 303 114 449 398 292 527 417 482 381 403 340 361 236 529 530 392 407 530 531 250 334 532 166 267 157 532 441 122 43 370 533 533 XVI LIST OF AUTHORS. Park, Andrew, . . . Paton, Sir Joseph Noel, P.ittison, Thomas, . . Penney, William, . . Picken, Andrew Belfrage Picken, Joanna Belfrage Pollok, Robert, . . . Pringle, Thomas, . . PAGE . 2S9 . 428 . 535 222 ,'. 254 . 174 . 196 . 100 Ramsav, John, .... 260 Richardson, Mrs. C. E. Scott, 536 Riddell, Henry Scott, . . 190 Robertson, John, . . . 536 Rodger, Alexander, ... 57 Scott, William Bell, . . .347 Shairp, John Campbell, . 424 PAGE Simpson, Mrs. Jane Cross, 351 Sinclair, William, . . . 355 Small, James G., . . . .537 Smart, Alexander, . . . 172 Smibert, Thomas, . . . 323 Smith, Alexander, . . . 467 Smith, James, .... 445 Spottiswoode, Lady John S. , 537 Sterling, John, .... 281 Stoddart, Thomas Tod, . 326 Symington, Andrew J., . 456 Tait, John, 537 Telfer, James, . . . .217 Tennant, William, ... 48 Thom, William, .... 202 Ti-ain, Joseph, .... 30 Tytler, James, .... 538 Vedder, David, . . . . 117 Veitch, John, . . . . . 465 Wake, Charlotte, Lady, . 538 Wanless, Andrew, . . . 539 Watson, Thomas, . . 540 Watson, Walter, . . . . 33 Webster, David, . . . . 540 Weir, Daniel, . . . . . 155 White, Robert, . . . . 257 Wilson, John, . . . . . 72 Wilson, Robert, . . . 233 Wilson, William, . . . 224 Wingate, David, . . . 459 Wright, John, . . 541 Yester, Lord, . . . . 542 Young, Andrew, . . . . 542 THE POETS AND POETRY OF SCOTLAND. PERIOD 1777 TO 1876. THOMAS CAMPBELL Born 1777 — Died 1844. THOMAS CAMPBELL, so justly and poetically called the "Bard of Hope," was bom in High Street, Glasgow, July 27, 1777, and was the youngest of a family of eleven children. His father was connected with good families in Argyleshire, and had carried on a prosperous trade as a Virginian merchant, but met with heavy losses at the outbreak of the American war. The poet was particularly fortunate in the. intellectual character of his parents, his father being the intimate friend of the celebrated Dr. Thomas Reid, author of the Inquiry into the. Human Mind, after whom he received his Christian name, while his mother was distinguished by her love of general litera- ture, combined with sound understanding and a refined taste. Campbell afforded early indi- cations of genius; as a child he was fond of ballad poetry, and at the age of ten composed verses exhibiting the delicate appreciation of the graceful flow and music of language for which his poetry was afterwards so highly dis- tinguished. At the age of thirteen he entered the university of his native city, and though noted for his love of fun and bovish mischief, he made great progress, especially in his clas- sical studies. The example of Professor Young, a most enthusiastic and accomplished Greek scholar, was not lost upon the congenial mind of his pupil, whose poetical translations at this period showed not only his mastery over the Greek language, but the power he already possessed over his own. At a later period of life, when travelling in German v, he availed Vol. II.— x\ himself of the instructions of the celebrated Heyne, and attained such proficiency in Greek and the classics generally that he was re- garded as one of the best classical scholars of his day. In speaking of his college career, which was extended to five sessions, it is worthy of notice that Professor Young, in awarding to Campbell a prize for the best translation of the Clouds of Aristophanes, pro- nounced it to be the best exercise which had ever been given in by any student belonging to the university. In original poetry he was also distinguished above all his class- mates, so that in 1793 his "Poem on Descrip- tion" obtained the prize in the logic class. Amongst his college companions Campbell soon became known as a poet and wit; and on one occasion, the students having in vain made repeated application for a holiday' in commem- oration of some public event, he sent in a peti- tion in verse, with which the professor was so pleased that the holiday was granted in com- pliment to his production. This incident was often referred to in after years by his affectionate mother, as the first-fruits of his poetical genius. For some years our author pursued his studies with the avowed object of entering the ministry, but circumstances of which we have no authentic account induced him to change his plan. He applied himself for a short time to business, but .soon gave it up, to proceed to the Highlands as a private tutor. Tiiere he found a happy home, and beautiful and romantic scenery to delight his poetic fancy, and there we can trace THOMAS CAMPBELL. the germs of Iiis first great poem. In writing to his friend Hamilton Paul, Campbell had bemoaned his solitary lot in being so far re- moved from all his family and friends, and begged him to send him some lines calculated to cheer him. Paul sent him a piece consisting of twelve stanzas, entitled the "Pleasures of Solitude," accompanied by a letter, in which he says: "As you have almost brought your- self to the persuasion that you are an an- chorite, I send you a few lines adapted to the condition of a recluse. It is the sentiment of Dr. Moore, that the best method of making a man respectable in the eyes of others is to re- .spect himself Take the lines, such as they are, and be candid, but not too flattering. We have now three pleasures, by first-rate men of genius: the 'Pleasures of Imagination,' the 'Pleasures of Memory,' and the 'Pleasures of Solitude,' let us cherish the 'Pleasures of Hope' that we may soon meet again in old Alma Mater." Trivial as was the hint con- tained in the foregoing, the circumstances under whicii it reached Campbell caused it to produce a powerful eflfect on his future career. Placed among the grandest scenery of Scotland, and without suflicient means of mental occupation, he spent much of his time in visiting the romantic localities of the neigh- bourhood, while the words " Pleasures of Hope" tilled his mind, and at length ripened into the full fruition of his splendid poem. Campbell had also tried the study of law, but after a brief experience of its drudgery he abandoneil the idea of the legal profession; and in \'W we find him in Edinburgh, along with his parents, in the hope of obtaining literary employment, and gaining a livelihood meanwhile liy private teaching. " And now," he says of himself, " I lived in the Scottish metropolis by instructing pupils in Greek and Latin. In this vocation I made a comfortable livelihood as long as I was industrious. Hut | tiie ' Pleasures of Hope ' came over me. I took long walks about .Vrthur's Seat, conning over my own (as I thought them) magnificent lines, and as my ' Pleasures of Hope ' got on my pupils fell off." At length his poem was completed and sold to a publisher for £60. On its appearance it was received Avith a universal outburst of admiration, and edition after edition was rapidly sold. The young poet of twenty-one was at once accorded an honourable position in the front rank of the poets of Great Britain. Though his reward was rather in cele- brity than in pecuniary profit, Campbell was enabled by the publication of the "Plea- sures of Hope," for each succeeding edition of which he received the sum of £50, to gra- tify his desire to see foreign lands. His choice settled upon Germany, already become famous in Scotland by its rising literature and the works of AVieland, Klopstock, Schiller, and Goethe. He crossed over to Hamburg and proceeded inland as far as Eatisl)on, where he saw the conflict that gave to the French posses- sion of that town, and which he describes in a letter to his brother. Amidst the uncertainties produced by the war the poet's rambles were brief and irregular. He returned to Hamburg, where he made the acquaintance of Anthony M'Cann, an Irish refugee who was accused of being a leader in the rebellion of 1798. Of this gentleman he formed a favourable impression, and his expatriation from his native land sug- gested one of Campbell's most exquisite poems. Our author finally settled for the winter at Altona, but the appearance of a British fleet oflF the Sound gave him sudden warning to provide for his safety. He therefore embarked in a small trading vessel for Leith; but, in conse- quence of being chased by a Danish privateer, the vessel put into Yarmouth for shelter. A trip to London naturally followed, where he was at once welcomed by the best society. Eeturn- ing to Edinburgh by sea, after a brief sojourn in the capital, he Avrites in his memoranda of 1801: "A lady passenger by the same ship, who has read my poems, but was personally unacquainted with me, told me, to my utter astonislimont, that I had been arrested in London for high-treason, was confined to the Tower, and expected to be executed! I was equally unconscious of having either deserved or incurred such a sentence." He found, how- ever, on reaching Edinburgh, that this ridicu- lous report was circulating in the streets, and had reached the ears of his anxious mother. It was a wild period of rumour and suspicion, and he found that the fact of his having messed with the French officers at Itatisbon during the armistice, having been introduced to General Moreau, and having sailed as a THOMAS CAMPBELL. 3 f.'Uow-passcnger with an Irishman, had been amplified into a plot concocted between him- self, the gallant Moreau, and the Irish at Hamburg, to land a French army in Ireland! He at once called upon the sherift' of Edin- burgh, and found to his astonishment tiiat he believed in his guilt, and that a warrant was issued for his apprehension. This was intolerable, and the poet could not help ex- claiming, "Do I live to hear a sensible man like you talking about a boy like me conspiring against the British Empire?" He submitted to a strict examination, and a box of letters and papers which he had left at Yarmouth to be forwarded to Edinburgh, but which had been seized at Leith, was at the same time opened and carefully examined. But its con- tents soon put all suspicion at an end, for it contained nothing more treasonable than "Ye Mariners of England; " and the matter ended with a hearty laugh and a bottle of wine. In 1803 Campbell espoused his cousin Ma- tilda Sinclair, and the same year settled in London, where his reputation secured him ample literary employment. Besides a magnifi- cent quarto edition of the "Pleasures of Hope," by which he made £600, he published in three volumes a work entitled Annals of Great Britain, for which he received £300. In due course Campbell became a father; and we must quote the poet's own account of his feelings, which he describes with such beauty and ten- derness. "Our first interview was when he lay in his little crib, in the midst of white muslin and dainty lace, prepared by Matilda's hands long before the stranger's arrival. I verily believe, in spite of my partiality, that lovelier babe was never smiled upon by the light of heaven. He was breathing sweetly in his first sleep. I durst not waken him, but ventured to give him one kiss. He gave a faint murmur, and opened his little azure lights. . . . Oh, that I were sure he would live to the days when I could take him on my knee, and feel the strong plumpness of childhood waxing into vigorous youth! My poor boy! Shall I have the ecstasy of teaching him tlioughts, and knowledge, and reciprocity of love to me ? It is bold to venture into futurity so far. At present his lovely little face is a comfort to me; his lips breathe that fragrance which it is one of the loveliest kindnesses of nature that she has given to infants — a sweetness of smell more delightful than all the treasures of Arabia. AVhat adorable beauties of God and nature's bounty we live in without know- ing! How few have ever seemed to think an infant beautiful! But to me there seems to be a beauty in the earliest dawn of infancy, which is not inferior to the attractions of childhood — especially when they sleep. Their looks excite a more tender train of emotions. It is like the tremulous anxiety we feel for a candle new lighted, which we dread going out." Such was an event, which, though an important era in the life of every man, is especially so in that of a poet; and such is the description which none but a poet, and that of the highest order, could have so em- bodied. The above quotation is worthy of a place by the side of Campbell's best poetical productions. In 1805 the government granted him a pension of £200 per annum, one-half of which the poet settled on his widowed mother and unmarried sisters. Had Goldsmith met with similar good fortune, how diflferent might have been his fate, and how many more tlie world-famous poems that would have borne his name! In 1809 "Gertrude of Wyoming," by man J' considered at the time the best of all Campbell's poems, was published. It met with unbounded applau.se, and raised its author to the highest pinnacle of his fame. At intervals between 1805 and 1809 the " Battle of the Baltic," " Hohenlinden," and " O'Connor's Child " had appeared in the periodicals of the day, and were greatly ad- mired. A portion of his time was devoted to writing for the magazines ; but perhaps the most agreeable and profitable of his labours was the delivery of a course of lectures on poetry at the Eoyal Institution, and which he after- wards re-delivered in some of the large cities throughout the kingdom. In 1814 Campbell visited Paris, when he was introduced to Wellington, Humboldt, and many other magnates assembled there at that time, and met his old friend and correspondent Madame de Stael. On his return from the Continent his friend Sir Walter Scott endea- voured to secure him a chair in the University of Edinburgh, but his eflPorts were not attended with success. In 1819 he published in London THOMAS CAMPBELL. tlie Specimens of Bi-'Msh Poets, and the year following he accepted the editorship of the New Monthly Magazine, at a salary of £600 per annum. To the columns of this periodical he contributed many short pieces of great merit, among others "The Last Man," one of the grandest poems in the English language. A second visit to Germany, which he accomplished immediately after the commencement of his editorial duties, suggested to him the idea of the London University ; and this scheme, aided by the practical minds of Brougham and Hume, was, after much difficult}', brought to a successful termination in 1825. In the fol- lowing year he received the gratifying intelli- gence that his own alma mater had bestowed on him her highest honour by electing him Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. This honour was the most valued of his life; it was afterwards enhanced by his re-election to the office for the second and third time — a rare occurrence in the history of the college. Prior to this time an event happened which tended to alleviate the necessity for continual toil, and brigiiten the prospects of his future life. This was a legacy bequeathed to him by a relative amounting to about £5000. But amidst all this distinction and good fortune the mind of the poet had much to grieve and try him. In 1S26 his aflcctionate wife, in whom he had found so congenial a partner, died, and he found himself alone in the world. Of his two sons, the younger died in childhood, while his first-born, of whom he wrote so touchingly, had for years been in a state of lunacy, and was obliged to be kept in confine- ment. He was thus even worse than childless. The New Monthly Mar/azine, too, that had prospered so greatly under his care, and been a comfortable source of emolument, passed from under his management by one of those unlucky accidents to which periodical literature is especially exposed. A paper was inserted by mistake in its pages without having been sul)jected to his editorial examination; and as the article in question was offensive in the highest degree, Campbell abandoned the maga- zine and the .salary which he derived from it. Soon after this an event of a public and political character moved him still more than any pecuniary loss could have done. This was the sanguinary capture of Warsaw in 1831, and the national miseries with which Poland was afterwards visited. He had embraced the cause of that most injured nation with a poet's enthusiasm, and its exiles found in him their warmest and most disinterested friend. He spoke, wrote, declaimed upon the miseries of Poland; pictured them in poetry and in prose; appealed against them in companies of every shade of political belief; exerted him- self to make all feel that, instead of being a mere party question, it was the common cause of justice, honour, and humanity; and to evince his sincerity, bestowed liberally, not only of his time and labour, but also of his monej', in behalf of the Polish sufferers, at a season when money was the commodity which he least could spare. And his labours were not in vain. He awoke a deep sympathy in behalf of Poland wherever his influence extended, and succeeded in establishing a committee in Lon- don for relieving the wants of thousands of Polish exiles in England. In 1833 he finished the life of his friend Mrs. Siddons ; the year following he crossed over to France, and soon after surprised his friends at home by embarking for Algiers, finding there abundant store of new and gaj' subjects for his pen, which he put in the form o^ Letters from Algiers, and which were after- Avards published in two volumes. The "Pil- grim of Glencoe," the last of his considerable poems, published in 1842, was not successful even in his own estimation. For some time previous he had felt his strength drooping, and apprehending that his end was near he sold off his household furniture, and in July, 1843, repaired with a favourite niece to Boulogne, with the avowed purpose of dying there, away from the din and bustle of busj- London, where there were so many objects likely to intrude upon his thoughts and time. His faithful friend, physician, and biographer. Dr. Beattie, hastened to him when he was informed that the end was at hand, and arrived with other friends in time to cheer his last hours with their affectionate sympathy. He died June 15, 1844, aged sixty-seven. No posthumous hon- ours were wanting to Thomas Campbell. His body was removed to London, and placed in the Jerusalem Chamber in Westminster Abbey while preparations were made for the funeral. The most illustrious literarv men and nobles THOMAS CAMPBELL. attended his funeral, and a guard of Tolisli exiles asked and obtained permission to escort his remains to the Poets' Corner. His friend Dean ]\Iilman read the service, and a handful of earth from the tomb of Kosciusko the Polish hero, that had been treasured for the purpose, was thrown into the grave of the noble Scotchman who had written so eloquently and laboured so successfully in behalf of Poland. His ashes now rest by the side of Sheridan's, and near the graves of Goldsmith and Addison, and over his tomb there stands a beautiful marble statue, the work of one of England's most eminent sculptors. " There are but two noble sorts of poetry," wrote Lord Jeffrey, "the pathetic and the sublime: and we think that he (Campbell) has given us very extraordinary proofs of his talents for both." Sir Walter Scott said to Washington Irving, "What a pity it is that Campbell does not write oftener and give full sweep to his genius! He has wings that would bear him to the skies, and he does, now and then, spread them grandly, but folds them up again and resumes his perch, as if he was afraid to launch them. The fact is, Campbell is in a manner a bugbear to liimself: the brightness of his early success is a detriment to all his after efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that his oivnfame casts before him." THE PLEASUEES OF HOPE. IN TWO PARTS. TAUT I. Analysis.— The poem opens with a comparison be- tween tlie beauty of remote objects in a landscape, and those ideal scenes of felicity wliich the imagina- tion delights to contemplate — the influence of anti- cipation upon the other passions is next delineated —an allusion is made to tlie well-known fiction in pagan tradition, that when all *he guardian deities of mankind abandoned the world, Hope alone was left behind— the consolations of this passion in situations of danger and distress— the seaman on his watcli — the soldier marching into battle— allusion to the interesting adventures of Byron. The inspiration of Hops as it actuates the efforts of genius, whether in the department of science or of t.iste— domestic felicity, how intimately connected with views of future happiness— picture of a mother watch- ing her infant when asleep — pictures of the prisoner, the maniac, and the wanderer. From the consolations of individual misery a transi- tion is made to prospects of political improvement in the future state of society — the w-;de field that is yet open for the progi'ess of humanizing arts among un- civilized nations — from these views of amelioration of society, and the extension of liberty and truth over despotic and barbarous countries, by a melancholy contrast of ideas, we are led to reflect upon the hard fate of a brave people recently conspicuous in their struggles for independence — description of the capture of Warsaw, of the last contest of the oppressors and the oppressed, and tlie massacre of the Polish patriots at the bridge of Prague— apostrophe to the self-interested enemies of human improvement— the wrongs of Africa — the barbarous policy of Europeans in India — pro- 1 The " Pleasures of Hope " is one of the most beauti- ful didactic poems in our language. — Lord Byron. phecy in the Hindoo mythology of the expected de- scent of the Deity to redress the jniseries of their race, and to take vengeance on the violators of justice and mercy. At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? Wliy do tliose cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? — 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discover'd scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, And every form, that Fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. What potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity ? Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power. The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour ? Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man — Her dim horizon bounded to a span; Or, if she hold an image to the view, 'Tis Nature pictured too severely true. With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heavenly light, That pours remotest rapture on the sight: Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way. That calls each slumbering passion into play. Waked by thy touch, I see the sister-band, On tiptoe watching, start at thy command. And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer, To Pleasure's path, or Glory's bright career. 6 THOMAS CAMPBELL. Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say, When Man and Nature mourn'd their first decay; When every form of death, and every woe. Shot from mahgnant stars to earth below; When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War Yoked the rod dragons of her iron car; When Peace and Mercy, banish'd from the plain. Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again; All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind. Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air, The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began. Dropped on the world— a sacred gift to man. Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe; Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing. What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms th' iEolian organ play. And sweep the furrow'd Hues of anxious thought away. Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore. Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark careering o'er unfathom'd fields; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor-standard to the winds unfurl'd, Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world ! Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles, On Bchring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles: Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, From wastes that slumber in eternal snow; ' The following picture of his own distress, given by Byron m liia simple ami interesting narrative, justifies the description given in tlie poem. After relating the barbarity of the Indian caciciue to bis child, he proceeds thus: — "A day or two after we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned we had been at the bottom of when we first hauleil away to the westward. The land liere was very low and fandy, and soniething like the mouth of a river which discharged itself into the sea, and which had Vieen taken no notice of by us before, as it was so shallow that tlie Indians were obliged to take everything out of their canoes and carry them over land. We rowed up the river four or five leagues, and then took intoa bninch of it tliat ran firet to the eastward and then to the northward: liere it became much narrower, and the stream excessively rapid, so that we gained V)Ut little way, thoiigh we ■wrought veiy hard. At night we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being And waft, across the waves' tumultuous roar. The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy rnanly form ! Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay; Thy heart is .sad, thy home is far away. But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep : Swift as yon streamer lights the stan-y pole, Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul; His native hills that rise in happier climes. The grot that heard his song of other times. His cottage home, his bark of slender sail. His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom'd vale, Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind. Treads the loved shore he sigh'd to leave behind ; Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, And flies at last to Helen's long embrace; Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear! And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear ! While, long neglected, but at length caress'd. His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam) His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. Friend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields. On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields, When front to front the banner'd hosts combine, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil! As rings his ghttoring tube, he hfts on high The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye. Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come. And hears thy stormy music in the dnmi! And such thy strength-inspiring aid that boro The hardy Byron to his native shore^ — a perfect swamp, and we had notliing to cover us. though it rained excessively. The Indians were little better off than we, as there was no wood here to make their wigwams; so that all they could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their canoes, and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it. Knowing the difficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves with some seal; but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the day, excepting a .sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, which was very disagree- able to the taste. We laboured all next day against the stream, and fared as we had done the day before. The next day brought us to the caiTying place. Here was plenty of wood, but nothing to be got for susten- ance. We passed this night, as we liad frequently done, under a tree; but what we suffered at this time is not easy to be exi>re3sed. I had been three days at tlie oar without any kind of nourishment except the wretched THOMAS CAMPBELL. In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock, Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock. To wake each joyless morn and search again The famish'd haunts of solitary men; "Whose race, unyielding- as their native storm, Know not a trace of Nature but the form; Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued, Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar The moon's pale planet and the northern star, Paused at each dreary cry unheard before, Hysenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore; Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime, He found a warmer worlil, a milder clime, A home to rest, a shelter to defend. Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend ! ^ Congenial Hope! thy passion-kindling power, How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour! On yon proud height, with Genius hand-in-hand, I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. "Go, child of Heaven! (thy winged words pro- claim) 'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame! Lo! Newton, priest of Nature, shines afar, Scans the wide world, and numbers every star! Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye! Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound, The speed of light, the circling march of sound; With Franklin grasp the lightning's fiery wing, Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. ^ "The Swedish sage' admires, in yonder bowers. His winged insects, and his rosy flowers; Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train, With sounding horn, and counts them on the plain — • So once, at Heaven's command, the wanderers came To Eden's shade, and heard their various name. "Far from the world, in yon sequester'd clime, Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime; root above mentioned. I had no shirt, for it had rotted off by bits. All my clothes consisted of a short grieko (something like a bear skin), a piece of red cloth wliich had once been a waistcoat, and a ragged pair of trou- sere, without shoes or stockings." 1 Don Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spanish settlements, hospitably relieved Byron and his wretched associates, of which the commodore speaks io the warmest terms of gratitude. - The seven strings of Apollo's harp were the symbo- lical representation of the seven planets. Herscliel, by discovering an eighth, might be said to add, another string to the instrument. "* Linnajus. Calm as the fields of Heaven, his sapient eye The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high, Admiring Plato, on his spotless page, Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage: ' Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man?' "Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lighten'd eye To W'isdom's walks, the sacred Nine are nigh: Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, From streams that wander in eternal light, Ranged on their hill, Harmonia's daughters swell The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell ; Deep from his vaults the Loxiau murmurs flow,* And Pythia's awful organ peals below. "Beloved of Heaven! the smiling Muse shall shed Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head; Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind. I see thee roam her guardian power beneath. And talk with sjiirits on the midnight heath; Inquire of guilty wanderers whence they came. And ask each blood-stain'd form his earthly name; Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, And read the trembling world the tales of hell. "When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, And bids fond man her glimmering noon emploj-. Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy; A milder mood the goddess shall recall, And soft as dew thy tones of music fall; While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart — • Warm as thy .sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain. "Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem. And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream; To pensive drops the radiiint eye beguile — For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile; — On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, And teach ipipassion'd, souls the joy of grief.' "Yes; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given, Afld power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven ; The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, That nevei' mused on sorrow but its own. Unlocks a generous store at thy command, Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand.^ The living lumber of his kindred earth, Charm'd into soul, receives a second birth, 4 Loxias is the name frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers; it is met with more than once in the Choephoi-se of ..Eschylus. 5 See Ex. xvii. 3, 5, 6. 8 THOMAS CAMPBELL. Feels thy dread power another heart afford, Whose passioii-touch'd harmonious strings accord True as the cirehng spheres to Nature's plan; And man, the brother, lives the friend of man. "Bright as the pillarroseat Heaven's command, When Israel march'd along the desert land, Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar, And told the path,— a never-setting star: So, Heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, Hope is thy star, her light is ever thine." Propitious Power! when rankling cares annoy The sacred home of Hymenean joy; When doom'd to Poverty's sequester'd dell, The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same — Oh, there, prophetic Hope! thy smile bestow. And chase the pangs that worth should never know — There, as the parent deals his scanty store To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age. What though for him no Hybla sweets distil, Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill; Tell, that when silent years have pass'd away. That when his eye grows dim, his tresses gray. These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, And deck with fairer flowers his little field. And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe Arcadian beauty on the barren heath; Tell, that while Love's spontaneous smile endears The days of peace, the sabbath of his years, Health shall prolong to many a festive hour The social pleasures of his humble bower. lio! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies. Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy — "Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy; No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine; No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past^ With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. "And say, when summon'd from the world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree, Wilt thoii, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, And soothe ray parted spirit lingering near? Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed Tlie tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind. Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low. And think on all my love, and all my woe T' So speaks Affection, ere the infant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply; But when the cherub lip hath learned to claim A mother's ear by that endearing name; Soon as the playful innocent can prove A tear of pity, or a smile of love, Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care. Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer. Or gazing, mutely pensive sits to hear The moui'nful ballad warbled in his ear; How fondly looks admiring Hope the while, At every artless tear, and every smile; How glows the joyous parent to descry A guileless bosom, true to sympathy! Where is the troubled heart consign'd to share Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray To count the joys of Fortune's better day ! Lo! nature, life, and hberty relume The dim -eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom, A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board; Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe. Chide not his peace, proud Reason! nor destroy The shadowy forms of uncreated joy, That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail; She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore, Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore. Knew the pale form, and shrieking, in amaze, Clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze: Poor widow'd wretch; 'twas there she wept in vain. Till Memory fled her agonizing brain;— But Mercy gave to charm the sense of woe, Ideal peace, that truth could ne'er bestow; Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam. And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. Oft when yon moon has climbVl the midnight sky. And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry. Piled on the steep, her blazing faggots burn To hail the bark that never can return ; And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep That constant love can linger on the deep. And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue; THOMAS CAMPBELL. Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it en-'d no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye Th' unfeelii'jg proud one looks — and passes by, Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam, Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home — Even he at evening, should he chance to stray Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way. Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green. Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while — • Oh! that for me some home like this would smile, Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm! There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine! — ■ That generous wish can soothe unpitied care. And Hope half mingles with the poor man's prayer. Hope! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind. The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see The boundless fields of rapture yet to be; I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan, And learn the future by the past of man. Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime! Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore. On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along. And the dread Indian chants a dismal song. Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray. And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day; Each wandering genius of the lovely glen Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men. And silent watch, on woodland heights around. The village curfew as it tolls profound. In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done, That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun. Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, Wild Obi flies' — the veil is rent in twain. Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam, Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home; Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, ' Among the negroes of the West Indies, Obi, or Orbiah, is the name of a magical power, which is believed by them to affect the object of its malignity with dismal calamities. Sucli a belief must undoubt- edly have been deduced from the superstitious mytho- logy of tljeir kinsmen on the coast of Africa. I have, therefore, personified Obi as the evil spirit of the African, although the history of the African tribes men- tions the evil spirit of their religious creed by a different appellation. From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines, - Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there, And light the dreadful features of despair. — Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd ! Fierce in his eye the fire of valour bums. And as the slave departs, the man returns. Oh! sacred Ti-uth! thy triumph ceased awhile. And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile. When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud di-um, and twang'd her trumpet horn Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van. Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man! 3 Warsaw's last champion from her height sur- vey 'd, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — "0 Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save! — ■ Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains. Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high! And swear for her to live! — with her to die!" He said, and on the rampart-heights an-ay'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form. Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; Low munnuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death, — the watch-word and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to chann, And the loud tocsin toU'd then- last alarm! — In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volley 'd thunder flew: — Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear. Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career; — - Mr. Bell of Antermony, in his Travels through Siberia, informs us tliat the name of the country is universally pronounced Sibir by the Russians. 3 The history of the partition of Poland, of the mas- sacre in the suburbs of Warsaw and on the bridge of Prague, the triumphant entry of Suwarrow into the Polish capital, and the insult offered to human nature, by the blaspliemous thanks offered up to Heaven for victories obtained over men figliting in the sacred cause of liberty, by murderers and oppressors, are events generally known. 10 THOMAS CAMPBELL. Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shriek'd— as Kosciusko fell ! The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight air- On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow. His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook — red meteors flash 'd along the sky, And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry! Oh! righteous Heaven; ere Freedom found a grave. Why slept the sword omnipotent to save ? Where was thine arm, Vengeance! where thy rod. That smote the foes of Zion and of God; That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar? Where was the stonn that slumber'd till the host Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left then* trembling coast. Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below ? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone. And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Banxockburn! Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see That man hath yet a soul — and dare be free! A little while, along thy saddening plains. The starless night of Desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given. And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurl'd. Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world ! Ye that the rising mom invidious mark. And hate the light— because your deeds are dark; Ye that expanding truth invidious view. And think, or wish, the song of Hope untrue; Perhaps your little hands presume to span The march of Genius and the powers of man ; Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd shrine, Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine:— "Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, — and hero Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career." Tyrantsl in v.ain ye trace the wizard ring; In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring: What! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep? No ! — the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand : It roU'd not back when Canute gave command! Man! can thy doom no brighter soul allow? Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow ? Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd ? Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world ? What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied? Why then hath Plato hved— or Sidney died? — Ye fond adorers of departed fame, Who warm at Scipio's worth, or TuUy's name! Ye that in fancied vision, can admire The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre! Rapt in historic ardour, who adore Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore. Where Valour tuned, amidst her chosen throng. The Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song; Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms! See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell, And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell! Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore. Hath valour left the world — to live no more ? No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die. And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ? Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls. Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls? Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm ? Yes! in that generous cause, for ever strong. The patriot's virtue and the poet's song, Still, as the tide of ages rolls away. Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay! Yes! there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust. That slumber yet in uncreated dust, Ordain'd to fire th' adoring sons of earth With every charm of wisdom and of worth; Ordain'd to light, with intellectual day, The mazy wheels of Nature as they play, Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow, And rival all but Shakspeare's name below. And say, supernal Powers! who deeply scan Heaven's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man. When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame. That embryo spirit, yet without a name, — ■ That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands? Who, sternly marking on his native soil The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil. Shall bid each righteous heart exult to see Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free! Yet, yet, degraded men, th' expected day That breaks your bitter cup, is far away; Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed, THOMAS CAMPBELL. 11 And holy men give Scripture for the deed; Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save A wretch, a coward; yes, because a slave! — Eternal Nature ! when thy giant hand Had heaved the floods, and lix'd the trembling land. When life sprang startling at thy plastic call, Endless her forms, and man the lord of all ! Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee. To wear eternal chains and bow the knee? Was man ordain'd the slave of man to toil. Yoked with the brutes, and fetter'd to the soil; Weigh'd in a tyi-ant's balance with his gold? No! — Nature stamp'd us in a heavenly mould! She bade no wTetch his thankless labour urge, Nor,trembling, take the pittance and the scourge! No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep. To call upon his country's name, and weep! — Lo! once in triumph, on his boundless plain, The quiver'd chief of Congo loved to reign; AVith fires proportion'd to his native sky, Streng-th in his arm, and lightning in his eye; Scour'd with wild feet his sun-illumined zone. The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own! Or led the combat, bold without a plan, An artless savage, but a fearless man! The plunderer came! — alas! no glory smiles For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian Isles; For ever fall'n I no son of Nature now. With freedom charter'd on his manly brow; Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away. And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore ! The shrill hom blew;i at that alan.mi knell His guardian angel took a last farewell! That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd The fiery grandeur of a generous mind! Poor fetter'd man! I hear thee whispering low Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the chUd of Woe, ' The negroes in the West Indies are summoned to their morning work by a shell or horn. 2 To elucidate this passage 1 shall subjoin annotation from the preface to Letters from a Hindoo Rojoh. a work of elegance and celebrity. "The impostor of Mecca had established, as one of the principles of his doctrine, the merit of extending it, either by persuasion or the sword, to all parts of the earth. How steadily this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with what success it was pursued, is well known to all who are in the least conversant in history. The same overwhelming torrent which had inundated the greater part of Africa burst its way into the very heart of Europe, and cover- ing many kingdoms of Asia with unbounded desolation, directed its baneful course to the flourishing provinces of Hindostan. Here these fierce and hardy adventurers, whose only improvement had been in the science of destruction, who added the fury of fanaticism to the Friendless thy heart; and canst thou harbour there A wish but death — a passion but despair? The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires! So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh ! So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty! But not to Libya's barren climes alone. To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone. Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye, Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh! — Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run! Prolific fields! dominions of the sun! How long yom- tribes have ti-embled and obey'd! How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd,^ Whose marshall'd hosts, the lions of the jilain. From Scythia's northern mountains to the main. Raged o'er your plunder'd shrines and altars bare, AVith blazing torch and gory scimitar, — Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale. And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame. When Brama's children perish'd for his name; The martyr smiled beneath avenging power. And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour! When Europe sought j'our subject realms to gain. And stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main ; Taught her proud -barks the winding way to shape. And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape;^ Children of Brama! then was Mercy nigh To wash the stain of blood's eternal dj^e ? Did Peace descend to triumph and to save. When freeborn Britons cross'd the Indian wave? Ah, no! to more than Rome's ambition true. The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you ! She the bold route of Europe's guilt began. And, in the march of nations, led the van! ravages of war, found the great end of their conquest opposed by objects which neither the ardour of their persevering zeal, nor savage barbivrity, could surmouiit. Multitudes were sacrificed by the cruel hand of reli- gious persecution, and whole countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope that by the destruction of a part the remainder might be pereuaded or terrified into the profession of Mahomedism. But all the.5e sanguin- ary effoi-ts were ineffectual; and at length, being fully convinced that, though they might extirpate, they could never hope to convert any number of the Hindoos, they relinquished the impracticable idea with which they had entered upon their career of conquest, and contented themselves with the acquirement of the civil dominion and almost universal empire of Hindostan " (Letters from a Hmdoo Rajali, by Eliza Hamilton). * See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, trans- lated from CamiJens, by Mickle. 12 THOMAS CAMPBELL. Kich in the gems of India's gaudy zone, | And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own, Degenerate trade ! thy minions could despise The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries; Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store, While famish'd nations died along the shore ;! Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair; Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, And barter, with their gold, eternal shame! But hark ! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels, From heavenly cUmes propitious thunder peals! Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell. Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell. And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind. Roll on the azure paths of every wind. " Foes of mankind! (her giiardian spirits say,) Revolving ages bring the bitter day. When Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew; Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurl'd His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ;2 Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame. Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came; Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain — But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again! He comes! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high; 1 The following account of British conduct, and its consequences, in Bengal, will afford a sufficient idea of the fact alluded to in this passage. After describing the monopoly of salt, betel-nut, and tobacco, tlie his- torian proceeds thus:— "Money in this current came but l>y drops; it could not quench the thirst of those who waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was, remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with little salt, but could not want food. Some of the agents saw themselves well situated for collecting the rice into stores; they did so. They knew the Gentoos would rather die than violate the principles of their religion by eating flesh. The alter- native would therefore be between giving what they had, or dying. The inhabitants sunk; — they that cul- tivated the land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, planted in doubt— scarcity ensued. Then the Tnonojioly was easier managed— sickness ensued. In some districts the languid living left the bodies of their nvmierous dead unburied" (Short Nistori/ of tUe English Transnctions in the East Indies, p. 145). '•^ Among the sublime fictions of the Hindoo mytho- logy, it is one article of belief, that the deity Brama has descended nine times upon the world in various forms, and that he is yet to appear a tenth time, in the figure of a warrior upon a white horse, to cut off all incorrigible offenders. Avatar is the word used to express his descent. Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, Paws the Hght clouds and gallops on the storm! Wide waves his flick'ring sword; his bright arms glow Like summer suns, and light the world below! Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed. Are shook; and Nature rocks beneath his tread ! " To pour redress on India's injured realm. The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm; To chase destruction from her plunder'd shore With hearts and arms that triumph'd once before, The tenth Avatar comes! at Heaven's command Shall Seriswattee wave her hallow'd wand ! And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, ^ Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime! — Come, Heavenly Powers! primeval peace restore! Love! — Mercy !— Wisdom!— rule for evermore!" PART II. Analysis.— Apostrophe to the power of Love — its intimate connection with generous and social Sensi- bility—allusion to that beautiful passage in the be- ginning of the book of Genesis, which represents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete, till love was superadded to its other blessings— the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Hope is animated by refined attachment— this disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of resid- ence, all that is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, compared to the skill of the great artist who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of Venus, by an assem- blage of the most beautiful features he could find— a summer and winter evening described, as tliey may be supposed to arise in the mind of one who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and re- tirement. Hope and Imagination inseparable agents— even in those contemplative moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and more distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy. The l.ast and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding topic of the poem— the predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on di.--solutiou— the baneful nifluence of that scei)tical philosophy which bars us from such comforts— allusion to the fiite of a suicide— episode of Conrad and Ellen- ore — conclusion. In joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own? Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh? Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name ? 3 Camdeo is the god of love in the mythology of the Hindoos. Ganesa and Seriswattee corresiond to the pagan deities Janus and Minerva. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 13 There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow; There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd, In self-adorning pride securely mail'd : — But triumph not, ye peace-enamour'd few! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between; 'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet! Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ? No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloj^, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh! what were man? — a world without a sun. Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour. There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there, At starry midnight charm'd the silent air; In vain the wild bird caroll'd on the steep. To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade. Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd; The summer wind that shook the spangled tree. The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee; — Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day, And still the stranger wist not where to sti-ny. The world was sad!— the garden was a wild I And man, the hermit, sigh'd— till woman smiled! True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring Delirious anguish on his fiery wing; Barr'd from delight by Fate's untimely hand. By wealthless lot or pitiless command; Or doom'd to gaze on beauties that adorn The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn; While Memory watches o'er the sad review Of joys that faded like the morning dew; Peace may depart — and life and nature seem A barren path, a wildness, and a dream ! But can the noble mind for ever brood, The willing victim of a weary mood, On heartless cares that squander life away, And cloud young Genius brightening into day?— Shame to the coward thought that e'er betray'd The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade l^ — If Hope's creative spirit cannot raise One trophy sacred to thy future days, Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine. Of hopeless love to muiTnur and repine ! But, should a sigh of milder mood express Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness, 1 "Sacred to Venus is tlie uiyitle shade'' (Dri/den). Should heaven's fair harbinger delight to pour Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour. No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page. No fears but such as fancy can assuage; Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss, (For love pursues an ever-devious race, True to the winding lineaments of grace;) Yet still may Hope her talisman employ To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy, And all her kindred energies impart That burn the brightest in the purest heart. When first the Rhodian's mimic art ariay'd The Queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, The happy master mingled on his piece, Each look that charm'd him in the fair of Greece. To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace Fi'om every finer form and sweeter face; And as he sojourn'd on the ^gean isles, Woo'd all their love, and treasured all their smiles; Then glow'd the tints, pure, precious, and refined, And mortal charms seem'd heavenly when com- bined ! Love on the picture smiled! Expression pour'd Her mingling spirit there— and Greece adored ! So thy fair hand, enamour'd Fancy! gleans The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes; Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought Some cottage home, from towns and toil remote, Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, With Peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers! Remote from busy Life's bewilder'd way. O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty swr.y! Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, With hermit steps to wander and adore ! There shall he love, when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears. To watch the brightening roses of the sky, And muse on Nature with a poet's eye! — And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep. The woods and waves, and murmui-ing winds asleep. When fairy harps th' Hesperian planet hail. And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale. His path shall be where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell, Where mouldering jiiles and forests intervene, Mingling with darker tints the living green; No circling hills his ravish'd eye to bound. Heaven, Earth, and Ocean blazing all around. The moon is up — the watch-tower dimly burns — And down the vale his sober step returns; But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of music far away; And oft he lingers from his home awhile To watch the dying notes!— and start, and smile! 14 THOMAS CAMPBELL. Let Winter come— let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! Though boundless snows the wither'd heath de- form, And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, Yet shall the smile of social love repay, With mental light, the melancholy day! And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er. The ice-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the faggots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall! How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone. The kind fair friend, by nature mai-k'd his own; And, in the waveless mirror of his mind, Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, Since when her empire o'er his heart began! Since first he call'd her his before the holy man! Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, And light the wintry paradise of home; And let the half-uncurtain'd window hail Some way-worn man benighted in the vale! Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide circle play, And bathe in lurid light the milky-way, Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower. Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hoiu- — With pathos shall command, with wit beguile, A generous tear of anguish, or a smile — Thy woes, Arionl^ and thy simple tale. O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail! Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true. How gallant Albert, and his weary crew. Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, And toil'd— and shriek'd— and pcrish'd on the • wave! Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep. The seaman's cry was heard along the deep; There, on his funeral waters, dark and wild, The dying fa' her bless'd his darling child! Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence, he cried, Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died! Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes The robber Moor,^ and pleads for all his crimes! How poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear, His hand, blood-stain'd, but ever, ever dear! Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord, And we[)t and pray'd perdition from his sword! Nor sought in vain ! at that heart-piercing cry The strings of Nature crack'd with agony! He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd And burst the ties that bound him to the world! 1 Falconer, in his poem " The Shipwreck'' (canto iii), speaks of himself by tlie name of Aiion. - See Scliiller's tragedy o( " The Robbers," scene v. Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel — Turn to the gentler melodies that suit Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute; Or, down the stream of Truth's histoi-ic page. From clime to clime descend, from age to age! Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood; There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate What millions died — that Caesar might be great!^ Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, March'd by their Charles to Dnieper's swampy shore ;^ Faint in his wounds, and shivering in tlie blast. The Swedish soldier sunk— and groan'd his last ! File after file the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum; Horseman and horse confess'd the bitter pang. And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang! Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose. Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze. The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye, Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh! Imperial Pride look'd sullen on his plight, And Charles beheld — nor shudder'd at the sight! Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie; And Hope attends, companion of the way. Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day ! In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere That gems the starry girdle of the year; In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell. Pure from their God, created millions dwell. Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know; For, as lona's saint, ^ a giant form, Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm, (When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar. From Kilda to the green lerne's shore; So, when thy pure and renovated mind s The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Caesar has been usually estimated at 2,000,000 men. * " In this extremity " (says the biographer of Charles XII. of Sweden, speaking of his military exploits before the battle of Pultowa) "the memorable wijiter of 1700, which was still more remarkal>le in that part of Europe than in France, destroyed numbers of liis troo|is; for Charles resolved to brave the seasons as he had done his enemies, and ventured to make long marches during this mortal cold. It was in one of these marches that 2000 men fell down dead with cold before his eyes." 5 The natives of the island of lona have an opinion that on certain evenings every year the tutelary saint Columba is seen on the top of the church spires count- ing the suiTounding islands, to see that thej- have not been sunk by the power of witchcraft. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 15 This perishable dust hath left behind, Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosom'd in the main; Rapt to the shiine where motion first began. And light and life in mingling torrent ran; From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd. The throne of God, —the centre of the world ! Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasive Hope hath but a Syren tongue ! True; she may sport with Ufe's untutor'd day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay, The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, And part, like Ajut — never to return!^ But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage The grief and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day; Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear. The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill. And weep their falsehood, though she loves them still. Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled. The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child! Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy Smiled on his sire, and fill'd his heart with joy! My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried, Oh! that, for thee thy father could have died! For bloody was the deed, and rashly done. That slew my Absalom!— my son! — my son! Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-bom rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day — Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin. And all the phoenix spirit burns within! Oh, deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh. It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run. From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumi^ct, long and loud. Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! While Nature hears, to terror-mingled trust, 1 See the history of Ajut and Anniiigait in the Ram- bler. The shot that hurls her fabric to the dust; And, hke the trembling Hebrew, when he trod The roaring waves, and called upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss. And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dai'k abyss! Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! Fly, hke the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close. And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze. The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze. On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky. Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale. When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill ! Soal of the just! companion of the dead! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes. Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose; Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn. And doom'd, like thee, to travel and return. — Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven. With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far. On bickering wheels, and adamantine car; From planet whirl'd to planet more remote. He visits realms beyond the reach of thought; But wheeling homeward, when his course is run. Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun! So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd Her trembling wings, emerging from the world; And o'er the path by moi'tal never trod. Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! Ohl lives there. Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse. One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined. The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind; Who, mouldering earthward, 'reft of every trust, In joyless union wedded to the dust. Could all his parting energy dismiss, And call this barren world sufficient bliss ? — There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien. Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene. Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day. Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay, Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower. Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower; A friendless slave, a child without a sire, Whose mortal Ufe and momentary fire. Light to the grave his chanco-created form, As ocean- wrecks illuminate the storm; 16 THOMAS CAMPBELL. And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, To night and silence sink for evermore!— Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim. Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame ? Is this your triumph— this your proud applause. Children of Truth, and champions of her cause? For this hath Science search'd on weary wing, By shore and sea— each mute and hving thing! Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep. To worids unknown, and isles beyond the deep? Or round the cope her living chariot driven, And wheel'd in triumph thi-ough the signs of Heaven. Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there. To waft us home the message of despair ? Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit ? Ah me! the laurell'd wreath that Murder rears, Blood-nursed, and wator'd by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the nightshade round the sceptic head. What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death, if Heavenward Hope remain! But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awaked, inexorable power, This frail and feverish being of an hour; Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep Swift as the tempest travels on the deep. To know Delight but by her parting smile. And toil, and wish, and weep a little while; Then melt, ye elements that form'd in vain This troubled pulse, and visionary brain! Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb! Truth, ever lovely, — since the world began. The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, — How can thy words from balmy slumber start Reposing Virtue, pillow'd on the heart! Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd, And that were true which Nature never told, Let Wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field; No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd! Oil! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate. The doom tliat bars us from a better fate; But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in! And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay, Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay. Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale, It darkly hints a melancholy tale! There as the homeless madman sits alone, In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan! And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds. When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds. Poor lost Alonzo ! Fate's neglected child ! Mild be the doom of Heaven — asthouwert mild! For oh ! thy heart in holy mould was cast, And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last. Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hear The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier! When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drown'd. Thy midnight rites, but not on hallow'd ground ! Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind. But leave — oh! leave the light of Hope behind! What though my winged hours of bliss have been. Like angel-visits, few and far between, Her musing mood shall every pang appease. And charm — when pleasures lose the power to please! Yes; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee: Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sea — Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love's propitious smile, Chase every care, and charm a little while. Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ, And all her strings are hannonized to joy ! — But why so short is Love's delighted hour ? Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower? Why can no hynmed charm of music heal The sleepless woes impassion'd spirits feel ? Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create, To hide the sad realities of fate ? — No ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school. Have power to soothe, unaided and alone. The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone! When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls. Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls; When, 'reft of all, yon widow'd sire appears A lonely hemiit in the vale of years; Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe ? No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, — Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you! W'eep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain. Congenial spirits part to meet again ! What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew, Wliat sorrow choked thy long and last adieu! Daughter of Conrad ! when he heard his knell, And bade his country and his child farewell! Doom'd the long isles of Sydney-cove to see, The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee ? Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart. And thrice retuni'd, to bless thee, and to part; Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low The plaint that owu'd unutterable woe; Till Faith, prevaihng o'er his sullen doom. As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd gloom, Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime. Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time! "And weep not thus," he cried, "young Ellenore, My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! THOMAS CAMPBELL. 17 Short shall this half-extingiiish'd spirit bum, And soon these limbs to kindred dust return! But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, The immortal ties of Nature shall expire; These shall resist the triumph of decay, When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away! Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, But that which warm'd it once shall never die ! That spark, unburied in its mortal frame, With living light, eternal, and the same, Shall beam on Joy's interminable years, Uuveil'd by darkness — unassuaged by tears! " Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep. One tidious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep; But when I gain the home without a friend. And press the uneasy couch where none attend, This last embrace, still cherish'd in my heart. Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part! Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh, And hush the groan of life's last agony! "Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's bier. And place my nameless stone without a tear; When each retiu-ning pledge hath told my child That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled; And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze; Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er ? Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore? Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied ? Ah, no! methinks the generous and the good Will woo thee from the shades of solitude ! O'er friendless grief Compassion shall awake. And smile on Innocence for Mercy's sake!" Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be. The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee! If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell. If that faint murmur be the last farewell, If Fate unite the faithful but to part, Why is their memory sacred to the heart? Why does the brother of my childhood seem Restoi'ed a while in every pleasing dream? W^hy do I joy the lonely spot to view. By artless friendship bless'd when life was new ? Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. — AVhen all the sister planets have decay'd; When rapt in fire the realms of ether glow. And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. Vol. IL— B DEATH OF GERTRUDE. (extkact.)^ Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower, That like a giant standard-bearer frowned Defiance on the roving Indian power. Beneath, each bold and promontory mound With embrasure embossed and armour crowned, And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin, Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow; And for the business of destruction done, Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow: There, sad spectatress of her country's woe! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm. Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his ann Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm. But short that contemplation — sad and short The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew; Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near? — yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view. The ambushed foeman's eye — his volley speeds. And Albert, Albert falls ! the dear old father bleeds. And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swooned; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone. Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound. These drops ? God ! the life-blood is her own ! And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown; "Weep not, love!" she cries, " to see me bleed; Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed These wounds; — yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed ! " Clasp mo a little longer on the brink Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress; 1 The gi-eatest effort of Campbell's genius, however, was his "Gertrude of Wyoming," nor is it ever likely to be excelled in its own peculiar style of excellence. It is superior to the "Pleasures of Hope" iu the only one thing in which that poem couUl be surpassed — purity of diction ; while in pathos and in imaginative power it is no whit inferior. — Dr. D. M. Muir. 18 THOMAS CAMPBELL. And when this heart hath ceafs-od to beat, think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That thou hastbeen to me all tenderness. And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh, by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs— when I am laid in dust! " Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart. The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertmde thought it ecstacy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last? No! 1 shall love thee still, when death itself is past. " Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun. If 1 had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge. But shall there then be none. In future times— no gentle little one To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!" Hushed were his Gerti-ude's hps! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt — Of them that stood encircling his despair He heard .some friendly words; but knew not what they were. For now to mourn their judge and child arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between, 'Twas sung how they were lovely in their lives. And in their deaths had not divided been. Touched by the music and the melting scene. Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd; — Stem warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each nmch-loved shroud, While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. Then movirnfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth; Prone to the dust afflicted Waldcgrave hid His face on earth; him watched, in gloomy ruth. His woodland guide : but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name; Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth. He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame I " And I could weep," the Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun; " But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son. Or bow this head in woe! For, by my wrongs, and by wrath, To-morrow Areouski's breath. That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy, The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy! "But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep: Nor will the Christian host. Nor will thy father's spirit grieve. To see thee, on the battle's eve. Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most: She was the rainbow to thy sight! Thy sun— thy heaven— of lost dehght! " To-morrow let \is do or die. But when the bolt of death is hurled. Ah! whither then with thee to fly. Shall Outalissi roam the world ? Seek we thy once-loved home ? The hand is gone that cropped its flowers; Unheard their clock repeats its hours; Cold is the hearth within their bowers: And should we thither roam. Its echoes and its empty tread Would sound like voices from the dead ! "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed. And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? Ah! there, in desolation cold. The desert serpent dwells alone. Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like mo, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp; for there The silence dwells of my despair. " But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears: Even from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears Amidst the cloud.s that round us roll ; He bids my .soul for battle thirst;— He bids me dry the last— the first^ The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul; Because I may not stain with gi-ief The death-song of an Indian chief." THOMAS CAMPBELL. 19 HALLOWED GROUND. What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee? That's hallowed ground where, mourned and missed. The lips repose our love has kissed: — But Where's their memory's mansion? Is't Yon churchyard's bowers? No! in oui-selves their souls exist, A part of ours. A kiss can consecrate the ground Where mated hearts are mutual bound; The spot where love's first links were wound; That ne'er are riven, Is hallowed down to earth's profound. And up to heaven! For time makes all but true love old; The burning thoughts that then were told Kun molten still in memory's mould; And will not cool Until the heart itself be cold In Lethe's pool. What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap! In dews that heavens far distant weep Their turf may bloom, Or genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb. But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword a voice has served mankind — And is he dead whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high? — • To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die. la't death to fall for Freedom's right ? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws: — AVhat can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause! Give that! and welcome war to brace Her drums, and rend Heaven's reeking space ! The colours planted face to face, The charging cheer. Though death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven! But Heaven rebukes my zeal. The cause of truth and human weal, God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To peace and love. Peace! love! the cherubim that join Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine! Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine. Where they are not; The heart alone can make divine IJeligion's spot. To incantations dost thou trust. And pompous rites in domes august? See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt. That men can bless one pile of dust With chime or chaunt. The ticking wood- worm mocks thee, man! Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan! But thei'e's a dome of nobler span, A temple given. Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — Its space is heaven! Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling. And God himself to man revealing. The harmonious spheres JIake music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears. Fair stars! are not j-our beings pure? Can sin, can death your worlds obscure? Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above ! Ye must be heavens that make us sure Of heavenly love! And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time: That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn. And reason, on his mortal clime, Immoi-tal dawn. What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth! — Peace, Independence, Truth, go forth. Earth's compass round; And your high-priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground! 20 THOMAS CAMPBELL. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" " 0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord UUin's daughter. " And fast before her fatlier's men Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen. My blood would stain the heather. " llis horsemen hard behind us ride; Should tiiey our steps discover, Tiien who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?" Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, " I'll go, my chief — I'm ready, It is not for your silver bright. But for your winsome lady. " And by my word, the bonny bird. In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace; The water-wraith was shrieking; And in tiie scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as tiiey were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown tlic glen rode armed men — Their trampling sounded nearer. " haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, " Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies. But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before licr — AVhen, 0! too strong for liuman hand, The tempests gutliered o'er her. And still they rowed amidst the roar ' Of waters fast prevailing: Lord L'Uin readied tliat fatal shore; His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His clilld he did discover; One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! come back ! " he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!— 0, my daughter!" 'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing. The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. YE MARINERS OF ENGL.^ND. Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years. The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe! And sweep tlirough the deep While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. Tlie spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! — For the deck it was their field of fame. And ocean was their grave. AVhere Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow. As ye sweep through the deep. While the stormy winds do blow — While the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. Britannia needs no bulwarks. No towers along the steep: Her march is o'er the mountain-wave, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, AVhcn the stormy winds do blow — When the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific l)urn. Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, tlien, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, AVhen the storm has ceased to blow — When the fiery fight is heard no more. And the storm has ceased to blow. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 21 LOCIIIEL'S WARNING. Wizard — Lochiel. WIZARD. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day Wheu the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They ralLyj-jfchey bleed, for theii' kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down. Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But, hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war. What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await Like a love-lighted watch-fire,all night at thegate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led — Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. LOCHIF.L. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the i)liautoms of fright. ■WIZARD. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rushed the bold eagle exnltingly forth From his home in the dark -rolling clouds of the north ? Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destraction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might. Whose banners arise on the battlements' height. Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! — all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood. And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt! I havemarshalledmy clan; Their swords areathousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in theii" tartan array — WIZARD. — Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mj'stical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Cullodeu's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath. Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight: Rise, rise, ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors : Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? where? For the red eye of battle is shut in desjiair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn. Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling. ! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs. And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be tlirowu ere it ceases to beat. With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale— LOCHIEL. — Down, soothless insulter! I tnist not the tale! For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore. Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains. Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! 22 THOMAS CAMPBELL. And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. THE LAST MAN.i All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,— The sun himself must die, — Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall creation's death behold. As Adam saw her prime! The sun's eye had a sickly glare, — The earth Avith age was wan,— The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight, — the brands Still rusted in their bony hands, — In plague and famine some; Earth"s cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting, with the dead, To shores where all was dumb! Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood, ^VitU dauntless Mords and high, That sliook the sere leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by : — Saying, — we're twins in death, proud sun! Thy face is cold,— thy race is run — 'Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou, ten thousand thousand years, Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. What though, beneath thee, man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill, — ■ And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will? Yet mourn I not thy jiarted swaj', Thou dim discrowned king of day! For all those trophicd arts And triuiniihs that, beneath thee, sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang FiHtailcd oil human liearts. ' Campbell's fiiine, says the Loiulou Spectator of Oct. 1875, "is likely, we thmk, to be ])errnaiieiit, for no alteration of pojmliir taste, no f mliioiis in poetry, as evanescent sometimes and as absurd as fashions in dress, can affect the repntation of such iwenis as 'The Soldier's Dream," 'The Battle of tlie Baltic,' 'Holien- linden,' or 'The Last Man.' These are Campbell's noblest works, in which whatever lyrical inspiration was iu him finds fullest exi'vession." — Ed. Go! — let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again ! Its piteous pageants bring not back. Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain, anew, to writhe, — Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe! Even I am weary, in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies. Behold not me expire! My lips, that speak thy dirge of death — Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast : The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,— Tlie majesty of darkness shall lleceive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim. When thou thyself art dark. No! it shall live again, — and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, — By Him recalled to breath. Who captive led captivity, AVho robbed the grave of victory. And took the sting from death! Go, sun! while mercy holds mc up On nature's awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall ta.ste — Go!— tell the night, that hides thy face, Thou saw'.st the last of Adam's race, On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality. Or shake his trust iu God! BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, AVlien to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown. And her arms along the deep proudly shone; Bv each gun the lighted brand. In a bold dctenuined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on. — THOMAS CAMPBELL. 23 Like Leviathans afloat, Lay tlieir bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime; As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time. — But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. '• Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships. Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. — Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom: — Then ceas'd — and all is wail. As they strike the shattcr'd sail; Or in conflagration pale. Light the gloom. — Out spoke the victor then. As he hail'd them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save: — So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king." — Then Denmark blest our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; — And the sounds of joy and grief. From her people wildly rose; As death withdrew his shades from the day, While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, AVhere the fires of fun'ral light Died away. — Now joy. Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar. Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep. By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore! — Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faitliful and so true. On the deck of fame that died, — With the gallant good Riou: Soft sigh the winds of heav'n o'er their grave ! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, — Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! HOIIEXLIXDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low. All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidlj'. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night. Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; And, louder than the bolts of heav'n, Far flash'd the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow. On Linden's hills of stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling, dun, AVhere furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, AVho rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, JIunich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part, where many meet, The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre! GLENARA. heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale. Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 24 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 'Tis the chief of Glonara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shrond; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud; Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around : They marched all in silence— they look'd on the ground. In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor. To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar; — "Nowhere let us place the gray stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, 1 charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ? " So spake the rude chieftain :— no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd. " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" Oh! pale grew the check of that chieftain, I ween, "WTien the shroud was unclos'd, and no lady was seen ; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, "Twas the youth who had loved the fair Helen of Loi-n: " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Helen did seem; Glenara! Glenan.I now read me my dream." Tn dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground. And the desert rcvcal'd where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne, Now joy to the house of fair Helen of Lorn! THE EXILE OF EIMN. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin; The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight re- pairing. To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. Where once, in the tire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Ei-in-go-bragh. ' ' Sad is my fate ! " said the heart-broken stranger, " The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green sunny bowers. Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers. And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh. " Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken. And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me! They died to defend me, or live to deplore! "Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend dearer than all? Ah, my sad heart, long abandon'd by pleasure ! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? — Tears like the rain-drops may fall without mea- sure. But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. "Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers, Ei'in-go-bragh I Buried and cold when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp - striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavourain— Erin-go-bragh! " CORA LINN", OR THE FALLS OP THE CLYDE. WRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1S37. The time T saw thee, Cora, last, 'Twas with congenial friends; And calmer hours of pleasure past, My memory seldom sends. It was as sweet an autumn day As ever shone on Clyde, And Lanark's orchards all tlie way Put forth their golden pride; Ev'n hedges, liusk'd in bravery, Look'd rick that sunny morn; THOMAS CAMPBELL. 25 The scarlet hip and blackberry So prank" (I September's thorn. In Cora's glen the calm how deep! That trees on loftiest hill Like statues stooil, or things asleep, All motionless and still. The torrent spoke, as if his noise Bade earth be quiet round, And give his loud and lonely voice A more commanding sound. His foam, beneath the yellow light Of noon, came down like one Continuous sheet of jaspers bright — Broad rolling by the sun. Dear Linn! let loftier falling floods Have prouder names than thine; And king of all, enthroned in woods. Let Niagara shine. Barbarian, let him shake his coasts AVith reeking thunders far Extended like tii' array of hosts In broad, embattled war! His voice appals the wilderness: Approaching thine, we feel A solemn, deep melodiousness. That needs no louder peal. More fury would but disenchant Thy dream-inspiring din; Be tliou the Scottish Muse's haunt, llomantic Cora Liun. I From each wandering sunbeam a lonely embrace, j For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the place Where the flower of my forefathers grew. Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all That remains in this desolate heart! The fabiic of bliss to its centre may fall, But patience shall never depart! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combined With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, And leave but a desert behind. Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns When the faint and the feeble deplore; Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems A thousand wild waves on the shore! Thi-ough the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain. May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate! Yea, even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again: To bear is to conquer our fate. LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour I have mused in a sorrowful mood. On the wind-shaken weeds that embosomed the bower Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and 'svild is their roofless abode. And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree: And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trod, To his hiUs that encircle the sea. Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, By the dial-stone aged and green, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk. To mark where a garden had been : Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, All wild in the silence of nature, it drew ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. Soul of the Poet! wheresoe'er Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume Her wings of immortality : Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, And with thine influence illume The gladness of our jubilee. And fly like fiends from secret spell. Discord and strife, at Burns's name, Exorcised by his memory; For he was chief of bards that swell The heart with songs of social flame, And high delicious revelry. And love's own strain to him was given. To warble all its ecstacies With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd,— Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In Ufe's else bitter cup distill'd. Who that has melted o'er his lay To Mary's soul, in Heaven above. But pictured sees, in fancy strong, Tlie landscape and tlie livelong day That smiled upon their mutual love? Who that has felt forgets the song? Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan: His country's high-souled peasantry 23 THOMAS CAMPBELL. "What patriot-pride he taught!-how much To weigh the inborn worth of man! And rustic hfe and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch. Him in his clay-built cot, the Muse Entranced, and show'd him all the foiTQS Of fairy light and wizard gloom, (That only gifted poet views,) The genii of the floods and storms, And martial shades from glory's tomb. On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The swain whom Burns's song inspu-es! Beat not his Caledonian veins, As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, With all the spirit of his sires, And all their scorn of death and chains? And see the Scottish exile, tann'd By many a far and foreign clime. Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep In memory of his native land. With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep. Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild, The soldier resting on his anns In Burns' carol sweet recals The scenes that bless'd him when a child. And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. deem not, 'midst this worldly strife, An idle art the poet brings: Let high philosophy control, And sages calm, the stream of life, 'Tis he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul. It is the muse that consecrates The native baimcr of the brave, Unfurling at the tnmipet's breath. Rose, thistle, harj); 'tis she elates To sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero, when thy pall Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume, When public grief begins to fade, And only tears of kindred f.all, Who but the Viard shall dress thy tomb And greet with fame thy gallant shade! Such wa.s the soldier — Bums, forgive That sorrows of mine own intnule In strains to thy great memory due. In verse like thine — oh! could he live. The fi-icnd I mourn'd — the brave, the good, Edward that died at Waterloo!' > Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussiirs, who fell Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! That couldst alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand each vice with satu-e strong; Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage. Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare To wring one baleful poison drop From the crush'd laurels of thy bust: But while the lark sings swest in air. Still may the grateful pilgrim stop To bless the spot that holds thy dust. LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART. Oh! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart. Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart, How blest in the morning of life I have stray'd By the stream of the vale and the grass-cover'd glade. Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, Ere the sunshine of bUss was bedimm'd by a tear, And a sweeter delight every scene seem'd to lend. That the mansion of peace was the home of a fiiend. Now the scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart. All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart; Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease. For a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. But hush'd be the sigh that untimely complains. While friendship and all its enchantment remains, Wliile it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime. Untainted by chance, unabated by time. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce— for the night-cloud hr.d lower'd. And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground over- power'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw. By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; And twice ere the morning I dreamt it agahi. at the he.ad of his sriuadron, in th Lancers. I att.ickof the Polish THOMAS CAMPBELL. 27 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track ; 'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back. — I flew to the pleasant fields, travers'd so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. And knew the sweet strain that the corn- reapers sung. Then pledged we tlie wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. " Stay, stay with us! — rest!— thou art weary and worn!" — (And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;) But sorrow retum'd with the dawniing of morn. And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away ! TO THE EVENING STAK. Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free! If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, That send'st it from above. Appearing when heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as lier's we love. Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odours rise, AVhilst, far off, lowing herds are heard, And songs when toil is done. From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse; Their remembrancer in iieaven Of thrilling vows thou art. Too delicious to be riven. By absence, from the heart. THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. i They lighted a taper at the dead of night. And chanted their holiest hymn; 1 Campbell declined to have these lines included in his collected works, because l,e had been accused of But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright. Her ej'e was all sleepless and dim, — And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord. When a death-watch beat in her lonely room. When her curtain had shook of its own accord. And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board. To tell of her wan-ior's doom. " Now sing ye the song, and loudly pray For the soul of my knight so dear; And call me a widow this wretched day. Since the warning of God is here. For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep; The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die; His valorous heart they have wounded deep, And the blood-red tears shall his country weep For Wallace of Eldershe." Yet knew not his country that ominous hour Ere the loud matin bell was rung. That a trumpet of death on an English tower Had the dii-ge of her champion sung. When his dungeon light look'd dim and red On the high-bom blood of a martyr slain. No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed, No weeping there was when his bosom bled, And his heart was rent in twain. 0! it was not thus when his oaken spear Was tnie to the knight forlorn. And the hosts of a thousand were scatter'd like deer At the sound of the huntsman's horn. When he strode o'er the wreck of each well-fought field, With the yellow -hair'd chiefs of his native land; For his lance was not shiver'd, or helmet, or shield. And the sword that seem'd fit for archangel tj wield. Was light in his terrible hand. But, bleeding and bound, though the V7allace wight For his much-lov'd countrj^ die. The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight Than Wallace of Elderslie. But the day of his glory shall never depart. His head uncntomb'd shall with glory be balm'd, From his blood-streaming altar his spu-it shall start. Though the raven has fed on his mouldering hera-t, A nobler was never embalm'd. boiTOwing from Wolfe's " Burial of Sir John Moore. ' They should ba published in all future editions of his poems. — Ed. 23 THOMAS BEOWN. THOMAS BROWN. BOBN 1778 — Died 1820. Thomas Bnowx, one of the most eminent of modern metaphysicians, was tlie voungest son of Samuel Brown, minister of Kirkmabreck, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, and was born in the manse of that parish, January 9, 1778. Having lost his father when very young, he was placed by a maternal uncle at various academies in England; and in his fourteenth year he entered the University of Edinburgh, attending, among other courses of lectures, those of Professor Dugald Stewart. The young student made rapid progress in his studies, and soon gained the friendship of his celebrated preceptor. In the year 1797 Brown became a member of the "Academy of Pliy- sics," a philosophical association established by a few young men of talent, some of whom were afterwards the originators of the Ed'm- huriih Review, As a member of this society he formed the acquaintance of Brougham, Jeffrey, Leyden, Sydney Smith, and others subsequently greatly distinguished in the walks of literature. At the age of twenty-five he received his diploma as a physician, and formed a partner- ship with Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh. But the medical profession proved no more con- genial than that of the law, which he had pre- viously abandoned after one year's study. His favourite pursuits were poetry and philosophy — a somewhat rare combination. In 1804 Dr. Brown published a volume of poems, mostly written during his college days; and he was among the garlicst contributors to the Edin- hurrjh, Bevletv, established in 1802— the lead- ing article in tlie second number on "Kant's Philosophy" being from his pen. An essay on Hume's llieonj of Causation established his growing reputation, and soon after, when Pro- fessor Stewart's declining health obliged him to be occasionally absent from his chair, Brown was appointed his substitute. In this new sphere he met with gratifying suCcess, and after two years was appointed joint-professor with his former teacher. In 1814 appeared the Paradise of Coquettes, his largest poetical work. A reviewer of note declared it to be "by far the best and most brilliant imitation of Pope that has ap- peared since the time of that great writer; with all his point, polish, and nicely balanced versification, as well as his sarcasm and witty malice." In 1816 he published another poem, entitled the " AVanderer in Norway," followed soon after by "Agnes," and "Emily," two separate volumes of poems, all of which met with considerable favour and success. Professor Brown died at Brompton, London, April 2, 1820, and his remains were removed to the churchyard of his native parish. After his decease his Lectures on the Philosophy of the Hitman Mind were published in four 8vo volumes, and have deservedly obtained a high reputation. Miss Margaret Brown, sister of the philo- sopher, a lady of gentle Christian character, was the author of a number of very respectable poems, which were collected and published at Edinburgh in 1819, in a small 12mo volume. THE FAITHLESS MOURNEK. When thy smile was still clouded in gloom, When the tear wa-s still dim in thine eye, I tliouti^ht of the virtues, scarce cold in the toml) And I spoke not of love to thy sigh ! I spoke not of love; yet the breast. Which mark'd thy long anguish deplore The sire, whom in sickness, in age, thou hadct blcss'd, Though silent, was loving thee more. How soon wert thou pledged to my arms, Thou hadst vow'd, but I urged not the day; THOMAS BPtOWN. 29 And thine eye grateful tum'd — oh, so sweet were its charms, That it more than atoned the delay. I fearVl not, too slow of belief — I fexr'd not, too proud of thy heart, That another would steal on the hour grief, That thy giief would be soft to his art. of thy Thou heardst — and how easy allured Every vow of the past to forswear; The love, which for thee would all pangs have endured, Thou couldst smile as thou gav'st to dcspaii". Ah, think not my passion has flown! Why say that my vows now are free ? Why say — yes! I feel that my heart is my own, I feel it is breakino- for thee. THE XON-DESCrJPT.i Thou nameless loveliness, wliose mind, AVitli every grace to soothe, to warm, Has lavish Nature blcss'd, and shrined The sweetness in as soft a form! Say on what wonder-beaming soil Her sportive malice wrought thy form — That haughty science long might toil. Nor learn to fix thy doubtful name! For this she cuU'd, with eager care. The scatter'd glories of her plan, — All that adorns the softer fair. All that exalts the prouder man. And gay she triumph'd — now no more Her Avorks shall daring systems bound; As though her skill inventive o'er. She only traced the forms she found. In vain to seek a kindred race, Tired tiirough her mazy realms I stray; Where sliall I rank thy radiant place? Thou dear perplexing creature, say ! Tliy smile so soft, thy heart so kind, Thy voice for pity's tones so fit — All speak thee Woman; but thy mind Lifts thee where bards and sages sit. 1 These verses were addressed by their author to Jlre. Dugald Stewart, and were by him entitled "The Non- Uesciipt— To a very Cliarming Jlonster." — Ed. CONSOLATION OF ALTERED FORTUNES. Yes! the shades we must leave which my child- hood has haunted; Each charm by endearing remembrance im- proved ; These walks of our love, the sweet bower thou hast planted, — We must leave them tj eyes that will view them unmoved. Oh, weep not, my Fanny! though changed bo our dwelling. We bear with us all, in the home of our mind ; In wtues will glow that heart, fondly swelling, Affection's best treasure we leave not behind. I shall labour, but still by thy image attended, — Can toil be severe which a smile can repay ! How glad shall we meet! every care will be ended, And our evening of bliss will be more than a day. Content's cheerful beam will our cottage en- lighten ; New charms the new cares of thy love will inspire; Thy smiles, 'mid the smiles of our offsi^ring, will lighten; I shall see it — and oh, can I feel a desire? THE LUTE. Ah! do not bid me wake the lute, It once was dear to Henry's ear. Now be its voice for ever mute. The voice which Henry ne'er can hear. Though many a month has pass'd since spring. His grave's wan turf has bloom'd anew; One whisper of those choi'ds Mill bring, In all its grief, our last adieu. The songs he loved — 'twere sure prof;me To careless Pleasure's laughing brow To breathe; and oh! what other strain To Henry's lute could love allow? Though not a sound thy soul hath caught, To mine it looks, thus softly dead, A sweeter tenderness of thought Than all its living strings have shed. Then ask me not — the charm was broke; With each loved vision must I part; If gaj' to every ear it spoke, 'Twould speak no longer to my heart. 30 JOSEPH TRAIN. Yet once too blest! — the moonlit grot, Wliere last I gave its tones to swell ; All! the last tones — thou heardst them not- From other hands than mine they fell. Still, silent slumbering, let it keep That sacred touch! And oh! as dim To life, would, would that I could sleep- Could sleep, and only dream oiliim! JOSEPH TEAIN. Born 1779 — Died 1852. Joseph Train was born in the parish of Sorn, Ayrshire, November 6, 1779. When he was eight years of age his parents removed to Ayr, where, after being a short time at school, he was apprenticed to a trade, at which he continued for some years, zealously devoting his leisure time to mental improvement. In 1799 he entered the Ayrshire militia, and remained with his regiment for three years, till it was disbanded. On one occasion, when stationed at Inverness, he ordered a copy of Currie's edition of Burns, then sold for a guinea and a half This circumstance becom- ing known to Sir David Hunter Blair, colonel of the regiment, he not only presented the book to Train, but interested himself in his behalf, and on the disbanding of the regiment obtaincoet afterwards liecime good friends, and that the friendship was in many respects beneficial to the humble bard." — Ed. WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 35 Let the miser delight in the hoarding of pelf, Since he has not the saul to enjoy it himself: Since the bounty of Providence is new every day, As we journey through life let us live hy the way. Let us live by the way, kc. Then bring us a tankard o' nappy gude ale, For to comfort our hearts and enliven the tale; We'll aye be the merrier the langer we sit, For we've drank thegither mony a time, and sae will we yet. And sae will we yet, &c. Success to the farmer, and prosper his plough. Rewarding his eident toils a' the year through ! Our seed-time and harvest we ever will get, For we've lippen'd aye to Providence, and sae will we yet. And sae will we yet, &c. Long live the king, and happy may he be, And success to his forces by land and by sea! His enemies to triumph we never will pemiit, Britons aye have been victorious, and sae wiil they yet. And sae wiU they yet, &c. Let the glass keep its course, and go merrily roun', For the sun has to rise, though the moon it goes down ; Till the house be rinnin' roun' about, it's time enough to flit; When we fell we aye got up again, and sae will wo yet. And sae will we yet, &c. MY JOCKIKS FAR AWA'. ISTow simmer decks the fields wi' flowers, The woods wi' leaves sae green. An' little birds around their Lowers In harmony convene; Tlie cuckoo flees frae tree to tree, Wiiile saft the zephyrs bluw; But wliat are a' tliae joys to me, Wlien Jockie's far awa'? When Jockie's far awa' on sea, When Jockie's far awa'; But what are a' thae jovs to me. When Jockie's far awa"? Last ]\Iay mornin', how sweet to see The little lambkins play, Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me, Did kindly walk this way! On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd, To busk my bosom braw; Sweet, sweet lie talk'd, and aft he vow'd, But now he's far awa'. But now, &c. gentle peace, return again, Bring Jockie to my arms, Frae dangers on the raging main. An' cruel war's alarms; Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we'll part While we liae breath to draw; Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart, My Jockie's far awa'. J[y Jockie's far awa', &c. WILLIAM LAIDLAW. Born 1780 — Died 1845. William Laidlaw, the author of the beauti- ful song of "Lucy's Flittin'," and the trusted friend of Sir Walter Scott, was the son of James Laidlaw, a respectable sheep-farmer at Blackhouse, in the Yarrow district, Selkirk- shire, where he was born November 19, 1780. He was the eldest of three sons, and received part of his education at the grammar-school of Peebles. Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was for some years servant to his father, and the two young men formed here a lasting friend- ship. "He was," says the Shepherd, "the only person who for many years ever pretended to discover tlie least merit in my essays, either in verse or prose." In 1801, when Sir Walter Scott visited Ettrick and Yarrow to collect materials for his Border Minstrelsi/, he made the acquaintance of young Laidlaw, from whom he received much assistance. Laidlaw began life by leasing a farm at Traquair, and after- wards one at Liberton, near Edinburgh, but the business proving unsuccessful he gave up the lease in 1817, and accepted an invitation from Sir Walter Scott to act as his steward at Abbotsford. Here he continued for some years, being held in high esteem and confidence by 36 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. liis employer, whom lie in turn greatly loved and revered. ■\Vliil.st at Abbotsford part of Laidlaw's time was occupied in writing under Sir Walter's direction for the Edinbunjh Annual Register. After the unhappy reverse in the affairs of his benefactor Laidlaw left Abbotsford for a time, but returned in 1830, and continued there till Sir Walter's death in 1S32. He afterwards acted as factor for Sir Charles Lockliart Ross of Balnagowan, IJoss- shire; but his heaitii failing, he gave up tliis position, and went to reside witli his brother James at Contin, near Dingwall, where he died May 18, 1845, aged sixty-five. Besides the far-famed song of ''Lucy's Flittin'," Avhich was first printed in 1810 in Hogg's Foretit Minstrel, Laie he man, l>e he deil — Wow! we'll try this Aiken-dnim." But the wenches skirled, " He's no be here! His eldritch look gars us swai-f wi' fear; An' the feint a ane will tha house come near, If they think but o' Aiken-drum. " For a foul and a stalwart ghaist is he. Despair sits broodin' aboon his e'e-bree. and less compact and stern. It is like 'Tam o' Shanter' in its living union of the comic, the pathetic, and the terrible. Shrewdness, tenderness, imagination, fancy, humour, word music, dramatic power, even wit— all are here. I have often reiid it aloud tochildien, and it is worth any one's while to do it. You will find them repeiiting all over the house for days such lines :is take their heart and tongue."— iJ.-. John liroicn. WILLIAM NICHOLSON. 45 And unchancie to light o' a maiden's e'c, Is the glower o' Aikon-dinim." " Pair clipmalahorsl ye hae little wit; Is'tna Hallowmas now, an' the crap out yet?" Sae she silenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her fit — "Sit yer wa's down, Aiken-drum I" Roun" a' that side what wark was dune By the streamer's gleam, or the glance o' the moon; A word, or a wish, an' the brownie cam sune, Sae helpfu' was Aiken-drum. But he slade aye awa' or the sun was up, He ne'er could look straught on Macniillan'scup;! They watch'd — but nane saw him his brose ever sup, Nor a spune sought Aiken-drum. On Blednoch banks, an' on crystal Cree, For mony a day a toiled wight was he; And the bairns they played harmless roun' his knee, Sae social was Aiken-di-um. But a new-made wife, fu' o' frippish freaks. Fond o' a' things feat for the five first weeks. Laid a mouly a herd gaun by the Thrieve, Crying, "Lang, lang now may I greet an' grieve; For alas! I ha'e gotten baith fee an' Icavc^ 0! luckless Aiken-drum!" Awa', ye wrangling sceptic tribe, Wi' your pro's an' your con's wad ye decide 'Gain the sponsible voice o' a hale country side. On the facts 'bout Aiken-drum .' Though the "Brownie o' Blednoch " lang be gane. The mark o' his feet's left on mony a stane; An' mony a wife an' mony a wean Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum. E'en now, light loons that jibe an' sneer At spiritual guests an' a' sic gear, At the Glashnoch Mill hae swat wi' fear. An' looked roun' for Aiken-drum. 1 A communion cup belonging to the Rev. Mr. M'llil- lan, founder of a sect of Covenanters known by liis name. Tlie oiip was long jneserveJ by a disciple in tlie ))ari8h of Kirkcowan, and used as a test by which to ascertain the orthodoxy of suspected pei'sons. — En. An' guidly folks hae gotten a fright. When the moon was set, an' the stars gied nae light; At the roaring linn, in the howe o' the night, Wi' sughs like Aiken-drum. THE BR.\.ES OF GALLOWAY. lassie, wilt thou gang wi' mc, And leave tliy friens i' the south countric— Thy former friens and sweetliearts a', And gang wi' mc to Gallowa'? Gallowa' braes tliey wave wi' broom, And heatiier-bells in bonnie bloom; There's lordly seats, and livin's braw, Amang the braes o' Gallowa'! There's stately woods on mony a brae, Where burns and birds in concert play; The waukrife echo answers a', .\mang the braes o' Gallowa'. Gallowa' braes, &e. * The simmer shicl I'll build for thee Alang the bonnie banks o' Dec, Half circlin' roun' my father's ha', Amang tlic braes o' Gallowa'. O Gallowa' braes, &c'. When autumn waves her flowin' horn. And fields o' gowden grain arc shorn, I'll busk thee fine in pcarlins braw. To join the dance in (iallowa'. O Gallowa' braes, &c. At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight, And lanely, langsomc is the night, Wi' tentie care my pipes I'll thraw, Play "A' the Avay to Gallowa'." O Gallowa' braes, &c. Should fickle fortune on us frown, Kac lack o' gear our love should drown; Content should shield our haddin' sma', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. Come wiiile the blossom's on the broom, And hcathcr-bclls sae bonnie bloom; Come let us be the happiest twa On a' the braes o' Gallowa' MY AIX BONNIE MAY. will ye go to yon burn side, Amang the new-made hay, And sport upon the flowery swaird, Mv ain bonnie Jlav? 46 JOHN FINLAY. The sun blinks blithe on yon bnrn side, Whare lambkins liglitly play; The wild bird whistles to his mate, My ain bonnie May. The waving woods, wi" mantle green, Shall shield us in the bower, AVhare I'll pu' a posie for my May, U' mony a bonnie flower. !SIy father maws ayont the burn, To spin my mammy's gane; And should they see thee here wi' me, I'd better been my lane. The lightsome lammie little kens What troubles it await; When ance the flush o' spring is o'er, The fause bird lea'es its mate. The flow'rs will fade, the woods decay, And lose their bonnie green; The sun wi' clouds may bo o'crcast, Before that it be e'en. Ilk thing is in its season sweet; So love is, in its noon ; But cank'ring time may soil the flower. And spoil its bonnie bloom. 0, come then while the summer shines. And love is young and gay; Ere age his with'ring, wintry blast Blaws o'er me and my ilay. For thee I'll tend the fleecy flocks, Or hand the halesome plough. And nightly clasp thee to my breast, And prove aye leal and true. The blush o'erspread her bonnie face. She had nae mair to say. But ga'e her hand, and walk'd ahuig, The youthfu', bloomin' ]\Iay. JOHN FINLAY Born 17S2 — Died ISIO. JoHX FiXL.vY, a man of f.AC genius and extensive scholarship, cut off prematurely, was born of parents in humble circumstances at Glasgow, December, 17S2. After receiving a good education at one of the schools in his native city, be entered the university at the age of fourteen, and had for a classmate John WiKson, afterwards the renowned " Christopher North." At college young Finlay was highly di.stinguishcd for proficiency in his classes, for the elegance of his essays on the subjects pre- scribed to the students, as Avell as the talent shown in the poetical odes which he wrote on classical subjects. In 1802, while only about nineteen and still at college, he published " Wallace, or the Vale of Ellcrslie, with other Poems," of which a second edition with some additions appeared two years later, and a third was issued in 1817. Of the chief poem in this volume Professor Wilson says: " It is doubt- less an imperfect composition, but it displavs a wonderful power of versification, and contains many splendid descriptions of external nature. It possesses ])oth the merits and defects which v.'e look for in the early compositions of true genius." In 1S07 Finlay went to London in .search of employment, and whilst there he con- tributed to the magazines many articles on antiquarian subjects. He returned to Glasgow in 1803, and in that year published a short collection of "Scottish Historical and Roman- tic Ballads," which secured the favourable notice of Sir Walter Scott. "The beauty of some imitations of the old Scotti.sh ballad," he writes, "with the good sense, learning, and modesty of the jtreliminary dissertations, must make all admirers of ancient lore regret the early loss of this accomplished young man." ^Ir. Finlay again left Glasgow in 1810 on a visit to his friend Wilson at Elleray, in Cum- berland, but on the way he was .seized with illness at MoflTat, where he died December 8, 1810, aged only twenty -eight. Besides the works above-mentioned, he edited an edition of Blair's "Grave," with excellent notes, wrote a Life of Cervanfes, and superintended a new edition of Smith's Wcallh of Xations. X\\ aflfectionate and elegant tribute to Finlay's memory, written by Prof. AVilson, appeared in Blackwood' s Magazine for November, 1817. JOHN FINLAY. 47 ARCHY 0' KILSPINDIE. Wae worth the heart that can be glad, Wae worth the tear that wimia fa', For justice is fleemyt frae the land, An' the faith o' auld times is clean awa'. Our nobles they ha'e sworn an aith, An' they gart our young king swear the same. That as lang as the crown was on his head He wad speak to naue o' the Douglas name. An' wasna this a wearifou aith; For the crown frae his head had been tint and gane. Gin the Douglas hand hadna held it on. Whan anither to help him there was nane. An' the king frae that day grew dowie and wae, For he liked in his heart the Douglas weel; For his foster-brither was Jamie o' Farkhead, An' Archy o' Kilspindie was his Gray Steel. But Jamie was banisht an' Archy baith. An' they lived lang, lang ayont the sea. Till a' had forgotten them but the king; An' he whiles said, wi' a watery e'e, — " Gin they think on me as I think on them, I wot then- life is but cb-eerie."— It chanced he rode wi' hound and horn To hunt the dun and the red deer doun, An' wi' him was mony a gallant earl. And laird, and knight, and hold baron. But nane was wi' him wad ever compare Wi' the Douglas so proud in tower and town, That were courtUest all in bower and hall, And the highest ever in renown. — It was dawn when the hunters sounded the horn. By Stirlin's walls, sae fair to see; But the sun was far gane doun i' the west When they brittled the deer on Torwood-lee. And wi' jovial din they rode hame to the tovm, Where Snawdon tower stands dark an' hie; Frae least to best they were plyin' the jest, An' the laugh was gaun round richt merrily : When Murray cried loud, — " \\lia's yon I see? Like a Douglas he looks, baith dark and grim; And for a' his sad and weary pace. Like them he's richt stark o' arm an' hmb." The king's heart lap, and he shouted ■wi' glee, — " Yon stalworth makedom I ken richt weel; And I'se wad in pawn the hawk on my han', It's Archy Kilspindie, my ain Gray Steel; We maun gi'e him grace o' a' his race, For Kilspindie was trusty aye, and leal. But Lindsay spak' in waefou mood, — "Alas! my liege, that mauna be." And stout Kilmaurs cries, — " He that dares Is a traitor to his ain countrie." And Glencaim, that aye was dowre and stern, Says, — " Where's the aith you sware to me ? Gin ye speak to a man o' the Douglas clan, A gray groat for thy crown and thee." — When Kilspindie took haud o' the king's bridle reins, He louted low doun on his knee; The king a word he durstna speak. But he looked on him wistfuUie. He thocht on days that lang were gane, Till his heart was yearnin' and like to brast: As he turned him round his barons frowned; But Lindsay was dichtin his een fu' fast. When he saw their looks his proud heart rose, An' he tried to speak richt hauchtillie; — " Gae tak' my bridle frae that auld man's grip; What sorrow gars him haud it sae sickerlie.'" An' he spurred his horse wi' gallant speed. But Ai-chy followed him manfullie, And, though cased in steel frae shoulder to heel, He was first o' a' his companie. As they passed he sat down on a stane in the yett. For a' his gray hair there was nae ither biel; The king staid the hindmost o' the train, And he aft looked back to his auld Gray Steel. Ai-chy wi' grief was quite foredone, An' his arm fell weak that was ance like aim, And he sought for some cauld water to drink, But they durstna for that dowre Glencami. When this was tauld to our gracious king, A redwood furious man woxe he; He has ta'en the mazer cup in his han', And in flinders a' he gart it flee: — " Had I kend my (^ray Steel wanted a drink, He should hae had o' the red wine free.'' An' fu' sad at the table he sat him down, An' he spak' but ae word at the dine: — " ! I wish my warst f ae were but a king, Wi' as cruel counsellours as mine." 48 WILLIAM TENNANT. I HEARD THE EVENING LINNET'S VOICE. I heard the evening Hnnet's voice the woodland tufts among, Yet sweeter were the tender notes of Isabella's song! So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul, The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sor- row's pang control. I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade. And mingled in the melody that Isabella made; Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart! Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art. I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky, Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye ! Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relent- ing year, Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity -melted tear. All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow prov'd How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I lov'd ! Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more, As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore. 0! COME WITH ME. 0! come with me, for the queen of night Is thron'd on high in her beauty bright; 'Tis now the silent hour of even, When all is still in earth and heaven; The cold flowers whicli the valleys strew, Are sparkling bright wi' pearly dew, And hush'd is e'en the bee's saft hum. Then come with me, sweet Mary, come. The opening blue-bell — Scotland's pride — In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed; The daisy meek frae the dewy dale. The wild thyme, and the primrose pale, Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake, Of these a fragrant wreath I'll make, And bind them mid' the locks that flow In rich luxuriance from thy brow. ! love, without thee what were life? A bustling scene of care and strife; A waste, where no green flowery glade Is found, for shelter or for sliade. But, cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share We can with calm composure bear: For tiie darkest nicht o' care and toil Is bricht when blest by woman's smile. WILLIAM TENNANT. Born 1784 — Died 184S. William Texnant, LL.D., an accomplished linguist and poet, was born at Anstruther, in Fifesiiire, May 15, 1784. Although born with- out any personal malformation, in infancy tlie future poet and professor lost the use of both his feet, and was obliged to move upon crutches for the rest of his life. The lame boy was educated at the burgh school of An- struther, and was sent afterwards to tiie Uni- versity of St. Andrews. In ids twentieth year he went to Glasgow, where he was employed as clerk to his brother, a corn-factor in that city. His business was afterwards removed to Anstruther, but proving unsuccessful, ho sud- denly disappeared, leaving William to endure incarceration as if he liad been the real debtor. Tiic introductory stanzas of " Anstcr Fair" are said to have been written whilst lie was in durance. After sustaining unmerited reproach lie was set free, M'hen he returned to liis father's roof, and devoted himself in earnest to author- ship. The result was " Anster Fair," which was issued from the obscure piess of an An- struther publisiier in 1812. Another little production deserves to be mentioned, as sliow- ing the cheerfulness with which he bore the calamity of his lameness—" The Anster Con- cert," a brochure of twelve pages, Avritten in 1810, and published at Cupar in January, 1811, purporting to be by W. Crookley. In a few years "Anster Fair" found its way to Edin- burgh, and attracted the notice of Lord Wood- WILLIAM TENNANT. 49 houselee, who wrote to the publisher for the name of the author, which he said could not long remain concealed ; and Lord Jeffrey*, in a criticism in the Edinbur(jh Rev'ieio, declared the poem one of tiie most talented and re- markable productions of its kind that had yet appeared. As it was not by literature that Tennant meant to maintain himself, he became a school- master, the occupation for which he was edu- cated. His first school was in the parish of Denino, a few miles from St. Andrews. It speaks not a little for his contented spirit and moderate wishes, that he accepted a situation yielding but £40 per annum at a time when he had obtained celebrity as a poet, and was known as one of the ablest linguists of the land. But, for the time being, he was content with his humble cottage, and access to the library of St. Andrews College; and here, without any other teacher than books, he made himself master of the Arabic, Persian, and Syriac languages. His next situation was the inore lucrative one of parish schoolmaster at Lass- wade, where he remained until January, 1819, Avhen he was appointed a teacher of the classi- cal and oriental languages in the newly estab- lished and richly endowed institution of Dollar. Tennant's next publication was a poem called " Papistry Storm'd, or the Dingin' Doun o' the Cathedral," followed in 1822 by an epic under the title of the "Thane of Fife," having for its theme the invasion of the east coast of Fife by the Danes in the ninth century. The year after appeared " Cardinal Beaton, a Tragedy in five acts," and in 1825 he published another poem entitled "John Baliol." Kone of these publications met with success, nor did they add anything to the author's reputation. In 1831 the chair of oriental languages in St. Mary's College, St. Andrews, became vacant, and Tennant offered himself as a candidate, but Dr. Scott of Corstorphine, a rival candi- date, was preferred. He remained three years longer at Dollar, when the professorship again becoming vacant by the death of Dr. Scott, he was appointed to it. In this way, by a series of steps, he ascended from the lowest to one of the highest grades of Scottish academical distinction. Tennant's last work, published in 1845, was entitled "Hebrew Dramas, founded on Incidents in Bible History," and consisted Vol. II.— D of three dramatic compositions. He was also the author of a Syriac and Chaldee grammar, and of a memoir of Allan IJamsay, published with his works, which he put forth as the pioneer of an edition of the Scottish poets. As a prose Avriter he never attained any distinction. He contributed numerous articles to the Edin- burgh Literary Journal, none of which, how- ever, exhibit any peculiar excellence. Tennant usually spent his summer months at his own villa of Devongrove, near Dollar, and here he breathed his last, October 15, 1848, in his sixty-fourth year. A memoir of his life and writings by Matthew Foster Conolly appeared in 1861. The following unpublished letters, addressed to Airs. Grant of Laggan, will be read with interest, as they refer to a new metrical trans- lation of the Psalms, in regard to which Ten- nant had a spirited correspondence with the Ettrick Shepherd, afterwards collected and issued in a volume by Constable & Co. : — " Devongrove, Dollar, 2Sth Sept. 1S31. "My dear Mrs. Grant, — I beg leave to send you herewith, according to promise, the cor- rected copy of our Scottish version of the Psalms, of which I spoke to you while I was in Edinburgh. I should be happy if you took the trouble to glance into it at your leisure moments. You will find the emendations made only on a few passages, and these, I think, the most objectionable and indefensible as relates either to the bad grammar or the false or double rhymes in the Scotticisms to be found in our psalmody. I have not ventured to touch any passage which I deemed not in some respect blameworthy ; and very probably you may mark off some few slight passages which may admit of some gentle healing, but which by me have not been observed, or have not come Avithin that scope of emendation which I prescribed to myself. If our present version, which is assuredly the best, is ever to be at all purified or emended, it should be done by gentle means and by making the smallest possible alterations, so that its present readers and admirers may read and admire on without being conscious of any violence com- mitted — without having their attention dis- tracted, and their time -confirmed respect shocked by any modern botches of superfluous 50 WILLIAM TENNANT. or glaring emendation. AVhether I have done according to my own design and conception I do not know; but if correction is to be tried at all, assuredly it should proceed in this gentle manner. I should be glad not only to have your written opinion so soon as you have perused my attempted corrections, but that you yourself as an amusement (which I found a delightful one) should try your hand at cor- recting any false rhyme or return stanza, for instance in Psalms xviii. and xix., or any other you may deem deserving of it. . . . "The volume of corrected Psalms you will please retain till I revisit Edinburgh, which perhaps, if weather be favourable, may be at Christmas. — I have the honour to be, my dear !Mrs. Grant, your very faithful servant, "Wm. Texnant," " DevQugrove, Dollar, 15th Dec. 1831. " ^ly dear Mrs. Grant, — It was with the utmost pleasure I received your esteemed letter of 28th ult., which I perused with much de- light. I am glad indeed to iind that you enjoy the same good health in which I left you in September. I shall be now fain to see your remarks on the attempted emendations of our much-revered old Scottish Psalm-ver.sion. . . . "Since I had the pleasure of seeing you I have been bereaved of my good old mother, who died at my house about four weeks ago. She lived with me after my father's death for the space of about three and a half years. She had enjoyed for several years very good health, and we were all happy together. "What a blank has been created in our happy house- hold by her departure! It will be a long time ere I become reconciled to it. "Attached to this, I beg leave to send you a few lines written after her decease, — ' To her Spinning -wheel' — an exercise in which she took great delight. I was much affected by the circumstance of her leaving the ' task of flax' unspun. I should be glad if you were pleased with the few stanzas written upon this familiar household subject. " Should I be in Edinburgh at the Christmas holidays, I shall avail myself of that oppor- tunity again to enjoy the pleasure of your conversation. — And believe me to be at all times, my dear ]\Irs. Grant, very sincerely your faithful servant, Wm. Tennant." ANSTER FAIR.i CAXTO I. While some of Troy and pettish heroes sing, And some of Rome and chiefs of pious fame, And some of men that thought it harmless thing To smite off heads in Mars' bloody game, And some of Eden's [garden gay with spring, And Hell's dominions, ternblo to name, — I sing a theme far livelier, happier, gladder, I sing of Anster Fair, and bonny Maggie Lauder. What time from east, from west, from south, from north, From every hamlet, town, and smoky city. Laird, clown, and beau to Anster Fair came forth— The young, the gay, the handsome, and the witty, To trj- in various sport and game their worth. Whilst prize before them Maggie sat,the pretty, 1 Allan Cunningli.im e-nya of this charming poem, written in the Mava i-ima of the Italians :—" William Tennant, in his very original poem of 'Anster Fair,' gave Frere and Byrou more tliau a hint for ' Whistle And after many a feat, and joke, and banter, Fair Maggie's hand was won by mighty Rob the Ranter. Muse, that from top of thine old Greekish hill, Didst the harp - fing'ring Theban younker view, And on his lips bid bees their sweets distil, And gav'st the chariot that the white swans drew — let me scoop, from thine ethereal rill. Some little palmfnls of the blessed dew, And lend the swan-drawn car, that .safely I, Like him, may scorn the earth, and burst into the sky. Our themes are like; for he the games extoll'd Held in the chariot-shaken Grecian plains, W'hcre the vain victor, aiTogant and bold, Parsley or laurel got for all his pains. Craft' and 'Beppo;' nor is it nnjust to say that the imitators have not at all equalled the life, the naivele, the ludicrous dashed with the solemn, and the witty with both, which characterize the poet of Dollar."— Ed. WILLIAM TENNAXT. 51 I sing of sports more worthy to be told, Where better prize the Scottish \'ietor gains; What were the crowns of Greece but wind and bladder, Compared with marriage-bed of bonnie INIaggie Lauder ? And that King Apollo would but grant A little spark of that transcendent flame, That fir'd the Chian rhapsodist to chant How vied the bowmen for Ulj'sses' dame; And him of Rome to sing how Atalant PUed, dart in hand, the suitor-slaught'ring game, Till the bright gold, bowl'd forth along the grass, Betray'd her to a spouse, and stopp'd the bound- ing lass. But lo! fro n bosom of yon southern cloud, I see the chariot come which Pindar bore; I see the swans, whose white necks, arching proud. Glitter with golden j'oke, approach my shore: For me they come! — Phoebus, potent god! Spare, spare me now — Enough, good king — no more — A little spark I ask'd in moderation, Why scorch me ev'n to death with fiery inspu-a- tion 1 My pulse beats fire — my pericranium glows, Like baker's oven, with poetic heat; A thousand bright ideas, spurning prose, Are in a twinkling hatch'd in Fancy's seat; Zjunds! they will fly out at my ears and nose. If through my mouth they find not passage fleet; 1 hear them buzzing deep within my noddle, Like bees that in their hives confus'dly hum and huddle. How now ? — what's this ? — my very eyes, I trow, Drop on my hands their base prosaic scales; My ^^sual orbs are purg'd from film, and lo! Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales, I see old Fairyland's mirac'lous show — Her trees of tinsel kiss'd by freakish gales, Her ouphes, that cloak'd in leaf-gold skim the breeze, And fairies swarming thick as mites in rotten cheese. I see the puny fair-chinn'd goblin rise Suddenly glorious from his mustard-pot; I see him wave his hand in seemly wise. And button round him tight his fulgent coat; While Maggie Lauder, in a great surprise, Sits startled on her chair, yet fearing not; I see him ope his dewy lips; I hear The strange and strict command address'd to Maggie's ear. I see the Ranter with bagpipe on back, As to the fair he rides jocmidly on; I see the crowds that press with speed not slack Along each road that leads to Anstcr Loan ; I see the suitors, that, deep-sheathed in sack. Hobble and tumble, bawl and swear, and groan; I see — but fie, thou brainish Muse! what mean These vapourings, and brags of what by thee is seen ? Go to! — be cooler, and in order tell To all my good co-townsmen list'ning round. How every merry incident befel, W^hereby our loan shall ever be renown'd; Say first, what elf or fairy could impel Fair Mag, with wit, and wealth, and beauty crowu'd, To put her suitors to such waggish test, And give her happy bed to him that jumped best? 'Twas on a keen December night; John Frost Drove through mid air his chariot, icy-wheel'd. And from the sky's crisp ceiling star-enibost. Whiff 'd off the clouds that the pure blue coii- ceal'd; The hornless moon amid her brilliant host Shone, and with silver- sheeted lake and field. 'Twas cutting cold ; I'm sure each trav'ler's nose Was pinch'd rigfit red that night, and numb'd were all his toes. Not so were Maggie Lauder's toes, as she In her warm chamber at her supper sate (For 'twas that hour when burgesses agree To eat their suppers ere the night grows late). Alone she sat, and pensive as may be A young fair lady, wishful of a mate; Yet with her teeth held now and then a pick'ng. Her stomach to refresh, the breast-bone of a chicken. She thought upon her suitors, that with love Besiege her chamber all the livelong day, Aspii'ing each her virgin heart to move. With courtship's every troublesome essay; Calling her angel, sweeting, fondling, dove. And other nicknames in love's friv'lous waj*; While she, though their addresses still slie heard, Held back from all her heart, and still no beau preferr'd. AVhat, what! quo' Mag, must thus it be my doom To spend my prime in maidhood's joyless state, And waste away my sprightly body's bloom In spouseless solitude without a mate, Still toying with my suitors, as thej^ come Cringing in lowly courtship to my gate ? Fool that I am, to live unwed so long ! More fool, since I am woo'd by such a clam'rous throng ! 52 WILLIAM TENNANT. For was e'er heiress with much gold in chest, And dower'd with acres of wheat-bearing land, By such a pack of men, in am'rous quest, Fawningly spaniel'd to bestow her hand? Where'er I walk, the air that feeds my breast Is by the gusty sighs of lovers fann'd; Each wind that blows wafts love-cards to my lap, "Whilst I— ah, stupid Mag !— avoid each am'rous trap! Then come, let me my suitors' merits weigh. And in the worthiest lad my spouse select: — First, there's our Anster merchant, Norman Ray, A powder'd wight with golden buttons deck'd. That stinks with scent, and chats like popinjay, And struts with phiz tremendously erect: Four brigs has he, that on the broad sea swim, — He is a pompous fool — I cannot tliink of him. Next is the maltster Andrew Strang, that takes His seat i' the bailies' loft on Sabbath-day, "With paltry visage white as oaten-cakes. As if no blood runs gurgling in his clay; Heav'ns ! what an awkward hunch the fellow makes. As to the priest he does the bow repay! Yet he is rich — a very wealthy man, true — But, by the holy rood, I will have none of Andrew. Then for the lairds — there's IMelvil of Canibce, A handsome gallant, and a beau of spirit ; AVho can go down the dance so well as he ? And who can fiddle with siich manly merit? Ay, but he is too much the debauchee — His cheeks seem sponges oozing port and claret; In marrying him I should bestow myself ill. And so I'll not have you, thou fuddler, Hany I^Ielvil ! There's Cunningham of Bams, that still assails With verse and billet-doux my gentle heart, A bookish squire, and good at telling tales. That rhymes and whines of Cupid, flame, and dart; But, oh I his mouth a sorry smell exhales, Anil on his nose sjirouts horribly the wart; What though tliere be a fund of lore and fun in Iiira ? He has a rotten breath — I cannot think of Cun- ningham. Why then, there's AUardyce, that plies his suit And Iwittcry of courtship more and more; Spruce Lochmalonie, that with booted foot Each moniing wears the threshold of my door; Auclimoutie too, and Bruce, that persecute My tender heart with am'rous buffets sore: — ■ AVhom to my hand and bed should I promote? Eh-la! what sight is tliis ?— what ails my mustard- pot? Here broke the lady her soliloquy; For in a twink her jiot of mustard, lo! Self-moved, like Jove's wheel'd stool that rolls on high, 'Gan caper on her table to and fro. And hopp'd and fidgeted before her eye. Spontaneous, here and there, a wond'rous show : As leaps, instinct with mercury, a bladder. So leaps the mustard-pot of bonnie Maggie Lauder. Soon stopp'd its dance th' ignoble utensil, When from its round and small recess there came Thin curling wreaths of paly smoke, that still. Fed by some magic unapparent tlame, Moimt to the chamber's stucco'd roof, and fill Each nook with fragrance, and refresh the dame : Ne'er smelt a Phoenix-nest so sweet, I wot. As smelt the luscious fumes of Maggie's mustard- pot. It reeked censer-like; then, strange to tell! Forth from the smoke, that thick and thicker grows, A fairy of the height of half an ell. In dwarfish pomp, majestically rose: His feet, upon the table 'stablished well. Stood trim and splendid in their snake-skin hose; Gleam'd topaz-like the breeches he liad on. Whose waistband like the bend of summer rain- bow shone. His coat seem'd fashion'd of the threads of gold, That intertwine the clouds at sunset hour; And, certes. Iris with her shuttle bold AVove the rich garment in her lofty bower; To form its buttons were the Pleiads old Pluck'd from their sockets,sure by genie-power, And sew'd upon the coat's resplendent hem ; Its neck was lovely green, each cuff a sapi)hire gem. As when tlie churlish spirit of the Cape To Gama, voyaging to Mozambiijue, Up-popp'd from sea, a tangle-tassel'd shape. With mussels sticking inch-thick on his cheek, And 'gan with tortoise-shell his limbs to scrape. And yawn'd his monstrotis bloblicrlips to speak; Brave Gama's hairs stood bristled at the sight. And on the tarry deck sunk down his men with fright. So sudden (not so huge and gi-imly dire) Uprose to Maggie's stoinided ejiie the sprite. As fair a fairy as you could desire. With ruddy cheek, and chin and temjiles white; His eyes seem'd little points of sparkling fire. That, as ho look'd, charm'd with inviting Ught; WILLIAM TENNANT. 53 He was, indeed, as bonny a fay and brisk, As e'er on long moonbeam was seen to ride and frisk. Around his bosom, by a silken zone, A little bagpipe gracefully was bound. Whose pipes like hollow stalks of silver shone, The glist'ring tiny avenues of sound ; Beneath his arm the windy bag, full-blown, Heaved up its purple like an orange round. And only waited orders to discharge Its blast with charming groan into the sky at large. He wav'd his hand to Maggie, as she sat Amaz'd and startled on her carved chair; Then took his petty feather-garnish'd hat In honour to the lady from his hair. And made a bow so dignitiedly flat. That Mag was witched with his beauish air. At last he spoke, with voice so soft, so kind. So sweet, as if his throat with fidille-strings was hu'd:— Lady ! be not offended that I dare. Thus forward and unpertinently rude. Emerge, uncall'd, into the upper air. Intruding on a maiden's solitude. Nay, do not be alarm'd, thou lady fair! Why startle so?— I am a fairy good; Not one of those that, envying beauteous maids. Speckle their skins with moles, and fill with spleens their heads. For, as conceal'd in this clay-house of mine, I overheard thee in a lowly voice, Weighing thy lovers' merits, with design Now on the \vorthiest lad to fix thy choice, I have up-bolted from my paltry shrine. To give thee, sweet-ey'd lass, my best advice; For by the life of Oberon my king ! To pick good husband out is, sure, a ticklish thing. And never shall good Tommy Puck pemiit Such an assemblage of unwonted charms To cool some lecher's lewd licentious fit. And sleep imbounded by his boisterous amis: What though his fields by twenty ploughs be split, And golden wheat wave riches on his farms ? His house is shame — it cainiot, shall not be; A greater, happier doom, Mag, awaiteth thee. Strange are indeed the steps by which thou must Thy glory's happy eminence attain; But fate hath fix'd them, and 'tis fate's t' adjust The mighty links that ends to means enchain; Nor may poor Puck his little fingers thiiist Into the links to break Jove's steel in twain: Then, Maggie, hear, and let my words descend Into thy soul, for much it boots thee to attend. To-morrow, when o'er th' Isle of May the sun Lifts up his forehead bright with golden crown, Call to thine house the light-hccl'd men, that run Afar on messages for Anster Town, — Fellows of sp'rit, by none in speed outdone, Of lofty voice, enough a drum to drown, And bid them hie, post-haste, through all the nation. And publish, far and near, this famous procla- mation : — Let them proclaim, with voice's loudest tone. That on your next api^roaching market-day. Shall merry sports be held in Anster Loan, With celebi-ation notable and gay; And that a prize, than gold or precious stone More precious, shall the victor's toils repay, Ev'n thy own fomi with beauties so replete, — Nay, Maggie, stai-t not thus!— thy marriage-bed, my sweet. First, on the loan shall ride full many an ass, With stout whip-wielding rider on his back. Intent with twinkling hoof to pelt the grass. And pricking up his long ears at the crack ; Next o'er the ground the daring men shall pass, Half-coffin'd in their cumbranccs of sack. With heads just peeping from their shrines of bag. Horribly hobbling round, and straining hard for Mag. Then shall the pipers groaningly begin In squeaking rivalry their merry strain. Till Billyness shall echo back the din. And Innergelly woods shall ring again ; Last, let each man that hopes thy hand to win By witty product of prolific brain, Approach, and, confident of Pallas' aid. Claim by an hum'rous tale possession of thy bed. Such are the wondrous tests, by which, my love! The merits of thy husband must be tried, And he that shall in these superior jjrove (One proper husband shall the Fates provide), Shall from the loan with thee triumphant move Homeward, the jolly bridegroom and the bride. And at thy house shall eat the marriage-feast, When I'll pop up again! — Here Tommy Puck surceast. He ceas'd, and to his wee mouth, dewy wet, His bagpipe's tube of silver up he held. And underneath his down-press'd arm he set His purple bag, that with a tempest swell'd; He play'd and pip'd so sweet, that never yet Mag had a piper heard that Puck excell'd; Had Midas heard a tune so exquisite. By Heav'n! bis long base ears had quiver'd with delight. Tingle the fire-ir'ns, poker, tongs, and grate, Responsive to the blithesome melody; 54 WILLIAM TENNANT. The tables and the chairs inanimate Wish they had muscles now to trip it high; Wave back and forwards at a wondrous rate, The window-curtains, toxich'd with sympathy; Fork, knife, and trencher almost break their sloth. And caper on their ends upon the table-cloth. How then could Maggie, sprightly, smart, and young. Withstand that bagpipe's blithe awak'ning air? She, as her ear-drum caught the sounds, up-sprung Like lightning, and desj^is'd her idle chair. And into all the dance's graces flung The bounding members of her body fair; From nook to nook through all her room she tript. And whirl'd like whirligig, and reel'd, and bobb'd, and skipt. At last the little piper ceas'd to play. And deftly bow'd, and said, " My dear, good- night;" Then in a smoke evanish'd clean away, With all his gaudy apparatus bright; As breaks soap-bubble which a boy in play Blows from his short tobacco-pipe aright. So broke poor Puck from view, and on the spot Y-smoking aloes-reek he left his mustard-pot. Whereat the furious lady's wriggling feet Forgot to patter in such pelting ^vise, And down she gladly sunk upon her seat, Fatigu'd and panting from her exercise; She sat and mus'd awhile, as it was meet, On what so late had occupied her ej'es; Then to her bedroom went, and doff"d her gown. And laid upon her couch her charming person down. Some say that Maggie slept so sound that night. As never she had slept since she was born; But sure am I, that, thoughtful of the sprite, She twenty times upon her bed did turn; For still appear'd to stand before her sight The gaudy goblin, glorious from his urn. And still, within the cavern of her ear, Th' injunction echoing rung, so strict and strange to hear. But when the silver-hamess'd steeds, that draw The car of morning up th' empyreal height. Had snorted day upon North Berwick Law, And from then- gUst'ring loose manes toss'd the light. Immediately from bed she rose, (such awe Of Tommy press'd her soul with anxious weight, ) And donn'd her tissued fragrant morning vest. And to fulfil his charge her earliest care addrest. Straight to her house she tarried not to call Her messengers and heralds swift of foot, — Men skill'd to hop o'er dikes and ditches; all Gifted with sturdy brazen lungs to boot; She bade them halt at every town, and bawl Her proclamation out with mighty bruit. Inviting loud, to Anster Loan and Fair, The Scottish beau to jump for her sweet person there. They took each man his staff into his hand ; They buttou'd round their bellies close their coats; They flew divided through the frozen land ; — Were never seen such swiftly-trav'ling Scots I Nor ford, slough, mountain, could their speed withstand ; Such fleetness have the men that feed on oats! They skirr'd, they floundcr'd through the sleets and snows. And puff'd against the winds, that bit m spite each nose. They halted at each wall-fenc'd town renown'd. And ev'ry lesser borough of the nation ; And with the trumpet's welkin-rifting sound. And tuck of dnmi of loud reverberation, Tow'rds the four wings of heav'n, they, round and round, Proclaim'd in Stentor-like vociferation. That, on th' approaching day of Anster market. Should merry sports be held: — Hush! listen now, and hark it! — • " Ho! beau and pipers, wits and jumpers, ho! Ye buxom blades that like to kiss the las.ses; Ye that are skill'd sew'd up in sacks to go; Ye that excel in horsemanship of asses; Ye that are smart at telling tales, and know On Rhyme's two stilts to cnitch it up Parnassus; Ho I lads, your sacks, pipes, asses, tales, prepare To jump, play, ride, and rhyme at Anster Loan and Fair! ' ' First, on the green turf shall each ass draw nigh, Caparison'd or clouted for the race, With mounted rider, sedulous to ply Cudgel or whip, and win the foremost place; Next, shall th' advent 'rous men, that dare to try Their bodies' springiness in hempen ease, Put on their bags, and, with ridic'lous bound. And sweat and huge tunnoil, pass lab'ring o'er the ground. "Then shall the pipers, gentlemen o' the drone, Their pijies in gleesome competition screw. And grace, with loud solemnity of groan. Each his invented tune to th' audience new ; Last shall each witty bard, to whom is known The craft of Helicon's rhjTiie-jingling crew. His story tell in good poetic strains, And make his learned tongue the midwife to his brains. WILLIAM TENNANT. Oo "And he whose tongue the wittiest tale shall tell, Whose bagpipe shall the sweetest tune resound, Whose heels, the' cloggd with sack, shall jump it well, Whose ass shall foot with fleetest hoof the ground, He who from all the rest shall bear the bell. With victory in every trial crown'd, He (mark it, lads!) to Maggie Lauder's house That self-same night shall go, and take her for his spouse." Here ceas'd the criers of the sturdy lungs; But here the gossip Fame (whose body's pores Are nought but open ears and babbhng tongues, That gape and wriggle on her hide in scores), Began to jabber o'er each city's throngs, Blaz'ning the news through all the Scottish shores; Nor had°she blabb'd, methinks, so stoutly since Queen Dido's peace was broke by Troy's love- truaat prince. In every lowland vale and Highland glen She nois'd the approaching fun of Anster Fair; Ev'n when in sleep were laid the sons of men, Snoring away on good chaff beds their care, You might have heard her faintly murm'ring then, For lack of audience, to the midnight air. That from Fife's East Nook up to farthest Stor- noway. Fair Maggie's loud report most rapidly was borne away. And soon the mortals that design to strive By meritorious jumping for the prize. Train up their bodies, ere the day arrive. To th' lumpish sack-encumbei-'d exercise; You might have seen no less than four or five Hobbling in each town loan in awkward giiise; E'en little boys, when from the school let out, Mimick'd the' bigger beaux, and leap'd in pokes about. Through cots and gi-anges with industrious foot. By laird and knight were light-hcel'd asses sought. So that no ass of any gi-cat repute For twenty Scots marks could have then been bought; Nor e'er, before or since, the long-ear'd brute Was such a goodly acquisition thought. The pipers vex'd their ears and pipes, t' invent Some tune that might the taste of Anster Mag content. Each poet, too, whose lore-manured brain Is hot of soil, and sprouts up mushroom wit, Ponder'd his noddle into extreme pain T' excogitate some storj^ nice and fit: ^\^len rack'd had been his skull some hours in vain, He, to relax his mind a Uttle bit, Plung'd deep into a sack his precious body, And school'd it for the race, and hopp'd around his study. Such was the sore preparatory care Of all th' ambitious that for April sigh: Nor sigh the young alone for Anster Fair; Old men and wives, erewhile content to die. Who hardly can forsake their easy-chair. To take, abroad, farewell of sun and sky. With new desu-e of life now glowing, pray That they may just o'erlive our famous market- day. TAMMY LITTLE. Wee Tammy Little, honest man ! I kent the body weel, As round the kintra-side he gaed, Careerin' wi' his creel. He was sae slender and sae wee. That aye when blasts did blaw, He ballasted himself wi' staues 'Gainst bein' blawn awa. A meikle stane the wee bit man In ilka coat-pouch clappit, That by the michty gowlin' wind He miohtna doun be swappit. When he did chance within a wood, On simmer days to be, Aye he was friclited lest the craws "^ Should heise him up on hie; And aye he, wi' an aiken cud. The air did thump and beat, To stap the craws frae liftin' him Up to their nests for meat. Ae day, when in a barn he lay. And thrashers thrang were thair, He in a moment vanish'd aff. And nae man could tell whair. They lookit till the riggin' up. And round and round they lookit, At last they fand him underneath A firlot cruyled and crookit. Ance as big Samuel passed him by, Big Samuel gave a sneeze. And wi' the sough o't he was cast Clean doun upon his knees. His wife and he upon ane day Did chance to disagree. 56 WILLIAM TENNANT. And up she took the bellowses, As wild as wife could be; She gave ane pufF intill his face, And made him, like a feather, Flee frae the tac side o' the house, Eesoundiu' till the tither! Ae simmer e'en, when as he through Pitkirie forest past. By tliree braid leaves, blawn aff the trees. He doun to yird was cast; A tirl o' wind the three braid leaves Doun frae the forest dang: Ane frae an ash, ane frae an elm, Ane frae an aik-tree Strang; Ane strack him sair on the back-neck, Ane on the nose him rappit, Ane smote him on tlie vera heart, And doun as dead he drappil. But ah! but ah! a drearier dool Ance hap'd at Ounston-dammy, That heised him a' thegither up. And maist extinguished Tammy; For, as he cam slow-daunderin' doun, In's hand his basket hingin', And staiver'd ower the hei-road's breidth, Frae side to side a-swingin'; There cam a blast frae Kelly-laAv, As bald a blast as ever Auld snivelin' Boreas blew abraid, To mak' the warkl shiver; It liftit Tammy aff his feet, ]\Iair easy than a sliavin', And liurl'd him half-a-mile complete Hie up 'tween earth and heaven. That day puir Tammy had wi' stanes No ballasted his body, So that he flew, maist like a shot, Ower corn-land and ower cloddy. You've seen ane tumbler on a stage, Tumble sax times and mair, But Tammy Aveel sax hundred times Gaed tumblin' through the air. And whan the whirly-wind gave ower He frae the lift fell plumb, And in a blink stood stickin' fast In Gaffer Glowr-weel's lum. Ay — there his legs and body stack Amang the smotherin' soot, But, by a wonderfu' good luck. His head kept peepin' out. But Gaffer Glowr-weel, when he saw A man stuck in his lum. He swarf 'd wi' drithcr clean awa. And sat some seconds dumb. It took five masons near an hour A' riving at the lum Wi' picks, (he was sae jamm'd therein,) Ere Tammy out could come. As for his basket— weel I wat, His basket's fate and fa' AVas, as I've heard douce neighbors tell, The queerest thing of a'. The blast took up the body's creel xVnd laid it on a cloud. That bare it, sailin' through the sky, liicht ower the Firth's braid flood. And whan the cloud did melt awa. Then, then the creel cam' doun. And fell'd the toun-clerk o' Dunbar E'en in his ain gude toun; The clerk stood yelpin' on the street. At some bit strife that stirr'd him, Doun cam' the creel, and to the yird It dang him wi' a dirdora ! THE EPITAPH FOR TAMMY. Earth! Earth! if thou hast but A rabbit-hole to spair, grant the graff to Tammy's corp. That it may nestle thair! And press thou light on him, now dead. That was sae slim and wee. For wcel I wat, when ho was quick, He lightly pressed on thee! ODE TO PEACE. Daughter of God ! that sits on high. Amid the dances of the sky, And guidest with thy gentle sway The planets on their tuneful way; Sweet Peace! shall ne'er again The smile of thy most holy face, From thine ethereal dwelling-place llejoice the wretched weary race Of discord-breathing men? ALEXANDER EODGER. 57 Too long, gladness giving queen! Thy tanking in heaven has been; Too long o'er tiiis fair blooming world The flag of blood has been unfurled, Polluting God's pure day; "Whilst, as each maddening people reels, War onward drives his scythed wheels. And at his horse's bloody heels Shriek murder and dismay. Oft have I wept to hear the cry Of widow wailing bitterly; To see the parent's silent tear For children fallen beneath the spear; And I have felt so sore The sense of human guilt and woe, That 1, in virtue's passioned glow, Have cursed (my soul was wounded so) The shape of man I bore! Then come from thy serene abode. Thou gladness-giving child of God! And cease the world's ensanguined strife, And reconcile my soul to life; For much I long to see, Ere to the grave I down descend. Thy hand her blessed branch extend, And to the Avorld's remotest end Wave love and harmony! TO MY MOTHER'S SPIXNING-WHEEL. (written a few days after her death.) Lo! silent now and motionless, Within the corner stands The busy little engine once Mov'd by my mother's hands. I bought it for her, low and light, To turn in easy wise. Thereby t'invite her aged foot To gentle exercise. How gladsomely she sat her down Her self-set task to ply! How lightsomely, beside the hearth, Did winter evenings fly ! I question'd her of Thrift, and all Her linen-making toils; And she informed my ignorance All readily with smiles. Idle awhile the engine stood In autumn's jolly reign; She chid herself for idleness. And sought her wheel again. She spread the flax all smooth; she warp'd It round the distaff fair; — Alas! her hand ne'er touch'd the work — She died — and left it there! And now another hand must spin The flaxen remnant out; A foot of greater energy Must force the wheel about. No more my chamber with its hum. At eve, shall shaken be; A house-wife's thrift, a house-wife's toils, No more have charms for me ! Yet, little engine! though thy sound No more shall please mine ear. Yet ever to mine eye thou shalt Be a memorial dear. Ev'n for her sake that exercis'd Her aged foot on thee, I'll look on thee with love; and thou Shalt never part from me. ALEXANDER EODGEE. Born 1784— Died 1846. Alexander Eodger, some of whose songs have been \evy popular, was born at East- Calder, Mid-Lothian, July 16,1784. His father, at first a farmer, afterwards became tenant of an inn at Mid-Calder, where Alexander was sent to school. Five years later he removed to Edinburgh, and apprenticed his son to a silversmith there. In 1797 his affliirs became so much embarrassed that he removed to Ham- burg, and Alexander was sent to reside with relations in Glasgow, by whom he was appren- ticed to a weaver. In 1803 he was induced to join the Glasgow Highland Volunteers, a corps principally composed of Highlanders, and it became a favourite amusement with him to hit off the peculiarities of his Celtic com- 58 ALEXANDER EODGER. panions-in-arms. In 180G he married Agnes Turner, by whom lie had a large family, some of whom removed to theUnited States. Adding a little to his income by giving lessons in music, the peaceful tenor of the poet's life con- tinued unbroken nntil the year 1819, when he was led to connect himself with a Radical journal called the Spirit of the Union, ori- ginated with the design of creating disaffection to the government. The editor was trans- ported for life; the poet was convicted of re- volutionary practices, and sent to prison for a short time. Here his indignant spirit used to solace itself by singing aloud his own political compositions, which, being well spiced with Eadicalism, were exceedingly distasteful to his jailers. Soon after his release he obtained a situation in the Barrowfield Works as an in- spector of the cloths, which he retained for eleven years, and during this period he pro- duced some of his best poems. In 1832 he left this excellent position to engage with a friend in the pawnbroking business — avocation not at all suitable for the kind-hearted poet, who afterwards abandoned it, and obtained a situation in the Glasgow Chronicle office. In 1836 he removed to the Reformers Gazette office, where he remained until his death, highly esteemed by his employers and a wide circle of friends. Mr. Rodger's health began to fail during the summer of 1846, and he died on the 26th September of that year. A hand- some monument was erected over his remains in the Necropolis of Glasgow. Rodger's first appearance as an avowed author was in 1827, when a volume of his poems was published in Glasgow: and in 1838 a new and complete edition was issued. His poetry is a combination of humour and satire, and it is perhaps not too much to say that in his day he was the favourite lyric poet of the West of Scotland. In 1836 some two hundred of his admirers and fellow-citizens entertained him at a public dinner- in Glasgow, and handed him a small silver box of sovereigns, "a fruit not often found in much profusion on the barren though sunny sides and slopes of Par- nassus." SHON M'NAB. Kainsel pe Maister Shon M'Xab, Pe auld's ta forty-five, man. And mony troll affiiirs she's seen, Since she was born alive, man; She's seen the waiT turn upside doun, Ta shentleman turn poor man, And him was ance ta beggar loon. Get knocker 'pon him's door, man. She's seen ta stane bow't owre ta purn, And syne be ca'd ta prig, man; She's seen ta whig ta tory turn, Ta tory turn ta whig, man; But a' ta troll things she pe seen Wad teuk twa days to tell, man, So. gin you likes, she'll told you .shust Ta story 'bout hersel', man: — Nainsel was first ta herd ta kyes, 'Pon jMorven's ponnie praes, man, Whar tousand pleasant days she'll spent, Pe pu ta nits and slaes, man; An' ten she'll pe ta herring-poat, An' syne she'll pe fish-cod, man, Ta place tey'U call Newfoundhims-land, Pe far peyont ta proad, man. But, och-hon-ce! one misty night Nainsel will lost her way, man, Her poat was trown'd, hersel got fright. She'll mind till dying day, man. So fait! she'll pe fish-cod no more, But back to Morven cam', man, An* tere she'll turn ta whisky still, Pe prew ta wee trafj tram, man. But foul befa' ta ganger loon, Pe put her in ta shall, man, AVhar she wad stood for mony a day, Shust 'cause she no got bail, man; But out she'll got — nae matters hoo. And came to Glasgow toun, man, Whar tousand wonders mhor she'll saw. As she went up and doun, man. Te first thing she pe wonder at. As she cam' doun ta street, man, Was man's pe traw ta cart himsel, Shust 'pon him's nain twa feet, man. Och on! och on! her nainsel thought. As she wad stood and glower, man, Puir man! if they mak you ta horse — Should gang 'pon a' your/ozo', man. ALEXANDER RODGER. 59 And when she turned ta corner round. Ta black man tere she see, man, Pe grund ta music in ta kist, And sell him for pawbee, man; And aye she'll grund, and grund, and grund. And turn her mill about, man, Pe strange! she will put nothing in, Yet aye teuk music out, man. And when she'll saw ta people's walk In crowds alang ta street, man. She'll wonder whar tey a' got spoons To sup teir pick o meat, man; For in ta place whar she was porn, And tat right far awa, man, Ta teil a spoon in a' ta house. But only ane or twa, man. She glower to see ta mattams, too, AVi' plack clout on teir face, man, Tey surely tid some graceless teed, Pe in sic black discrace, man; Or else what for tey'U hing ta clout Owre prow, and cheek, and chin, man, If no for shame to show teir face. For some ungodly sin, man? Pe strange to see ta wee bit kirn Pe jaw the waters out, man. And ne'er rin dry, though she wad rin A' tay, like mountain spout, man: Pe stranger far to see ta lamps. Like spunkies in a raw, man, A' pruntin' pright for want o' oil, And teil a wick ava, man. Ta Glasgow folk be unco folk, Hae tealings wi' ta teil, man, — Wi' fire tey grund ta tait o' woo, Wi' fire tey card ta meal, man, \\"i fire tey spin, Avi' fire tey weave, AVi' fire do ilka turn, man; Xa, some of tern will eat ta fire, And no him's pelly purn, man. Wi' fire tey mak" ta coach be rin, Upon ta railman's raw, man, Kainsel will saw him teuk ta road. An' teil a horse to traw, man; Anither coach to Paisley rin, Tey'U call him Lauchie's motion. But oich! she was plawn a' to bits, By rascal rogue M-Splosion. Wi' fire tey mak' ta vessels rin Upon ta river Clyde, man, She saw't hersel, as sure's a gun, As she stood on ta side, man: But gin you'll no pelieve her word. Gang to ta Proomielaw, man. You'll saw ta ship wi' twa mill-wheels Pe grund ta water sma', man. Oich! sic a toun as Glasgow toun, She never see pefore, man, Te houses tere pe mile and mair, Wi' names 'pon ilka toor, man. An" in teir muckle windows tere, She'll saw't, sure's teath, for sale, man, Praw shentlemans pe want ta head, An' leddies want ta tail, man. She wonders what ta peoples do, Wi' a' ta praw things tere, man, Gie her ta prose, ta kilt, an' hose. For tem she wadna care, man. And aye gie her ta pickle sneesh, And wee drap barley pree, man, For a' ta praws in Glasgow toun, She no gie paw-prown-pee, man. BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK. Behave yourseV before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk. And dinna be sae rude to me. As kiss me sae before folk. It wadna gie me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane. But, guidsake! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, Whate'er you do when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk. Consider, lad, how folk will crack, ^ And what a great affair they'll mak' 0' naething but a simple smack. That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young, Occasion to come o'er folk. It's no through hatred o' a kiss That 1 sae plainly tell you this; But, losh: I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teazed before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk; When we're our lane ye may tak' ane. But fient a ane before folk. 60 ALEXANDEE EODGER. I'm sure wi' you I've been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it docsna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, I'll ne'er submit again to it — So mind you that — before folk. Ye tell mo that my face is fair; It may be sae — I dinna care — But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair As ye ha'e done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks. But aye be douce before folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; At ony rate, it's hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk; Gin that's the case, there's time and place. But surely no before folk. But gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae, get a license frae the priest. And mak' me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk. And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten — before folk. THE ANSWER. Can I behave, can I behave. Can I behave before folk, "When, wily elf, your sleeky self, Gars me gang gyte before folk? In a' ye do, in a' ye say, Ye've sic a pawkie, coaxing way, That my poor wits ye lead astray, An' ding me doilt before folk! Can I behave, &c., Can I behave, &c. ; AVhile ye ensnare, can I forbear To kiss you, though before folk? Can T behold that dimpling cheek, Whar love 'mang sunny smiles might beek. Yet, howlet-like, my e'e-lids steek, An' shun sic light, before folk? Can I behave, &c., Can I behave, &c., ■\Vhen ilka smile becomes a wile, Enticing me before folk? That lip, like Eve's forbidden fruit. Sweet, plump, and ripe, sae tempts me to't, That I maun pree't, though I should rue't. Ay, twenty times — before folk! Can I behave, &c., Can 1 behave, &c. , When temptingly it offers me. So rich a treat — before folk? That gowden hair sae sunny bright; That shapely neck o' snawy white; That tongue, even Avhen it tries to flyte, Provokes me till't before folk! Can I behave, &c.. Can I behave, &c.. When ilka charm, young, fresh, an' Avarm, Cries, " Kiss me now" — before folk] An' oh! that pawkie, rowin' e'e, Sae roguishly it blinks on me, I canna, for my saul, let be Frae kissing you before folk ! Can I behave, &c., Can I behave, &c. , AYlien ilka glint conveys a hint To tak' a smack — before folk ? Ye own that, were we baith our lane. Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane; Weel, gin there be nae harm iii't then. What harm is in't before folk? Can I behave, &c.. Can I behave, &c.? Sly hypocrite! an anchorite Could scarce desist — before folk! But after a' that has been said. Since ye are willing to be wed, AVe'U hae a " blythesome bridal " made. When ye'll be mine before folk! Then I'll behave, then I'll behave. Then I'll behave before folk; For whereas then ye'll aft get " ten,'' It winna be before folk! SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN. How brightly beams the bonnie moon Frae out the azure sky. While ilka little star aboon Seems sparkling bright wi' joy. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Gl How calm the eve! how blest the hour! How soft the sj'lvan scene! How fit to meet thee, lovely flower, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen! Now let us wander tlu'ough the broom. And o'er tlie flowery lea; AVhile simmer wafts her rich perfume Frae yonder hawthorn tree: There on yon mossy bank we'll rest, Where we've sae aften been, Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast. Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. How sweet to view that face so meek. That dark expressive eye; To kiss that lovely blushing cheek, Those lips of coral dye; But oh! to hear thy seraph strains. Thy maiden sighs between, Makes rapture thrill through all my veins, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. Oh! what to us is wealth or rank? Or what is pomp or power? More dear this velvet mossy bank. This blest ecstatic hour: I'd covet not the monarch's throne, Kor diamond-studded queen, AVhile blest wi' thee, and thee alone, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. EOBIN TAMSOX. My mither men't my auld brocks, An' avow! but they were duddy. And sent me to get Mally shod At Eobin Tamson's smiddy; The smiddy stands beside the burn That wimples through the clachan, — I never yet gae by the door But aye I fa' a-laughin! For Eobin was a walthy carle, And had ae bonnie dochter, Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man, Though mony lads had souglit her; And what think ye o' my exploit? The time our mare was shoeing I slippit up beside the lass. An' briskly fell a-wooing. An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks The time that we sat crackin' ; Quo' I, my lass, ne'er mind the clouts, Fve new anes for the makin'; But gin you'll just come hame wi' me, An' lea' the carle your father, Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim, Mysel' an' a' thegither. Deed, lad, quo' she, your offer's fair, I really tiiink I'll tak' it, Sae gang awa', get out the mare, We'll baith slip on the back o't; For gin I wait my father's time, I'll wait till I be fifty; But na, I'll marry in my prime. An' mak' a wife most thrifty. Wow ! Eobin was an angry man At tyning o' his dochter. Through a' the kintra-side he ran, An' far an' near he sought her; But when he cam' to our fire-end. An' fand us baith thegither. Quo' I, gudeman, I've ta'en your bairn. An' ye may tak' my mither. Auld Eobin girn'd, an' sheuk his pow, Guid sooth! quo' he, you're merry; But I'll just tak' ye at your word. An' end tliis hurry-burry; So Eobin an' our auld wife Agreed to creep thegither; Xow I hae Eobin Tamson's pet, An' Eobin has my mither. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Born 1784 — Died 1842. Allan Cunningham, who ranks next to Burns and Hogg as a writer of Scottish song, was descended from a long line of ancestors who were lords of that district of Ayrshire which still bears their name, until one of them lost the patrimonial estate by siding with Montrose during the wars of the Common- wealth. Allan Avas born at Blackwood, near 62 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Dumfries, December 7, 1784. He was the fourth son of John Cunningham, a shrewd, upright, and intelligent man, and Elizabeth Harley, a lady of elegant. personal accomplish- ments and good family. After receiving an ordinary education in the English branches at a school conducted by an enthusiastic Cameron- ian, Allan was apprenticed to his eldest brother James as a stone-mason; and he still continued to enjoy the benefit of his father's instruc- tions, Avhom he describes as possessing "a warm heart, lively fancy, benevolent humour, and pleasant happy wit." Allan appears also, from the multifarious knowledge which his earliest productions betoken, to have been at this time a careful reader of every book that came within his reach. He commenced the writing of poetry at a very early age, having been inspired by the numerous songs and ballads with which his native district of Nithsdale is stored. In 1790 his father became land- steward to Jlr. Millar of Dalswinton, and as Burns' farm of Ellisland was on the opposite side of the river Nith the young lad had oppor- tunities of meeting the distinguished poet, Avhose appearance and habits left an indelible impression on his mind. At the age of eigh- teen he made the acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd, who in his Reminiscences of Former Days gives a most interesting account of their first meeting. Hogg afterwards visited the Cunninghams at Dalswinton, and was greatly impressed with Allan's genius. In later days the Shephei'd sung his praise as a skilful Scot- tish poet in the "Queen's Wake:" — " Of the old elm liis harp was made, That bent o'er Cludeu's loneliest shade; No gilded sculpture round her flamed. For his own hand that harp had framed, lu stolen hours, when, labour done, lie strayed to view the parting sun. That harp could make the matron stare. Bristle the peasant's hoary liair, Make patriot-breasts with ardour glow, And warrior pant to meet the foe; And long by Nith the maidens young Sliall chant the strains their minstrel sung. At ewe-bucht, or at evening fold, When resting on the daisied wold. Combing their locks of waving gold, Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name Their lost, their darling Cunninghame; His was a song beloved in youth, A tale of weir, a tale of truth." Allan's brother Thomas, and his friend James Hogg, being contributors to the Scots Magazine, he was led to offer some poetical pieces to that periodical, which were at once accepted and published. When Cromek visited Dumfries in search of materials for his Reliques of Burns young Cunningham was pointed out to him as one who could aid him in the work, and the London engraver advised him to col- lect the minstrelsy of Nithsdale and Galloway. Soon after his return liome he received from Cunningham contributions of old songs which greatly delighted him, and he strongly recom- mended the young poet to come to London. Allan followed his advice, and was intrusted with editing the volume which appeared in 1810, entitled Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song. But the best of these, and especially the " Mermaid of Galloway," were the production of Cunningham's own pen, a fact which the sagacity of the Ettrick Shep- herd and Professor AVilson soon detected and demonstrated, very much to the advantage of the young poet. Cromek did not survive to learn the imposition which had been practised upon him. After the appearance of this work Cunningham was employed writing for the London press, but this proving a precarious source of income he returned to his original vocation, obtaining an engagement in the establishment of Sir Francis Chantrey, over which he soon became the superintendent. He retained this congenial position, where he was brought in contact with men of genius — artists, authors, soldiers, and statesmen — up to the date of his death, a period of nearly thirty years. His warm heart, his honest, upright, and independent character, attracted the affec- tionate esteem and respect of all who enjoyed the acquaintance of "honest Allan/' as Sir Walter Scott commonly called him. Although faithfully devoted to business, being not unfrequently occupied at the studio twelve hours a day, Cunningham soon became favourably knoAvn as a poet and man of letters. In 1813 he gave to the world a volume of lyrics entitled Songs chiefly in the Rural Lan- guage of Scotland, followed in 1822 by "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," a dramatic poem founded on Border storj' and superstition. Sir Walter Scott, to whom the author had sent the MS. of this work for perusal, considered it ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 63 a beautiful dramatic poem rather than a play, and therefore better fitted for the closet than the stage. His next publication was two vol- umes of Traditional Tales, which he had con- tributed to Blackwood's and the London Maga- zines from 1819 to 1824. This was followed in 1825 by his valuable work the SonDjs, The Ughtaing fishing free — While the hoUow oak owr palbee is. Out hoitage the sea. THE LOTELT LASS OF PEESTO^T : : : L 1 Tbe lark had left the ereniog clcnid. The dcTs" fell saft, the -wind iras loiinie. Its g-ent]e l^eaih amwiTifr tjje flotrers Scarce sftnT'd the thistle's tap of do^m; The dappled swallow left the pool. The stare were >»'HnVm£r o'er the hin^ VrbaQ I met, among: the hawthorns greeai, Tite loTidj lass of PrestoB-mill. Hs- tasked feet smssis: the grass Shane Hke two dewy EBes fair; Her brow beam'd white aneath her loeks;. Black CTirling: o'er h^- ^>c«alders bare; Her cheeks w«« rich wf Wocany youth, H^- lips had wcBpds and wit at wili, Ajid hea^swsn aeeam'd looking tiirongh ha- een. The lovdly lass of Preston-milL Quoth I, Fair lass, wDt thon gra.ng wf me, Whes>e Madk-c>ocks crow, and ploTer? cry ? Six hills are woolly wi' my ^leep. Six TaJles are lowjiig wf my kye. I haxe look'd laikg- for a wed-faar'd ^Si, By Xidasdale's bohaas, anrd maBy a ^il^ — She hTOrtg- h**- head hke a dew-tent rose. The loTely lass of Preston-miiL I aid. Sweet matden, look nae down. Bat gie's a kiss, and eorae with me; A lowdlier f aoe O ne'er look'd lap, — Tbe tiears were dn^niing^ Jbae her e'e. I hae a Sad wim s iEar a«m% . mtat wedl eoold win a wicHBaffl's wM; My heart's alreaidhr Ml of Uve, — Quoth the lloTeay Ib^ of PrestiaiHmllL Now who is be ooold ieare ^ a l^s. And seek £ar h>Te in a far comntnel Her tears dropp'd down like smmer dew; I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e. I toot ae kiss o' her oomelT cheek — For pity's sake, kind ar, te still; My heart is full of other lore, Quaoi^ the loTely lass erf Preston-mill. She staieet'd to hea^raai her twa white hands. And lifted up ho- wateiy e"e — Sae Tang's my heart, kens aught o* God, Or light is gladsome io my e'e; While woods grow green, and bums ran clear. Tin my last drop of blood be still, Mt heart ^aH haud nae other lore, Quoli the lorely lass of Pre5t<>n-miIL There's eomelx maids on ]>ee"s wild banks. And 2viiii"s romantic rale is fu"; I V Ae and Clouden's hermit streams PweHs many a gentile dame, I trow. O! they are lights of a bonnie kind. As erer shone on Tale and hill. But there's ae light puts them all out, — The loTelr lass of Pre5t.on-milL rrS HAME, AST) IT'S HAME. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' its itarae, hame, harae, to my ain oountrie! When the iftowea- is f the bud, and the leaf is on ^&B tree. The talk ^iaffl siiag ime hame in my ain countrie; It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my sin countne3 The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning fcsr to fa% Tfee bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; But m watert wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie. An' green it wiH grow in my ain countrie. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain "wad I he. Am' it's laame, hame, hame, to my ain eountiie! Theie's naught now frae rain my country can saT^e, Bat the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave. That a" the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie. May rise again and fight for their ain eountrie. It's hame, and it's hame. hame fain wad I be, Amd it's hame, hame, hame, to my a^ eountrie ' TThe great now are gane, a' who ventured to save; T5ie new grass is springing on the tap 0' their grave; But the sam through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e: " m dame on ye yet in your ain countrie.'' IPs laaste, an' its hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hanae, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!! ro ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. MY XAXIE, 0. Pvcd rows the Xith 'tween bank and brae, Mirk is the night, and rainie, O, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, 111 gang and see my Xanie, 0; My Xanie, 0, my Xanie, 0; My kind and winsome Xanie, 0, She holds my heart in love's dear bands, And nane can do't but Nanie, 0. In preaching time sae meek she stands, Sae saintly and sae bonnie, 0, I cannot get ae glimpse of grace, For thieving looks at Nanie, 0; My Xanie, 0, my Xanie, ; The world's in love with Xanie, 0; That heart is hardly worth the wear That wadna love my Xanie, 0. My breast can scarce contain my heart. When dancing she moves finely, 0; I guess what heaven is by her eyes. They sparkle sae divinely, 0; My Xanie, 0, my Xanie, 0; The flower o' Xithsdale's Xanie, ; Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, And says, I dwell with Xanie, 0. Tell not, thou star at gray daylight. O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie, 0, My footsteps 'mang the morning dew. When coming frae my Xanie, 0; My Xanie, 0, my Xanie. 0; Xane ken o' me and Xanie, ; The stars and moon may tell't aboon, They winna wrang my Xanie, ! SATURDAY'S SUX. Saturday's sun sinks down with a smile On one who is weary and worn with his toil! — Warmer is the kiss which his kind wife receives, Fonder the look to his bonnie bairns be gives; His gude mother is glad, though her race is nigh run. To smile wi' the weans at the setting of the sun: The voice of prayer is heard, and the holy psalm tune, ■Wha wadna be glad when the sun gangs down ? Thy cheeks, my leal wife, may not keep the ripe glow Of sweet seventeen, when thy locks are like snow. Though the sweet blinks of love are most flown frae thy e'e. Thou art faii-er and dearer than ever to me. I mind when I thought that the sun didna shine On a form half so fair or a face so divine; Thou wert woo'd in the parloiu", and sought in the ha'; I came and I won thee frae the wit o' them a'. My hame is my mailen, weel stocket and fu'. My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I lo'e; My wife is the gold and delight of my e'e. And worth a whole lordship of mailens to me. 0, who would fade away Uke a flower in the dew, Aud no leave a sprout for kind Heaven to pu' i Who would rot 'mang the mools like the stump of a tree, Wi' nae shoots the pride of the forest to be? AWAKE, MY LOVE. Awake, my love! ere morning's ray Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray; Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view, Licks from her fleece the clover dew; Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings. By hunters roused from secret springs; Or birds upon the boughs awake. Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake! She comb'd her cm-ling ringlets down, Laced her green jupes and clasp'd her shoon, And from her home by Preston bum Came forth, the rival light of mom. The lark's song dropt, now lowne, now hush — The gold-spink answered from the bush — The plover, fed on heather crop, CaU'd from the misty mountain top. 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day Grows into gold from silveiy gray. To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake, Instinct with soul of song awake — To see the smoke, in many a -wTeath, Stream blue from hall and bower beneath. Where yon bUthe mower hastes along With glittering scythe and rustic song. Yes, lonely one! and dost thou mark The moral of yon caroUng iark ? Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue The warning precept of her song ? Each bird that shakes the dewy grove Warms its wild note with nuptial love — The bird, the bee, with various sound, Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round. ALLAN CUNNIXGHA]SL THE THISTLE'S GROWX ABOOX THE EOSE. Full white the Bourbon lily blows. And fairer haughty England's rose; i^or shall unsung the symbol smile. Green Ireland, of thy lovely isle. In Scotland grows a warlike flower. Too rough to bloom in lady's bower; His crest, when high the soldier bears. And spurs his courser on the spears, O: there it blossoms — there it blows, — The thistle's grown aboon the rose. Bright like a steadfast star it smiles Aboon the battle's burning files: The mirkest cloud, the darkest night, Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous light; And the best blood that warms my vein Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain. Far has it shone on fields of fame, From matchless Bruce till dauntless Grasme, From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows; — The thistle's grown aboon the rose. "^hat conquer'd ay, what nobly spared, \Vhat firm endured, and greatly dared? "What redden'd Eg}-pt's burning sand? What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand ? What pipe on green Maida blew shrill? What dyed in blood Barossa hill ? Bade France's dearest life-blood rue Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo? That spirit which no terror knows: — The thistle's grown aboon the rose. I vow — and let men mete the grass For his red grave who dares say less — Men kinder at the festive board, ;Men braver with the spear and sword, Men higher famed for truth— more strong In virtue, sovereign sense, and song, Or maids more fair, or wives more true, Than Scotland's, ne'er trode down the dew. Round flies the song— the flagon flows, — The thistle's grown aboon the rose. ! gladness comes to many, But sorrow comes to me. As I look o'er the wide ocean To my ain countrie. 0! it's nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e, But the love I left in Galloway, Wi" bonnie bairnies three. My hamely hearth burnt bonnie. An' smiled my fair Marie; I've left my heart behind me In my ain countrie. The bud comes back to summer. And the blossom to the bee; But 111 win back— never. To my ain countrie. I'm leal to the high Heaven, Which will be leal to me. An' there I'll meet ye a' sune Frae my ain countrie. THE SUX RISES BRIGHT IX FRANCE. The sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countrie. BOXXIE LADY AXX. There's kames o" hinnie 'tween my luve's lips. And gowd amang her hair; Her breists are lapt in a holy vail; Xae mortal een keek there. What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch. Or what arm o' luve daur span, The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe. Or the waist o' Lady Ann? She kisses the lips o' her bontiie red rose, Wat wi' the blobs o' dew; But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip. Maun touch her ladie mou'. But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gowd, Her jimpy waist maun span: Oh: she's an armfu' fit for heeven — My bonnie Lady Ann. Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers. Tied up wi' siller thread; And comely sits she in the midst. Men's langing een to feed: She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, Wi' her milky, milky hand; An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger of God, My bonnie Lady Ann. The mornin' clud is tasselt wi' gowd. Like my luve's broidered cap; And on the mantle that my luve wears Is mony a gowden drap. n JOHN WILSON. Her bonny e'e-bree's a holy arch, Cast by nae earthly han'! And the breath o' heaven is at ween the lips 0' my bonnie Lady Ann. I wonderin' gaze on her stately steps, And I beet a hopeless flame! To my hive, alas! she maunna stoop: It would stain her honoured name. ]\Iy een are bauld, they dwall on a place Where I daurna mint my hand; But T water, and tend, and kiss the flowers U' my bonnie Lady Ann. I'm but her father's gardener lad, And puir, puir is my fa'; My auld mither gets my wee wee fee, Wi' fatlierless Ijairnies twa. My lady comes, my lady gaes, VVi' a fou and kindly han'; 0! their blessin' maun mix wi' my luve. And fa' on Lady Ann. JOHN WILSON, Born 1785 — Died 185L John Wilson, the distinguished poet, novel- ist, and miscellaneous writer, was born at Paisley, May 18, 1785. His father was a prosperous gauze manufacturer in that town, and his mother, Margaret Sym, belonged to a wealthy Glasgow family. The boy's elemen- tary education was received first at a school in Paisley, and afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a parish in Renfrewshire. In this rural situation the youth conned his lessons within doors; but the chief training for his future sphere consisted in many a long ramble among the beautiful scenery with which he was surrounded, and the frolics or conversa- tion of the peasautrj', among whom he soon became a general favourite. At the age of thirteen he was sent to the University of Glas- gow, where he studied Greek and logic during three sessions under Professors Young and .lardine, and to the training especially of the latter he was indebted for those mental impulses which he afterwards prosecuted so successfully. In June, 1803, he entered Mag- dalen College, Oxford, as a gentleman-com- moner;, and there his diligence was attested by the knowledge of the best classical writei's of antiquity -which he afterwards displayed, and his native genius by the production of an English poem of fifty lines, which gained for him the Newdigate prize. In other kinds of college exercises — as boxing, leaping, run- ning, rowing, and other athletic sports — he was also greatly distinguished. Having at the age of twenty-one succeeded to a consider- able fortune by the death of his father, he purchased the beautiful estate of EUeray, in Cumberland, 'where he went to reside on leaving Oxford in 1807. Here he was at liberty to enjoy all the varied delights of poetic meditation, of congenial society, and of those endless out-door recreations which con- stituted no small part of his life. Five years after purchasing the Windermere property he married Miss Jane Penny, the daughter of a wealthy Liverpool merchant. Wilson on leaving college resolved to become a member of the Scottish bar, and after the usual studies he was enrolled an advocate in 1815. It must not, however, be supposed that he was either the most anxious or industrious of barristers. In the same year the unfaith- ful stewardship of a maternal uncle deprived him of his fortune, and obliged him to remove from EUeray to Edinburgh. He had before this begun his literary and poetic career by the publication of an elegy on the death of the Rev. James Grahame, author of the "Sabbath," with which Joanna Baillie Avas so much pleased that she wrote to Sir Walter Scott for the name of the author. He also composed some beau-" tiful stanzas entitled "The Magic Mirror," which appeared in the Annual Rerjlster for 1812. During the same year he produced The Isle of Palms, and other Poems, which at once stamped their author as one of the poets of the Lake school; but much as the "Isle of Palms" A. Scott ja-iider. R.S.A Gecrye :ic2.'; JOHN WILSON. was admired in its day it has failed to endure the test of time. In 1816 h& produced " The City of the Plague," a dramatic poem which even the envious Lord Byron placed among the great works of the age. But it too has failed to secure that enduring popularity accorded to the poems of his great contempo- raries. Wilson's next publications were prose tales and sketches, entitled Lights and Sha- dows of Scottish L'/e, The Foresters, and The Trials of 3Iargai-et Lindsay. On the estab- lishment of Blackwood's Magazine in 1817 a new sphere of literary life, and one for which his future career proved he was as Avell fitted as any author then living, was opened to him. The magazine was started as the champion of Tory principles, in opposition to the Edinburgh Beview, and so marked was the influence he exercised on its fortunes for upwards of a quarter of a century that he was universally regarded as its editor, although Mr. Blackwood the publisher performed the duties of that office himself. "Christopher North" was, however, the living soul and support of the magazine, so that in spite of all denials he continued to be proclaimed on both sides of the Atlantic the editor of Maga, In 1820 he offered himself as a candidate for the chair of moral philosophy in the Uni- versity of Edinburgh, made vacant by the death of Dr. Thomas Brown, and notwith- standing an amount of opposition unprece- dented in such an election, Wilson, to the general surprise of all classes, was elected. His competitor was no less a person than Sir William Hamilton, who, it appears, was the students' choice. The professor's first lecture is thus described by an eyewitness: — •" There was a furious bitterness of feeling against him (Wilson) among the classes of which probably most of his pupils would consist, and although I had no prospect of being among them I went to his first lecture, prepared to join in a cabal which I understood was formed to put him down. The lecture -room was crowded to the ceiling. Such a collection of hard-browed scowling Scotchmen, muttering OA'er their knobsticks, I never saw. The professor entered with a bold step amid profound silence. Everyone expected some deprecatory or propi- tiatory introduction of himself and his subject, upon which the mass was to decide against him, reason or no reason; but he began in a voice of thunder right into the matter of his lecture, kept up unflinchingly and unhesitat- ingly, without a pause, a flow of rhetoric such as Dugald Stewart or Thomas Brown, his pre- decessors, never delivered in the same place. Not a word, not a murmur escaped his capti- vated, I ought to say his conquered audience, and at the end they gave him a right-down unanimous burst of applause. Those who came to scoff remained to praise." Wilson occupied this important chair for thirty years. In 1851 he received a pension from the govern- ment of £300 per annum, and in the same year he resigned his professorship without making the usual claim of a retiring allowance. Till within a short period preceding his death he resided during the summer months at EUeray, where he dispensed a princely hospi- tality, and his splendid regattas on Lake Win- dermere won for him the title of "Admiral of the Lake." He died at his residence in Glou- cester Place, Edinburgh, April 3, 1854. His remains were interred in the Dean Cemetery, and the funeral, which was a public one, was attended by thousands, who thus testified their respect for one of the noblest Scotchmen of the nineteenth century. In February, 1865, a noble statue of Wilson, executed in bronze by John Steell of Edinburgh, was erected in that city on the same day that a marble statue of Allan Kamsay, by the same distinguished artist, was inaugurated. In 1825 Wilson's entire poetical works were published in two volumes, followed in 1842 by three volumes of prose contributions to Black- wood's Magazine, under the title o{ Recreations of Christopher North. After his death a com- plete edition of his Avorks, under the editorial supervision of his son-in-law Professor Ferrier, was published ; and in 1862 appeared an interesting memoir of his life by his daughter, the late Mrs. Gordon. The poetical productions of John Wilson, by which he commenced his career as an aspirant for the honours of authorship, notwithstand- ing their many beauties, will not preserve his name; his fame rests more securely upon those matchless papers which appeared through a long series of years in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine. "By nature," says an eminent writer, "Wilson was Scotland's brightest sun 74 JOHN WILSON. save Burns; and he, Scott, and Burns must rank everlastingly together as the first three of her men of genius." " His poems," writes Mrs. S. C. Hall, "are full of beauty: they have all the freshness of the heather: a true relish for nature breaks out in all of them: they are the earnest breathings of a happy and buoyant spirit: a giving out, as it were, of the breath that had been inhaled among the moun- tains." A LAY OF FAIRY-LAND. It is upon the Sabbath-day, at rising of the sun. That to Glenmore's black forest-side a shep- herdess hath gone. From eagle and from raven to guard her little flock, And read her Bible as she sits on greensward or on rock. Her widow-mother wept to hear her whispered prayer so sweet, Then through the silence bless'd the sound of her soft parting feet ; And thought, " While thou art praising God amid the hills so calm, Far ofl" this broken voice, my child! will. Join the morning psalm." So doAvn upon her rushy couch her moisten'd cheek she laid, And away into the morning hush is flown her Highland maid ; In heaven the stars are all bedim'd, but in its dewy mirth A star more beautiful than they is shining on the earth. In the deep mountain-hollow the dreamy day is done. For close the peace of Sabbath brings the rise and set of sun; The mother through her lowly door looks forth unto the green. Yet the shadow of her shepherdess is nowhere to be seen. Within her loving bosom stirs one faint throb of fear— "Oh! why so late!" — a footstep — and she knows her child is near; So out into the evening the gladden'd mother goes. And between her and the crimson light her daughter's beauty glows. The heather-balm is fragrant — the heather- bloom is fair. But 'tis neither heather-balm nor bloom that wreathes round Mhairi's hair; Round her white brows so innocent, and her blue quiet eyes That look out bright, in smiling light, beneath the flowery dies. These flowers by far too beautiful among our hills to grow. These gem-crowned stalks too tender to bear one flake of snow, Not all the glens of Caledon could yield so bright a band, That in its lustre breathes and blooms of some warm foreign land. " The hawk hath long been sleeping upon the pillar-stone, And what hath kept my Mhairi in the moor- lands all alone? And where got slie those lovely flowers mine old eyes dimly see? Where'er they grew, it must have been upon a lovely tree." " Sit down beneath our elder-shade, and I my tale will tell"— And speaking, on her mother's lap the wond- rous chaplet fell; It seemed as if its blissful breath did her worn heart restore. Till the faded eyes of age did beam as they had beamed of yore. " The day was something dim— but the graci- ous sunshine fell On me, and on my sheep and lambs, and our own little dell, Some lay down in the warmth, and some began to feed. And I took out the holy Book, and thereupon did read. JOHN WILSON, 75 "And -while that I was reading of Him who for us died, And blood and water shed for us from out liis blessed side, An angel's voice above my head came singing o'er and o'er, In Abenethy-wood it sank, now rose in dark Glenmore. " Mid lonely hills, on Sabbath, all by myself, to hear That voice, unto my beating heart did bring a joyful fear; For well I knew the wild song that wavered o'er my head j\Iust be from some celestial thing, or from the happy dead. " I looked up from my Bible, and lo! before me stood. In her green graceful garments, the Lady of the Wood ; Silent she was and motionless, but when her eyes met mine, I knew she came to do me good, her smile was so divine. " She laid her hand as soft as light upon your daughter's hair, And up that white arm flowed my heart into her bosom fair; And all at once I loved her well as she my mate had been, Though she had come from Fairy Land and was the Fairy Queen." Then started Mhairi's mother at that wild M'ord of fear, For a daughter had been lost to her for many a hopeless year; The child had gone at sunrise among the hills to roam, But many a sunset since had been, and none hath brought her home. Some thought that Fhaum, the savage shape that on the mountain dwells. Had somewhere left her lying dead among the heather-bells, And others said the River red had caught her in her glee, And her fair body swept unseen into the unseen sea. But thoughts come to a mother's breast a mother only knows. And grief, although it never dies, in fancy finds repose; By day she feels the dismal truth that death has ta'en her child, At night she hears her singing still and danc- ing o'er the wild. And then her country's legends lend all their lovely faith, Till sleep reveals a silent land, but not a land of death — Where, happy in her innocence, her living child doth play With those fair elves that wafted her from her own world away. "Look not so mournful, mother! 'tis not a tale of woe — The Fairy Queen stooped down and left a kiss upon my brow. And faster than mine own two doves e'er stoop'd unto my hand. Our flight was through the ether — then we dropt on Fairy -land. "Along a river-side that ran wide-winding thro' a wood, We walked, the Fairy Queen and I, in loving solitude; And there, serenely on the trees, in all their rich attire, Sat crested birds whose plumage seem'd to burn with harmless fire. "No sound was in our steps, — as on the ether mute — For the velvet moss lay greenly deep beneath the gliding foot, Till we came to a waterfall, and 'mid the rain- bow, there The mermaids and the fairies played in water and in air. "And sure there was sweet singing, for it at once did breathe From all the woods and waters, and from the caves beneath ; But when those happy creatures beheld their lovely queen, The music died away at once, as if it ne'er had been, — "And hovering in the rainbow and floating on the wave. Each little head so beautiful, some show of homage gave. And bending down bright lengths of hair that glisten'd in its dew. Seemed as the sun ten thousand rays against the water threw. 76 JOHN WILSON. " Soft the music rose again — but Ave left it far behind, Though strains o'ertook us now and then, on some small breath of wind; Our guide into that brightening bliss was aye that brightening stream, Till lo! a palace silently unfolded like a dream. "Then thought I of the lovely tales, and music lovelier still. My elder sister used to sing at evening on the hill, When I was but a little child, too young to watch the sheep, And on her kind knees laid my head in very joy to sleep. "Tales of the silent people, and their green silent land ! —But the gates of that bright Palace did sud- denly expand. And filled with green-robed Fairies was seen an ample hall. Where she who held my hand in hers was the loveliest of them all. "Eound her in happy heavings flowed that bright glistering crowd. Yet though a thousand voices hailed, the murmur was not loud, And o'er their plum'd and flowery heads there sang a whispering breeze. When as before their Queen all sank, down slowly on their knees. "Then said the Queen, 'Seven years to-day since mine own infant's birth — ■ And we must send her Nourice this evening back to earth ; Though sweet her home beneath the sun — far other home than this — So I have brought her sister small, to see hei' in her bliss. " 'Luhana! bind thy frontlet upon my Mhairi's brow, That she on earth may show the flowers that in our gardens grow.' And from the heavenly odours breathed round my head, I knew How delicate must be their shape, how beau- tiful their hue! "Then near and nearer still I heard small peals of laughter sweet. And the infant Fay came dancing in with her white twinkling feet, While in green rows the smiling Elves fell back on either side. And up that avenue the Fay did like a sun- beam glide. "But who came then into tlio \ia\l1 one long since mourned as dead ! t Oh! never had the mould been strewn o'er such a star-like head! On me alone she pour'd her voice, on me alone her eyes. And, as she gazed, I thought upon the deep- blue cloudless skies. " Well knew I my fair siater! and her unfor- gotten face ! Strange meeting one so beautiful in that bewildering place! And like tAvo solitary rills that by themselves flowed on, And had been long divided — we melted into one. "When that the shower Avas all Avept out of our delightful tears. And love rose in our hearts that had been buried there for years. You well may think another shoAver straight- way began to fall. Even for our mother and our home to leave, to leave that heaA'cnly Hall ! "I may not tell the sobbing and Aveeping that was there. And hoAv the mortal Nourice left her fairy in despair. But promised, duly every year, to visit the sad child. As soon as by our forest-side the first pale primrose smiled. "While they two Avere embracing, the Palace it Avas gone. And I and my dear sister stood by the great Burial-stone; While both of us our river saAV in twilight glimmering by, And kncAV at once the dark Cairngorm in his OAvn silent sky." The child hath long been speaking to one avIio may not hear. For a deadly joy came suddenly upon a deadly fear. And though the mother fell not doAvn, she lay on Mhairi's breast, And her face AA'as Avhite as that of one Avhose Boul has gone to rest. JOHN WILSON. 77 She sits beneath the elder-shade in that long mortal swoon. And piteously on her wan cheek looks down the gentle moon; And when her senses are restored, whom sees she at her side, But Her believed in childhood to have wan- dered off and died ! In these small hands, so lilj'-white, is water from the spring, And a grateful coolness drops from it as from an angel's wing, And to her mother's pale lips her rosy lips are laid, AVhile these long soft eye-lashes drop tears on her hoary head. She stirs not in her child's embrace, but yields her old gray hairs Unto the heavenly dew of tears, the heavenly breath of prayers — Ifo voice hath she to bless her child, till that strong fit go by. But gazeth on the long-lost face, and then upon the sky. The Sabbath morn was beautiful — and the long Sabbath-day — The evening-star rose beautiful when day-light died away; Morn, day, and twilight, this lone Glen flowed over with delight, But the fulness of all mortal joy hath blessed the Sabbath night. MY COTTAGE. " One small spot Where my tired mind may rest and call it hcnne. There is a magic in that little word ; It is a mystic circle that surrounds Comforts and virtues never known beyond The hallowed limit." Socthet's Bymn to the Penates. Here have I found at last a home of peace To hide me from the world; far from its noise, To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from earth, And linked to human beings by the bond Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim Than perishable joy, and through the calm That sleeps amid the mountain-soUtude, Can hear the billows of eternity, And hear delighted. Many a mystic gleam. Lovely though faint, of imaged happiness Fell on my youthful heart, as oft her light Smiles on a wandering cloud, ere the fair moon Hath risen in the sky. And oh! ye dreams That to such spiritual happiness could shape The lonely reveries of my boyish days, Are ye at last fulfilled ? Ye fairy scenes. That to the doubting gaze of prophecy Rose lovely, with your fields of sunny green, Your sparkling rivulets and hanging groves Of more than rainbow lustre, where the swing Of woods primeval darkened the still depth Of lakes bold-sweeping round their guardian hills Even like the arms of Ocean, where the roar Sullen and far from mountain cataract Was heard amid the silence, like a thought Of solemn mood that tames the dancing soul When swarming with delights; — ye faii-y scenes! Fancied no more, but bursting on my heart In li^ang beauty, ■with adoring song I bid you hail ! and with as holy love As ever beautified the eye of saint Hymning his midnight orisons, to you I consecrate my life, — till the dim stain Left by those worldly and unhallowed thoughts That taint the purest soul, by bliss destroyed, My spirit travel Uke a summer sun, Itself all glory, and its path all joy. Nor will the musing penance of the soul, Performed by moonlight, or the setting sun, To hymn of swinging oak, or the wild flow Of mountain torrent, ever lead her on To virtue, but through peace. For Nature speaks A parent's language, and, in tones as mild As e'er hushed infant on its mother's breast. Wins us to learn her lore. Yea! even to guilt. Though in her image something terrible Weigh down his being with a load of awe, Love mingles with her wrath, like tender light Streamed o'er a dying storm. And thus where'er ]\Ian feels as man, the earth is beautiful. His blessings sanctify even senseless things, And the wide world in cheerful loveliness ^ Returns to him its joy. The summer air, Wliose glittering stillness sleeps within his soul, Stu's wdth its own delight : the verdant earth, Like beauty waking from a happy dream. Lies smiling : each fair cloud to him appears A pilgrim travelling to the shrine of peace; And the wild wave, that wantons on the sea, A gay though homeless stranger. Ever blest The man who thus beholds the golden chain Linking his soul to outward Nature fair. Full of the hving God ! And where, ye haunts Of grandeur and of beauty! shall the heart, That yearns for high communion with its God, Abide, if e'er its dreams have been of you ? The loveliest sounds, forms, hues, of all the earth Linger delighted here: here guilt might come. 78 JOHN WILSON. With sullen soul abhorring Nature's joy, And in a moment be restored to Heaven. Here sorrow, with a dimness o'er his face, Might be beguiled to smiles,— almost forget His sufferings, and, in Nature's living book, Read characters so lovely, that his heart Would, as it blessed them, feel a rising swell Almost like joy!— earthly paradise! Of many a secret anguish hast thou healed Him, who now greets thee with a joyful strain. And oh! if in those elevated hopes That lean on virtue,— in those high resolves That bring the future close upon the soul, And nobly dare its dangers; — if in joy Whose vital spring is more than innocence, Yea! faith and adoration! — if the soul Of man may trust to these — and they are strong. Strong as the prayer of dying penitent, — My being shall be bhss. For witness, Thou! Oh mighty One! whose saving love has stolen On the deep peace of moonbeams to my heart, — Thou! who with looks of mercy oft hast cheered The starry silence, when, at noon of night, On some wild mountain thou hast not declined The homage of thy lonely worshipper, — Bear witness. Thou! that, both in joy and grief. The love of nature long hath been with me The love of virtue: — that the solitude Of the remotest hills to me hath been Thy temple:— that the fountain's happy voice Hath sung thy goodness, and thy power has stunned My spirit in the roaring cataract! Such solitude to me! Yet are there hearts, — Worthy of good men's love, nor unadorned With sense of moral beauty, — to the joy That dwells within the Almighty's outward shrine. Senseless and cold. Ay, there are men who see The broad sun sinking in a blaze of light. Nor feel their disembodied spirits hail With adoration the departing God ; Who on the night-sky, when a cloudless moon Glides in still beauty through unnumbered stars. Can turn the eye unmoved, as if a wall Of darkness screened the glory from theii- souls. With humble pride I bless the Holy One For sights to these denied. And oh ! how oft In seasons of depression, — when the lamp Of life bunied dim, and all unpleasant thoughts Subdued the proud aspirings of the soul, — When doubts and fears withheld the timid eye From scanning scenes to come, and a deep sense Of human frailty turned the past to pain, How oft have I remembered that a world Of gloiy lay around me, that a source Of lofty solace lay in every star. And that no being need behold the sun. And grieve, that knew Who hung him in the sky. Thus unperceived I woke from heavy grief To airy joy: and seeing that the mind Of man, though still the image of his God, Leaned by his will on various happiness, I felt that all was good; that faculties. Though low, might constitute, if rightly used. True wisdom ; and when man hath here attained The purpose of his being, he will sit Near mercy's throne, whether his course hath been Prone on the earth's dim sphere, or, as with wing Of viewless eagle, round the central blaze. Then ever shall the day that led me here Be held in blest remembrance. I shall see, Even at my dying hour, the glorious sun That made Winander one wide wave of gold. When first in transport from the mountain-top I hailed the heavenly vision ! Not a cloud Whose wreaths lay smiling in the lap of light. Not one of all those sister-isles that sleep Together, like a happy family Of beauty and of love, but will arise To cheer my parting spirit, and to tell That Nature gently leads unto the grave All who have read her heart, and kept their own In kindred holiness. But ere that hour Of awful triumph, I do hope that years Await me, when the unconscious power of joy Creating wisdom, the bright dreams of soul Will humanize the heart, and I shall be More worthy to be loved by those whose love Is highest praise: — that by the living light That burns for ever in affection's breast, I shall behold how fair and beautiful A human form may be. —Oh, there are thoughts That slumber in the soul, like sweetest sounds Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven On earth, at dewy nightfall, visitant. Awake the sleeping melody! Such thoughts, My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee. And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul With a dear home-toned whisper, — if thy face E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light From our own cottage hearth; — Mary! then My overpowered spirit will recline Upon thy inmost heart, till it become, sinless seraph! almost worthy thee. Then will the earth — that ofttimes to the eye Of solitary lover seems o'erhung With too severe a shade, and faintly smiles With ineffectual beauty on his heart, — Be clothed with everlasting joy; like land Of blooming faery, or of boyhood's dreams Ere life's first flush is o'er. Oft shall I tui-n My vision from the glories of the scene To read them in thine eyes; and hidden grace. That slumbers in the crimson clouds of even. Will reach my spirit through their varying light, Though viewless in the sky. Wandering with thee, JOHN WILSON. 79 A thousand beauties never seen before Will glide with sweet surprise into my soul, Even in those fields where each particular tree Was looked on as a friend, — where I had been Fre(iuent, for years, among the lonely glens. Nor, 'mid the quiet of reflecting bliss, Will the faint image of the distant world Ne'er float before us:— Cities will arise Among the clouds that circle round the sun. Gorgeous with tower and temple. The night- voice Of flood and mountain to our ear will seem Like life's loud stir: — And, as the dream dissolves, With burning spirit we will smile to see Only the moon rejoicing in the sky. And the still grandeur of the eternal hills. Yet, though the fulness of domestic joy Bless our united beings, and the home Be ever happy where thy smiles are seen, Though human voice might never touch our ear From lip of friend or brother; — yet, oh! think What pure benevolence will warm our hearts. When with the undelaying steps of love Through yon o'ershadowing wood we dimly see A coming friend, far distant then believed. And all unlooked for. When the short distrust Of unexpected joy no more constrains. And the eye's welcome brings him to our arms, With gladdened spirit he will quickly own That true love ne'er was selfish, and that man Ne'er knew the whole affection of his heart Till resting on another's. If from scenes Of noisy life he come, and in his soul The love of Nature, like a long-past dream. If e'er it stir, yield but a dim delight. Oh! we shall lead him where the genial power Of beauty, working by the wavy green Of hill-ascending wood, the misty gleam Of lakes reposing in their peaceful vales, And, lovelier than the loveliness below, The moonlight heaven, shall to his blood restore An undisturbed flovr, such as he felt Pervade his being, morning, noon, and night. When youth's bright years passed happily away Among his native hills, and all he knew Of crowded cities was from passing tale Of traveller, half-believed, and soon forgotten. And fear not, Mary! that, when winter comes, These solitary mountains will resign The beauty that pervades then- mighty frames, Even like a living soul. The gleams of hght Hurrying in joyful tumult o'er the cliffs, And giving to our musings many a burst Of sudden grandeur, even as if the eye Of God were wandering o'er the lovely wild. Pleased with his own creation;— the still joy Of cloudless skies; and the dehghted voice Of hymning fountains,— these will leave awhile The altered earth:— But other attributes Of nature's heart will rule, and in the storm We shall behold the same prevailing Power That slumbers in the calm, and sanctify. With adoration, the delight of love. I lift my eyes upon the radiant moon. That long unnoticed o'er my head has held Her solitary walk, and as her hght Recalls my wandering soul, I start to feel That all has been a dream. Alone I stand Amid the silence. Onward rolls the stream Of time, while ta my ear its waters sound With a strange i-ushing music. my soul! Whate'er betide, for aye remember thou These mystic warnings, for they are of Heaven. LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND BURIAL-GROUND. How mournfully this burial-ground Sleeps 'mid old Ocean's solemn sound, Who rolls his bright and sunny waves All round these deaf and silent graves! The cold wan light that glimmers here, The sickly wild-flowers may not cheer; If here, with solitary hum, The wandering mountain-bee doth come, 'Mid the pale blossoms short his stay. To brighter leaves he booms away. The sea-bird, with a wailing sound, Alighteth softly on a mound, And, like an image, sitting there For hours amid the doleful air, Seemeth to tell of some dim union. Some wild and mystical communion, Connecting with his parent sea This lonesome, stoneless cemetery. This may not be the burial-place Of some extinguished kingly race, Whose name on earth, no longer known, Hath mouldered with the mouldering stone. That nearest grave, yet brown with mould. Seems but one summer twilight old; Both late and frequent hath the bier Been on its mournful visit here; And yon green spot of sunny rest Is waiting for its destined guest. I see no little kirk — no bell On Sabbath twinkleth through this dell; How beautiful those graves and fair. That, lying round the house of prayer. Sleep in the shadow of its grace! But death hath chosen this rueful place For his own undivided reign! 80 JOHN WILSON. And nothing tells that e'er again The sleepers will forsake their bed- Now, and for everlasting dead, For hope with memory seems fled! Wild -screaming bird! unto the sea Winging thy flight reluctantly. Slow floating o"er these grassy tombs. So ghost-like, with thy snow-white plumes, At once from thy wild shriek I know What means tiiis place so steeped in woe! Here, they who perished on the deep Enjoy at last unrocking sleep; For ocean from his wrathful breast Flung them into this haven of rest. Where shroudless, cofiinless, they lie — 'Tis the shipwrecked seamen's cemetery. Here seamen old, with grizzled locks, Shipwrecked before on desert rocks, And by some wandering vessel taken From sorrows that seem God-forsaken, Home-bound, here have met the blast That wrecked them on death's shore at last ! Old friendless men, who had no tears To shed, nor any place for fears In hearts by misery fortified, — And, without terror, sternly died. Here many a creature, moving bright And glorious in full manhood's might. Who dared with an untroubled eye The tempest brooding in the sky. And loved to hear that music rave. And danced above the mountain wave. Hath quaked on this terrific strand, All flung like sea-weeds to the land; A whole crew lying side by side. Death-dashed at once, in all their pride. And here the bright-haired, fair-faced boy, Who took with iiim all earthly joy From one who weeps both night and day. For her sweet son borne far away, Escaped at last the cruel deep, In all his beauty lies asleep; While she would yield all hopes of grace For one kiss of his pale cold face! Oh ! I could wail in lonely fear. For many a woeful ghost sits here. All weeping with their fixed eyes! And what a dismal sound of sighs Is mingling with the gentle roar Of small waves breaking on the shore; While ocean seems to sport and play In mockery of its wretched prey! And lo! a white- winged vessel sails In sunshine, gathering all the gales Fast freshening from yon isle of pines. That o'er the clear sea waves and shines.- I turn me to the ghostly crowd. All smeared with dust, without a shroud, And silent every blue-swollen lip! Then gazing on the sunny ship. And listening to the gladsome cheers Of all her thoughtless mariners, I seem to hear in every breath The hollow undertones of Death, Who, all unheard by those who sing. Keeps tune with low wild murmuring, And points with his lean bony hand To the pale ghosts sitting on this strand, Then dives beneath the rushing prow, Till on some moonless night of woe He drives her shivering from the steep Down — down a thousand fathoms deep. ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. (extracts.) Magnificent creature! so stately and bright! In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight; For what hath the child of the desert to dread. Wafting up his own mountains that far-beaming head; Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale ? — Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful! — hail! Hail! idol divine! — whom nature hathborae O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the morn, Wliom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and moor, As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore: For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free. Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee. Up, up to yon cliff ! like a king to his throne! O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone — A throne which the eagle is glad to resign Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast, Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest; And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill ! In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers lie still! Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight, Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height. One moment— thou bright apparition! — delay! Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day. His voyage is o'er!— as if struck by a spell. He motionless stands in the brush of the dell; There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast. In the midst of his pastime enamoured of rest. A stream in a clear pool that endeth its i-ace— JOHN WILSON. 81 A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place — A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven — A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven. Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee! Magnificent prison inclosing the free ! With rock-wall encircled, with precipice crowned, WTiich, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound. 'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep; And close to that covert, as clear as the skies When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies. Where the creature at rest can his image behold. Looking up through the radiance as bright and as bold. Yes; fierce looks thy nature, even hushed in repose — In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar. With a haughty defiance to come to the war. No outrage is war to a creature hke thee; The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee. As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the viand. And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death, In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath — In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roai", — In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no more, — Thy trust— 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign ! — But what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? On the brink of the rock— lo I he standeth at bay. Like a victor that falls at the close of the day — While hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spumed from his furious feet; And his last ciy of anger comes back from the skies. As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. TO A SLEEPING CHILD. (extkacts. ) Art thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life imbue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue That stray along thy forehead fair. Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair? Vol. II.— F Oh! can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doomed to death; Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent; Or art thou, what thy form would seem, The phantom of a blessed dream ? Oh! that my spirit's eye could see AYhenee burst those gleams of ecstacy! That light of dreaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years. Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring To heaven, and heaven's God adoring! And who can tell what visions high Jilay bless an infant's sleeping eye? What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on than an infant's mind. Ere sin destroy or error dim The glory of the seraphim 1 Oh! vision fair! that I could be Again as young, as pure as thee! Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form May view, but cannot brave the storm; Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes That paint the bird of Paradise. And years, so fate hath ordered, roll Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. Fair was that face as break of dawn. When o'er its beauty sleep was draAvn, Like a thin veil that half-concealed The light of soul, and half-revealed, While thy hushed heart with visions wrought, Each trembling eyelash moved with thought. And things we dream, but ne'er can speak. Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek, Such summer clouds as travel light When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright; Till thou awok'st — then to thine eye Thy whole heart leapt in ecstacy! And lovely is that heart of thine. Or sure these eyes could never shine With such a wild, yet bashful glee. Gay, half-o'ercome timidity! MARY GRAY'S SONG. I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd; But the sang o' the bonnie bum sounded like sorrow, Bound ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest. 82 JOHN WILSON. I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning, But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see, On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning, Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree. By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken, That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor; Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken. And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door! Sic silence— sic lonesomencss, oh, were bewilder- ing! I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep ; I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children, Dancing on to the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep. I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming, Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive; Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming. For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive. I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at dawing Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin' . and din; But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing. And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn. I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roam- ing, Wliare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute; 'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming. Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute. To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage, The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen; The cushat-doo coo'd in the midst o' the village. And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men! Sweet Denholm ! not thus when I lived in thy bosom, Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week; Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him. And grief gaed to dance wi' a laugh on his cheek. Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming On the kirk tower that rose up sae silent and white; The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming, But the still finger tauld not the hour o' the night. The mirk -time passed slowly in sighing and weeping; I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth; Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping. And heaven in beauty came down on the earth. The morning smiled on — but nae kirk-bell was ringing; Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill; The kii-k-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing. And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill. I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling, The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene. And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling Owre the kirk-yard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green. The infant had died at the breast o' its mither; The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither; At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead. Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, And birds should be glintin' owre forest and lea. When the hnt-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover. And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree. But eerier far, when the spring land rejoices. And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright. To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices, When man's soul is dark in the season o' light! THE THREE SEASONS OF LOYE. With laughter swimming in thine eye, That told youth's heartfelt revelry; And motion changeful as the wing Of swallow waken'd by the spring; With accents blithe as voice of May Chanting glad nature's roundelay; Circled by joy like planet bright That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light, - Tiiy image such, in former time. When thou, just entering on thy prime, JOHN WILSON. 83 And woman's sense in tliec combined Gently with childliood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move With hope towards the heaven of love! Now years have given my Mary's face A thoughtful and a quiet grace: — Though happy still, — yet chance distress Hath left a pensive loneliness; Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams! Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild. Shower blessings on a darling child; Thy motion slow and soft thy tread. As if round thy hush'd infant's bed! And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, That tells thy heart is all my own, Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years, With the wife's love, the mother's fears! By thy glad youth and tranquil prime Assured, I smile at hoary time; For thou art doom'd in age to know The calm that wisdom steals from woe; The holy pride of high intent, The glory of a life well spent. When, earth's affections nearly o'er. With Peace behind and Faith before, Thou render'st up again to God, Untarnish'd by its frail abode. Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn From bands of sister seraphim. Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye Open in immortality. THE PAST. How wild and dim this life appears! One long, deep, heavy sigh! When o'er our eyes, lialf closed in tears, The images of former years Are faintly glimmering by! And still forgotten while they go, As on the sea-beach wave on wave Dissolves at once in snow. Upon the blue and silent sky The amber clouds one moment lie. And like a dream are gone! Though beautiful the moonbeams play On the lake's bosom bright as they. And the soul intensely loves their stay. Soon as the radiance melts away We scarce believe it shone! Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell. And we wish they ne'er may fade — They cease! and the soul is a silent cell, Where music never played. Dream follows dream through the long night hours. Each lovelier than the last — ■ But ere the breath of morning flowers. That gorgeous world flies past. And many a sweet angelic cheek. Whose smiles of love and kindness speak, Glides by us on this earth — While in a day we cannot tell Where shone the face we loved so well In sadness or in mirth. THE EVENING CLOUD. A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow! Even in its very motion there was rest; Wliile every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bhss is given ; And by the breath of mercy made to roll, Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven. Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And teUs to man his glorious destinies. LOUGHRIG TARN. Thou guardian Naiad of this little lake. Whose banks in unprofaned nature sleep, (.\nd that in waters lone and beautiful Dwell spirits radiant as the homes they love. Have poets still believed) 0! surely blest Beyond all genii or of wood or wave. Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell. Art thou! yea, happier even than summer cloud Beloved by air and sky, and floating slow O'er the still bosom of upholding heaven. Beauteous as blest, Naiad, thou must be! For, since thy birth, have all delightful things, Of form and hue, of silence and of sound. Circled thy spirit, as the crowding stars Shine round the placid moon. Lov'st thou to sink Into thy cell of sleep 1 The water parts With dimpling smiles around thee, and below. The unsunn'd verdure, soft as cygnet's down. Meets thy descending feet without a sound. Lov'st thou to sport upon the watery gleam 1 Lucid as air around thy head it lies Bathing thy sable locks in pearly light; 84 JOHN WILSON. "While, all around, the water-lilies strive To shower their blossoms o'er the virgin queen. Or doth the shore allure thee?— well it may: How soft these fields of pastoral beauty melt In the clear water! neither sand nor stone Bars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound, Like spring's own voice now rippling round the Tarn. There oft thou licst 'mid the echoing bleat Of lambs, that race amid the sunny gleams; Or bee's wide murmur as it fills the broom That yellows round thy bed. ! gentle glades, Amid the tremulous verdure of the woods, hi steadfast smiles of more essential light, Lying, like azure streaks of placid sky Amid the moving clouds, the Naiad loves Your glimmering alleys, and your rustling bowers; For there, in peace reclined, her half-closed eye Through the long vista sees her darling lake Even like herself, diffused in fair repose. Not undelightful to the quiet breast Such solitary dreams as now have fiU'd My busy fancy; dreams that rise in peace. And thither lead, partaking in their flight Of human interests and earthly joys. Imagination fondly leans on truth, And sober scenes of dim reality To her seem lovely as the western sky To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun. Jlethinks this little lake, to whom my heart Assigned a guardian spirit, renders back To me, in tenderest gleams of gratitude, Pi-ofounder beauty to reward my hymn. Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine. And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart. Meeting or parting with thy smiles of peace. But now thy mild and gentle character. More deeply felt than ever, seems to blend Its essence pure with mine, like some sweet tune Oft heard before with pleasure, but at last, In one high moment of inspired bliss, Borne through the spirit like an angel's song. This is the solitude that reason loves! Even he who yearns for human sympathies, And hears a music in the breath of man. Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood, Might live a hermit here, and mark the sun Rising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm, Devoutly blending in his happy soul Thoughts both of earth and heaven! — Yon mountain-side, Eejoicing in its clustering cottages. Appears to me a paradise preserved From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreath Of smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to heaven. In its straight silence, holy as a spire Pear'd o'er the house of God. Thy sanctity Time yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feel That innocence her shrine shall here preserve For ever.- — The wild vale that lies beyond. Circled by mountains trod but by the feet Of venturous shepherd, from all visitants Save the free tempests and the fowls of heaven. Guards thee; — and wooded knolls fantastical Seclude thy image from the gentler dale, That by the Brathay's often-varied voice Cheer'd as it winds along, in beauty fades 'Mid the green banks of joyful Windermere! gentlest lake! from all unhallow'd things By grandeur guarded in thy loveliness, Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feet Press thy soft moss embathed in flowery dies, And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens. May innocence for ever lead me here. To form amid the silence high resolves For future life; resolves that, born in peace. Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mild As infants in their play, when brought to bear On the world's business, shall assert their power And majesty — and lead me boldly on Like giants conquering in a noble cause. This is a holy faith, and full of cheer To all who worship nature, that the hours, Pass'd tranquilly with her, fade not away For ever like the clouds, but in the soul Possess a sacred, silent dwelling-place. Where with a smiling visage memory sits. And startles oft the virtuous with a show Of unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet lake! Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heart Thy lovely presence, with a thousand dreams Dancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave. Though many a dreary mile of mist and snow Between us interposed. And even now, AVhen yon bright star hath risen to warn me honr.e, I bid thee farewell in the certain hope That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyes Shed cheering visions and with freshest joy Make me salute the dawn. Nor may the hymn Now sung by me unto thy listening woods Be wholly vain, — but haply it may yield A gentle pleasure to .some gentle heart; Who, blessing at its close the unknown bard, May, for his sake, upon thy quiet banks Frame visions of his own, and other songs More beautiful to Nature and to thee! EGBERT GRANT. B5 EOBEET GPvANT. Born 1785 — Died 1838. The Plight Hon. Sir Egbert Grant, governor of Bombay, was born in the county of Inver- ness in 1785. He was descended from one of the most ancient families in Scotland. With liis elder brother Charles, the late Lord Glen- elg, he was entered a member of Magdalene College, in the University of Cambridge, of which they both became fellows. Here he graduated with the highest honours in 1806, and adopting the profession of the law he was called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1807. In 1813 he published a pamphlet entitled "The Expediency Maintained of Continuing the Sys- tem by which the Trade and Government of India are now Regulated," and also "A Sketch of the History of the East India Company from its First Foundation to the Passing of the Regulating Act of 1773." He held the office of King's Sergeant in the Duchy Court of Lan- caster and was made one of the Commissioners of Bankrupts. In 1826 he was elected to Par- liament for the Inverness district of burghs; and he afterwards sat for Norwich and the new borough of Finsbur}'. He was appointed one of the commissioners of the Board of Con- trol, was sworn a privy-councillor in 1831, and the year following was appointed Judge- Advo- cate-General. In June, 1834, he received the appointment of governor of Bombay, and con- tinued to discharge the duties of this impor- tant office till the time of his death, which took place at Dapoorie July 9, 1838, in his fifty-third year. An elegant volume, entitled "Sacred Poems, by Sir Robert Grant," was published by Lord Glenelg in 1839. In the preface he says: — "Many of them have already appeared in print, either in periodi- cal publications or in collections of sacred poetry; but a few are now published for the first time." LITANY. Saviour: when in dust to thee Low we bow the adoring knee; AVhen, repentant, to the skies Scarce we lift our weeping eyes: O ! by all thy pains and woe. Suffered once for man below. Bending from thy throne on high. Hear our solemn litany. By thy helpless infant years. By thy life of want and tears, By thy days of sore distress In the savage wilderness. By the dread mysterious hour Of the insulting tempter's power; Turn, 0! turn a favouring eye, Hear our solemn litany. By the sacred griefs that wept O'er the grave where Lazarus slept; By the boding tears that flowed Over Salem's loved abode; By the anguished sigh that told Treachery lurked within thy fold, From thy seat above the sky Hear our solemn litany. By thine hour of dire despair. By thine agony of prayer, By the cross, the wail, the thorn, Piercing spear, and torturing scorn. By the gloom that veiled the skies O'er the dreadful sacrifice, Listen to our humble cry, Hear our solemn litany. By the deep expiring groan. By the sad sepulchral stone, By the vault whose dark abode Held in vain the rising God : ! from earth to heaven restored. Mighty reascended Lord, Listen, listen to the cry Of our solemn litany. 86 EOBEET GEANT. "WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE?" Lord of earth! thy bounteous hand Well this glorious frame hath planned; AVoods that wave, and hills that tower, Ocean rolling in his power; All that strikes tlie gaze unsought, All that charms tiie lonely tliought, Friendship — gem transcending price, Love — a flower from Paradise. Yet, amidst this scene so fair, Should I cease thy smile to share. What were all its joys to me! AVhom have I in earth but thee? Lord of heaven! beyond our sight EoUs a world of purer light: There, in Love's unclouded reign. Parted hands shall clasp again; Martyrs there, and prophets high. Blaze — a glorious company; AVhile immortal music rings From unnumber'd seraph-strings. Oh! that world is passing fair; Yet, if thou wert absent there. What were all its joys to me! Whom have I in heaven but thee? Lord of earth and heaven I my breast Seeks in thee its only rest! I was lost — thy accents mild Homeward lur'd thy wandering child: I was blind — thy healing ray Charmed the long eclipse away; Source of every joy I know. Solace of my every woe. Yet should once thy smile divine Cease upon my soul to shine. What were earth or heaven to me! AVhom have I in each but thee? "BLESSED LS THE MAN AA'HOM THOU CHASTENEST." Saviour! whose mercy, severe in its kindness. Has chasten'd my wanderings and guided my way; Ador'd be the power which illumin'd my blind- ness, And wean'd me from i>hantoms that smil'd to betray. Enclianted with all that was dazzling and fair, I follow'd the rainbow — 1 caught at the toy; And still, in displeasure, thy goodness was there. Disappointing the hope and defeating the joy. The blossom blush'd bright,but a worm was below ; The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in the beam; — Sweet whisper'd the breeze, but it whisper'd of woe ; And bitterness flow'd in the soft flowmg stream. So eur'd of my folly, yet cured but in imrt, I turn'd to the refuge thy j^ity displayed; And still did this eager and credulous heart Weave visions of promise that bloom'd but to fade. I thought that the course of the pilgrim to heaven W^ould be bright as the summer, and glad as the mom; Thou show'dst me the path — it was dark and uneven. All rugged with rock, and all tangled with thorn. I dream'd of celestial rewards and renown; I grasped at the triumph which blesses the brave; I ask'd for the palm-branch, the robe, and the crown ; I asked — and thou show'dst me a cross and a gi'ave. Subdued and instructed, at length to thy will My hopes and my longings I fain would resign ; 0! give me the heart that can wait and be still. Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but thine. There are mansions exempted from sin and from woe — But they stand in a region by mortals untrod; There are rivers of joy — but they roll not below; There is rest — but it dwells in the presence of God. COMFORT UNDER AFFLICTION. AVhen gathering clouds around I view. And days are dark, and friends are few. On him I lean who, not in vain, Experienced every human pain: He sees my wants, allays my fears, And counts and treasures up my tears. If aught should tempt my soul to stray From heavenly wisdom's narrow way; To fly the good I would pursue. Or do the sin I would not do; Still he who felt temptation's power Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. GEOEGE BEATTIE. 87 If wounded love my bosom swell, Deeeiv'd by those I prized too well, He shall his pitying aid bestow, Who felt on earth severer woe; At once betrayed, denied, or fled, By those who shared his daily bread. If vexing thoughts within me rise, And, sore dismay'd, my spirit dies; Still he who once vouchsafed to bear The sickening anguish of despair. Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry. The throbbing heart, the streaming eye. When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend. Which covers what Avas once a friend, And from his voice, his hand, his smile, Divides me — for a little while, Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed. For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead. And 0! when I have safely past Through every conflict — but the last. Still, still, unchanging, watch beside My painful bed — for thou hast died; Then point to realms of cloudless day. And wipe the latest tear away. THE BROOKLET. Sweet brooklet ever gliding, Now high the mountain riding, The lone vale now dividing, Whither away? " With pilgrim course I flow. Or in summer's scorching glow, Or o'er moonless wastes of snow. Nor stop, nor stay; For oh! by high behest. To a bright abode of rest, In my parent ocean's breast I hasten away!" Many a dark morass. Many a craggy pass. Thy feeble force must pass; Yet, yet delay ! " Tho' the marsh be dire and deep, Tho' the crag be stern and steep. On, on my course must sweep, I may not stay; For oh ! be it east or west. To a home of glorious rest In the bright sea's boundless breast, 1 hasten away!" The warbling bowers beside thee, The laughing flowers that hide thee, With soft accord they chide tiiee. Sweet brooklet, stay! " I taste of the fragrant flowers, I respond to the warbling bowers, And sweetly they charm the hours Of my winding way; But ceaseless still, in quest Of that everlasting rest In my parent's boundless breast, I hasten away!" Know'st thou that dread abyss? Is it a scene of bliss? Oh! rather cling to this, Sweet brooklet, stay! "0! who shall fitly tell What wonders there may dwell? That world of mystery well Might strike dismay; ' But I know 'tis my parent's breast. There held, I must need be blest. And with joy to that promised rest I hasten away!" GEOEGE BEATTIE, Born 17S6 — Died 1823. George Beattie, a man who, both from the value of the poetry he left behind him, and the tragic nature of the closing years of his brief life, has claims on the sympathetic re- membrance of a generation other than his own, was born in 1786 in the parish of St. Cyrus, in the south-east corner of Kincardineshire. The son of a crofter, who in the season could take to salmon-fishing to help him to support his family, he was born and brought up in a small cottage, which boasted only of a "but and a ben," along with his three brothers and two sisters, who went regularly every morning in merry band to the parish school. These 88- GEORGE BEATTIE. were the days of simple homely pleasures and rural festivities, when the more serious business of life was enlivened at stated periods by the merrymakings of Hallowe'en, Hogmanay, Yule, Tasch Saturday, and earlin play at harvest- home, and George's nature seems to have been considerably influenced by the frolic and sim- plicity of these rustic rites. When he was about thirteen years of age his father obtained a situation in the excise, and this led the family to remove to Montrose, a distance of about five miles. It was probably with some sorrow that the children left their pretty country home, and it is said that George walked all the distance to their new abode with a tame "kae" (jackdaw) on his shoulder. Some time after the family settled at Mon- trose George was sent to learn a trade, but he continued at it a very short time. He managed to procure a situation as clerk in an office in Aberdeen. His employer died six weeks later, however, and left to his clerk a legacy of ^50. This was quite a little capital to the young man. He returned to Montrose, and entered the office of the procurator-fiscal of the place. After passing a year or two in Edinburgh he commenced business for himself in Montrose as a writer. In this capacity he succeeded well, and attracted many friends by the kindliness of his manner, the accuracy of his official habits, and his conversational gifts. He soon established for himself the reputation of being both a humorist and a poet by his poem of "John o' Arnha'," the first sketch of which appeared in the columns of the Montrose Revieiv in 1815. In this shape the poem is bare and meagre compared with its finished form. It was afterwards extended to four times its ori- ginal length, and made much richer and fuller. Six years later the tragic interest of Beattie's life begins, but we cannot more than briefly outline the storj'. After successfully wooing a certain lady, she inherits a large fortune, and, abandoning the humble poet for a more aristocratic suitor, who is suddenly smitten with her solid charms, the sensitive Beattie is so overwhelmed with grief and despair that he provides himself with a pistol, walks out to a favourite resort known as the Auld Kirkyard, and is found the following day lying dead by the side of his sister's grave. Since the time of his death (September 29, 1823) his poetical writings have passed through several editions. The latest collection is accompanied by an in- teresting memoir of the poet from the pen of A. S. M*Cyrus, M.A.; also memoranda from manuscripts . left by Beattie. His principal poem, "John o' Arnha'," is full of wild rollick- inff fun and humour, and has been well called an amplified and localized "Tam o' Shanter." Mingled with its grotesque imagery there is a vein of deep pathos. JOHN 0' ARNHA'. (extract.) It was in May, ae bonny morn, When dewie draps refresh'd the corn. And tipt ilk stem wi' crystal bead, That glissent o'er the spangelt mead Like gleam o' swords in fairy wars, As thick and clear as heaven's stars; While Phoebus shot his gowden rays Asklent the lawn — a dazzling blaze; The wind but gently kissed the trees, To waft their balm upon the breeze; The bee commenced her eident tour, Culling sweets frae ilka flower; The whins in yellow bloom were clad, And ilka bush a bridal bed; A' nature smil'd serene and fair; The la'rocks chantit i' the air; The lammies frisket o'er the lea — Wi' music rang ilk bush and tree. l^ow "sighs and vows," and kisses sweet — The sound of lightly-tripping feet — Love's tender tale — the sweet return — The plaints of some still doomed to mourn; The rustic jest and merry tale Came floating on the balmy gale; For smiling, on the road were seen Baith lads and lasses, trig and clean, Linkin' blythely pair and pair, To grace Montrose's annual fairl^ — Montrose, "wham ne'er a town surpasses" For GroAvling Guild and ruling Asses! For pedants, Avith each apt specific GEORGE BEATTIE. 89 To render barren brains prolific; For poetasters, who conspire To rob Apollo of his lyre, Although they never laid a leg Athort his godship's trusty naig; For preachers, writers, and physicians — Parasites and politicians: And all accomplished, grave, and wise, Or sae appear in their own eyes! To wit and lair, too, make pretence, E'en sometimes " deviate into sense !" A path right kittle, steep, and latent, And only to a few made patent. So, lest it might offend the sentry, I winna seek to force an entry, But leav't to bards inspir'd and holy, And tread the open field of folly; For certes, as the world goes, Nonsense in rhyme's as free's in pi'ose; And are we not distinctly told By Hudibras, in days of old, That "Those who write in rhyme still make The one verse for the other's sake; And one for sense and one for rhyme Is quite sufficient at a time." As for your critics, ruin seize them, I ken I canna sing to please them ; A reason guid — 1 dinna try — ■ They're but a despicable fry, That vend their venom and their ink, Their praise and paper eke for clink. Thae judges partial, self-elekit, AVliy should their sentence be respeckit; AVhy should the silly squeamish fools Think fouk will mind their measur'd rules; They spill not ink for fame or glory, Nor paper blacken con amove; 'Tis Mammon aye their pens inspire, They praise or damn alike for hire: An', chapman-like, their critic treasure Is bought and sold again by measure; Some barrister new ta'en degrees (Whase purse is lank for lack o' fees), Or churchman just come frae the college, Wi' skull weel cramm'd wi' classic knowledge, Draw pen to land .some weary bard. Or deal damnation by the yard. But first they toss them up a maik, To learn what course they ought to take; If "tails," the critics quickly damn him. If " heads," wi' fousome flattery cram him. In either case they're paid their wages. Just by the number o' their pages. How soon are mortals led astray — Already I am off my way; I've left my bonny tale, to fesli in A wicked scandalous digression ; By bards of yore who sang of gods, Clep'd underplots and episodes: But, "Muse, be kind, an' dinna fash us To flee awa' ayont Parnassus," Or fill our brains wi' lies and fiction. Else fouk will scunner at your diction. I sing not of an ancient knight, Wi' polish'd lance and armour bright; Nor, as Ave say, wi' book bedeckit In iron cap and jinglin' jecket, High mounted on a champion steed, Enough to fley puir fouk to deid^ Or modern Du.x, wi' noddin' crest. An' starnies glancin' on his breast — Or garter wappin' round his knee To celebrate his chivalry; — Heroes fit for southern bardies! Mine walks a-foot and wields his gardies; Or, at the warst, his aiken rung, Wi' which he never yet was dung, Unless by more than mortal foe — By demons frae the shades below — As will be seen in proper time, Provided I can muster rhyme. The valiant hero of my story Now rang'd the fair in all his glory, A winsome strapper trim and fettle, Courting strife, to show his mettle. An' gain him favours wi' the fail' — For dastard coofs they dinna care. Your snools in love, and cowards in war, Frae maiden grace are banished far; An' John had stak'd his life, I ween. For favour frae a lassie's een; Stark love his noble heart had fir'd — To deeds o' pith his soul aspir'd; Tho' these, in distant climes, he'd shown, 'Twas meet to act them in his own. Now thrice he wav'd his hat in air — Thrice dar'd the bravest i' the fair. The Horner also wav'd his bonnet, But wish'd belyve he hadna dune it; For scarcely could ye counted sax, Before a double round o' whacks AVere shower'd upon his bancs like hail. Eight, left, and centre, crack pell-mell — Sair to bide, and terrible to tell. The hardest head could ne'er resist The fury of his pond'rous fist; He hit him on the ribs sic dirds, They raird and roove like rotten girds; His carcass, too, for a' the warl', Was like a butt or porter barrel. Now John gaed round him like a cooper, 90 GEORGE BEATTIE. An' showed himsel' a smart tub hooper; \Vi' mony a snell an' vengefu' j^aik, He gar'd his sides an' midriff ake; Upon his head-piece neist he hammert, Until the Horner reel'd and stammert; He cried out, " Mercy! phigue upon itl" Up gaed his heels — aif flew his bonnet, An' raise to sic a fearfu' height, It soon was lost to mortal sight: Some said, that witnessed the transaction, 'Twas cleckit by the moon's attraction, Or nabbit by the fairy legions. To whirl tiiem througli the airy regions. THE DREAM. Last night I dreamed a dream of horror. Me- tliought That, at the hour of midnight, the bell tolled. With slow and solemn peal ; and straight, beneath The pale cold moon, a thousand spectres moved, In "dread array," along "the church-way path," All swathed in winding-sheets as white as snow — A ghastly crew! Methought I saw tlie graves Yawn and yield up their charge; and I heard the Coffins crack, and the deadal drapery Rustic against their hollow sides, like the Wing of the renovated chrysoly. As they flutter against the ruins of Their winter dormitory, when the voice Of spring awakes them from their drowsy conch. To float aloft upon the buxom air. Although the round full moon shone bright and clear. Yet did none of these awful phantoms cast Their shadows on the wan and silent earth, Nor was the passing breeze interrupted By their presence. Some skimmed along the earth, And others sailed aloft on the thin air; And I observed, when they came between me And the moon, they interrupted not her Pale rays; for I saw her majestic orb Distinct, round, and clear, through their indistinct And airy forms; and although they moved Betwixt me and the tomb-stones, yet I read Their sculpture (deeply shaded by the bright And piercing beams of the moon) as distinctly As if nought, dead or living, interposed Between my eyes and the cold monuments. The bell ceased to toll; and when the last peal Died away on the ear, these awful forms Congregated in various groups, and seemed To hold converse. The sound of their voices Was solemn and low, and they spoke the language Of the " days of other years." In seeming Woo, they spoke of events long gone by; and Marvelled at the changes that had taken Place since they left this mortal scene, to sleep Within the dark and narrow house. Voices Issued from the mould, where no fomis were seen; These were still more hollow and sepulchral; They were as the sound of the cold, bleak wind, In the dark and danky vaults of death, when It moans low and mournful, through the crannies Of tlieir massive doors, shattered by the hand Of time — a serenade for owls most meet. And such the raven loves, and hoarsely croaks His hollow response from the blasted yew. Often have I heard, when but a stripling, 'Twas meet to speak a troubled ghost, to give It peace to sleep within the silent grave. With clammy brow, and joints palsied with fear, I said, in broken accents, " What means this Awful congress, this wild and wan array Of shadowy shapes, gliding here, and moaning At the silent, solemn hour of midnight ? Have the crying sins, and unwhipt crimes Of mortals, in these latter days, reached you Ev'n in the grave, where silence ever reigns. At least as we believe? Or complain ye Of holy rites unpaid, — or of the crowd Whose careless steps those sacred haunts pro- fane." Straight a fleshless hand, cold as ice, was pressed Upon my lips; and the spectres vanished Like dew before the morning sun: and as They faded on my sight a sound was heard Like the peal of many organs, solemn. Loud, and sonorous; or like the awful Voice of thunder in the sky, — or mighty Tempest, roaring in a boundless forest, Uprooting trees, razing habitations. And sweeping the earth with desolation; Or like the voice of millions, raised in song; Or the dark ocean, howling in its wrath; Or, rather, like all these together, in One wild concert joined. Now the mighty coil Died gradually away, till it resembled The last murmur of the blast on the hill; Of storms, when it lulls itself to rest; and The echo of its wrath is faintly heard In the valley; or the last sigh of the ^olian harp, when the breeze, that erewhilo Kissed its trembling strings, is spent and breath- less! The next whisper was still lower; and the last Was so faint and feeble that nothing seemed To live between it and silence itself. The awful stillness was more appalling Than its dread precursor; and I awoke In terror! But I never shall forget What I heard and saw in that horrid dream. JOHN DONALD CAEEICK. 91 JOHN DONALD CAEEICK. Born 1787 — Died 1837. John Donald Carrick, a meritorious but xinsuccessful literary man, and the autiior of numerous songs and poems chiefly of a humor- ous character, was born at Glasgow, April, 1787. His parents, being in humble circum- stances, could only afford their son an ordinary education; and at an early age he was placed in the office of an architect in his native city. In his twentieth year, unknown to his parents, he left Glasgow, and travelled to London on foot, there to seek his fortune. On his arrival he offered his services in various places in vain, but at last found employment with a fellow- countryman who took compassion on the friend- less lad. For some time he was employed by a house in the pottery business, and in 1811 he returned to Glasgow, and opened a large china and stonewai-e establishment, in which trade he continued for fourteen years. In 1825, being deeply read in old Scottish literature, he began the preparation of a '•' Life of Sir AVilliam Wallace," which was written for Con- stable's Miscellany. The same year he gave up his own business, and was for some time employed by a Glasgow house as their tra- velling agent in the "West Highlands. After- wards he became assistant editor of the Scots Times, a newspaper then published in Glasgow. To the first volume of Whistle-Binkie Mr. Carrick contributed the subjoined and many other songs, which he used to sing with in- imitable effect. In 1833 he went to Perth as editor of the Advertiser, and the year following accepted the editorship of the Kilmarnock Journal. In 1835 he returned to Glasgow, owing to ill health, and superintended the first edition of the Laird of Logan, an un- rivalled collection of Scottish anecdote and facetiae, to which he was the principal contri- butor. Mr. Carrick died August 17, 1S37, and was interred in the burying-ground of the High Church of his native city. His biogra- pher says: — "We may observe generally, that as a descriptive painter of the comic and ludi- crous aspects of man and society, and as equally skilful in the analysis of human character, combined with a rare and never-failing humour, a pungent but not malicious irony, and great ease and perspicuity of expression, few writers have surpassed John Donald Carrick." THE MUIRLAN' COTTAES. "The snaw flees thicker o'er the muir, and heavier grows the lift; The shepherd closer wraps his plaid to screen him frae the drift; I fear this night will tell a tale among our foldless sheep, That will mak many a farmer sigh — God grant nae widows weep! " I'm blythe, guidman, to see you there, wi' elshin an' wi' lingle Sae eydent at your cobbling wark beside the cosie ingle; It brings to mind that fearfu' nicht, i' the spring that's now awa', AVhen you was carried thowlass hame, frae 'neath a wreath o' snaw. " That time I often think upon, and make it aye my care, On nichts like this, to snod up a' the beds Ave hae to spare; In case some drift-driven strangers come for- foughten to our beild. An' welcome, welcome they shall be to what the house can yield. "'Twas God that saved you on that nicht, when a' was black despair. An' gratitude is due to him for makin' you his care; Then let us show our grateful sense of the kindness he bestowed. An' cheer the poor wayfaring man that wanders frae his road. 92 JOHN DONALD CAERICK. "There's cauld and drift without, guidman, might drive a body blin', But, Praise be blessed for a' that's guid, there's meat and drink within; An' be he beggar, be he prince, that Heaven directs this way, His bed it shall be warm and clean, his fare the best we hae." The guidman heard her silentlie, an' threw his elshin by. For his kindlie lieart began to swell, and the tear was in his eye; He rose and pressed hisfaithfu' wife sae loving to his breast, While on her neck a holy kiss his feelings deep expressed. "Yes, Mirran, yes, 'twas God himself that helped us in our strait, An' gratitude is due to him — his kindness it was great; An' much I thank thee thus to mak' the stranger's state thy care, An' bless thy tender heart, for sure the grace of God is there." Nor prince nor beggar was decreed their kind- ness to partake; The hours sped on their stealthy pace as silent' as the flake. Till on the startled ear there came a feeble cry of woe. As if of some benighted one fast sinking in the snow. But help was near — an' soon a youth, in hod- den gray attire, Benumbed with cold, extended, lay before the cottars' fire; Kind Mirran thow'd his frozen hands, the guidman rubbed his breast, An' soon the stranger's glowin' cheeks return- ing life confess'd. How it comes the gracious deeds which we to others show, Pieturn again to our own hearts wi' joyous overflow! So fared it with our simple ones, who found the youth to be Their only son, whom they were told had perish'd far at sea. The couch they had with pions care for some lone stranger spread — Heaven gave it as a resting-place for their lov'd wanderer's head : Thus aft it comes the gracious deeds whii-li we to others show Return again to our own hearts with joyous overflow. THE SOXG OF THE SLAVE. England! dear home of the lovely and true. Loved home of the brave and the free. Though distant — though wayward — the path I pursue, My thoughts shall ne'er wander from thee. Deep, in my heart's core. Rests the print of thy shore. From a die whose impression fades never. And the motto impressed By this die on my breast Is " England, dear England, for ever," May blessings rest on thee for ever! As Queen, she sits throned with her scejitre of light Aloft on the white-crested wave. While billows surround her, as guards of her right To an island where breathes not a slave. And her sceptre of light Shall, through regions of night. Shed a radiance like darts from day's quiver. Till the unfetter'd slaves. To the queen of the waves, Shout " Freedom and England for ever," May blessings rest on thee for ever! How often hath fame, with his trumpet's loud blast. Praised the crimes of mock heroes in war, Whose joy was to revel o'er nations laid waste. And drag the fallen foe to their car! But a new law from heaven. Hath by England been given To fame — and from which she'll ne'er sever — " No hero but he Who saves and sets free," Saith England, free England, for ever, May blessings rest on thee for ever! THE HARP AND THE HAGGIS. At that tide when the voice of the turtle is dumb. And winter wi' drap at his nose doth come,— A whistle to mak' o' the castle lum. To souf his music sae sairlie, 0! And the roast on the speet is sapless and sma'; And meat is scant in chamber and ha'. And the knichts hae ceased their merry guffaw, For lack o' thou- warm canarie, ! ALEXANDEE LAING. 93 Then the Harp and the Haggis began a dispute, 'Bout whilk o'theircharms were in highest repute; The Haggis at first as a haddie was mute, An' the Harp went on wi' her vapourin', ! An' lofty and loud were the tones she assumed, An' boasted how ladies and kniclits gaily plumed, Through rich gilded halls, all so sweetly perfumed , To the sound of her strings went a caperin', ! " While the Haggis," she said, " was a beggarly slave, An' never was seen 'mang the fair an' the brave;" "Fuff! fuff!" quo' the Haggis, " thou vile lying knave, Come tell us the use of thy twanging, ? Can it fill a toom wame? can it help a man's pack? A minstrel when out may come in for his snack, But when starving at hame will it keep him, alack ! Fra trying his hand at the hanging, 0?" The twa they grew wud as wud could be, But a minstrel boy they chanced to see, Wha stood list'ning bye, an' to settle the plea, They begged he would try his endeavour, ! For the twa in their wrath had all reason forgot. And stood boiling with rage just like peas in a pot. But a haggis, ye ken, aye looks best when it's hot. So his bowels were moved in his favour, ! " Nocht pleasures the lug half sae weel as a tune, An' whar hings the lug wad be fed wi' a spoon?" The Harp in a triumph cried, "Laddie, weel done," An' her strings wi' delight fell a tinkling, 0! " The Harjj'sa brav/ thing," continued the youth, " But what is the harp to put in the mouth ? It fills nae the wame, it slaiks nae the drouth, — At least — that is my way o' thinking, ! " A tune's but an air, but a haggis is meat, — An' wha plays the tune that a body can eat ?— . When a haggis is seen wi' a sheep's head and feet, My word she has gallant attendance, ! A man wi' sic fare may ne'er pree the tangs. But laugh at lank hunger though sharp be her fangs; But the bard that maun live by the wind o' his sangs, Waes me, has a puir dependence, ! " How often we hear, wi' the tear in our eye. How the puir starving minstrel, exposed to the sky, Lays his head on his harp, and breathes out his last sigh. Without e'er a friend within hearing, ! But wha ever heard of a minstrel so crost, — Lay his head on a haggis to gie up the ghost ?— never, since time took his scythe frae the post, An' truntled awa' to the shearing, ! " Now I'll settle your plea in the crack o' a whup: Gie the haggis the lead be't to dine or to sup: — Till the bags are well filled, there can no drone get up,— Is a saying I learned from my mither, ! When the feasting is owre, let the harp loudly twang. An' soothe ilka lug wi' the charms o' her sang, — An' the wish of my heart is, wherever ye gang, Gude grant ye may be thegither, 0!" ALEXANDEB LAING. Born 1787 — Died 1857. Alexander Laing, familiarly kno^yn as "the Brechin poet," was born at Brechin, Forfarshire, Jlay 14, 1787. His education at school was exceedingly limited, having been there only during two winters; but the want was largely supplied by the careful liome- training of his parents and his own self-appli- cation. When only eight years old he was employed herding cattle during the summer months, and while thus engaged he read many of the modern Scottish poets. He was after- wards apprenticed to the flax-dressing busi- ness, at which he continued for fourteen years, when he was accidentally disabled by a heavy plank falling upon his shoulder. On recover- ing from the accident he turned packman, a business which he carried on until within a short period of his death. Laing'seffusionsfirstappearedinthecolumns of provincial newspapers. In 1819 several songs from his pen were publislied in the Harp of Caledonia, edited by John Struthers, and he subsequently became a contributor to the Harp of lienfreicshire and Smith's Scottish 94 ALEXANDEE LAING. Minstrel. In 1846 he published by subscrip- tion a collected edition of his poems and songs under the designation of Wayside Flowers. A second edition appeared in 1850, and a few days befjre the poet's death a third edition was published, with illustrative notes and additions by the author. His extensive and reliable information regarding the poets and poetry of Scotland brought liim into corres- pondence with some of the more celebrated poets of the day, from many of whom he received presentation copies of their works. He edited two editions of Burns; furnished his friend Allan Cunningham Avith numerous notes for his four volumes of Scottish songs; compiled the biographical notices for the Angus Album, published in 1833; contributed facetke to the Laird of Logan; and edited an edition of his favourite song-writer Robert Tannahill. It is also worthy of mention that the improvement which took place in the penny chap-book and ballad literature of Scotland was owing in some measure to Laing, who carefully superintended the Bi-echin edi- tions of those once celebrated pieces, often enriching them with short historical or bio- graphical sketches. Mr. Laing died at Brechin, October 14, 1857, aged seventy. A handsome marble tablet has been erected over his grave by the church in Brechin, of which he was for many years a consistent and valued office-bearer. ARCHIE ALLAN. Ay! poor Archie Allan — I hope he's no poor! A mair dainty neebour ne'er entered ane's door — An' he's worn awa' frae an ill-doin' kin, Frae a warld o' trouble, o' sorrow, an' sin. Wad ye hear o' the hardships that Arcliie befel ? Then listen a-wee, an' his story I'll tell. Now twice twenty towmonts an' twentj'^ are gane Sin' Archie an' 1 could ha'e ranket as men — Sin' we cou'd ha'e left ony twa o' our eild, At a' kinds o' farm-wark, at hame or a-field; Sin' we cou'd ha'e carried the best bow o' bere. An' thrown the fore-hammer out-owre ony pair. An! then we were forward, an' flinty, an' young. An' never ance ken'd what it was to be dung; We were lang fellow-servants and neebours fu' dear: Folk ne'er thocht o' flittin' then ilka half-year. When he was the bridegroom, an' Mary his bride, Mysel' an' my Jeanie were best man an' maid : 'Twas a promise atween us — they cou'dna refuse — Had our bridal been first, they had gotten the gloe's. Aweel, they were married, an' mony were there. An' Luve never low'd on a happier pair; For Archie had nae woman's skaith he could rue, An' Mary was sakeless o' breaking her vow. They had lo'ed ither lang, an' the day was to be When their ain gather'd penny wad set them up free; Sae clear o' the warld, an' can tie, an' weel. They thrave out an' in, like the buss i' the beil'; Their wants werena monie, their family was sma' — Themsel's an' but ae lassie-bairn was a'; Sae wi' workin' an' winnin', wi' savin' an' care, They gather'd an' gather'd nae that little gear. Yet nae narrow bodies — nae niggards were they — Nae slaves to the warld, to want, an' to ha'e; Tho' they ken'd weel aneuch a' the bouk o' their ain. They wad tak', they wad gi'e — they wad borrow or len'; Whan a friend or a neebour gaed speerin' their weel, They had meal i' the bannock, an' maut i' the yill; They had hearts that could part, they had hands that were free. An' leuks that bade welcome, as warm as cou'd be; Gaed ye in — cam' ye out, they wei'e aye, aye the same; There's few now-a-days 'mang our neebours like them ! Thus, blythesome an' happy, time hasten'd awa', Till their dochter was twenty, or twenty an' twa. Whan she, a' the comfort an' hope o' their days, Fell into some dowie, some ling'rin' disease. Lang ill was the lassie, an' muckle she bure, Monie cures they gi'ed till her, but death winna cure ; She dwyn'd like a gowan 'mang newly mawn grass ; Some luve disappointment, they said, ail'd the lass — Ay ! happen what may, there maun aye be a mean: Her grave wasna sad, an' her truff wasna green, Whan Mary, her mither, a' broken an' pin'd Wi' trachle o' bodv, wi' trouble o' mind. ALEXANDER LAING. 95 Was reliev'd frae her sorrows — was also weel sair'd, An' laid by her bairn i' the silent kirk -yard ! 0! sirs, sic a change! it was waesome to see; But Ufe's like a journey, an' changes maun be; Whan the day o' prosperity seems but at noon, The nicht o' adversity aften comes down: I've lived till my locks are as white as the snaw. Till the friends of my youth are a' dead an' awa'; At death-bed an'^burial nae stranger I've been, But sorrow like Archie's I've never yet seen; The death o' his lassie I ken'd it was sair. But the death o' her mither was harder to bear; For a' that was lovely, an' a' that was leal. He had lost i' the death o' his Mary Macneill ! Whan the buryin' was bye, an' relations a' gane; Whan left i' the house, wae an' wearie, his lane. As a neebour wad do, I gaed yont the gate-end. An hour i' the gloamin' wi' Archie to spend; For the fate o' our neighbour may sune be our fa'. An' neebours are near us when kindred's awa'. We spak' o' the changes that time ever brings, Of the frail fadin' nature of a' earthly things, Of life an' its blessings— that we ha'e them in len'; That the Giver, when he wills, has a right to his ain; That here though we ha'e nae continuin' hame, How the promise is sure i' the Peace-maker's name. To them that wi' patience, wi' firmness, and faith, Beheve in his merits, and trust in his death; To them, though the coffin, an' pale windin'-sheet. Though the cauld grave divide them, in heaven they shall meet — Shall yet ha'e a blythe an' a blest meetin' there, To ken separation an' sorrow nae mair. Thus kindly conversin', we aften beguiled The hours o' the gloamin', till tliree summers smil'd; Till time in its progress had yielded relief. Had dealt wi' his mem'ry, an' lessen'd his grief— Though nae like the man I had seen him, 'tis true, Yet fell knief an' cantie my auld neebour grew. Sometime then-about, as it happened to be, I hadna seen Archie for twa weeks or three. Whan ae night a near neebour woman cam' ben. An' says, " Ha'e ye heard o' the news that's a-gaun ? It's been tell'd me sin' mornin' by mae folk nor ane. That our friend Archie Allan was beuket yes- treen." " Aweel, weel," quo' I, " it e'en may be sae, There's aye heart wi' auld fouk, we'll a' get a day;" But when it was tell'd wha the bride was to be, I heard, but said naething— I thocht it a lie! 'Twas a' very g-ude he shou'd marry again— A man in a house is but dreaiie his lane; But to think he wad ever tak ane for a wife, Wha had liv'd sic a loose an' a throwither life — Wha had been far an' near whar it cou'dna be nam'd, An' was come o' a family but little esteem'd — To think he wad tak' her ! I cou'dna believ't; But I was, an' mony forbye were deceiv't; For, the Sabbath thereafter, wha think ye was cried? But Archibald Allan an' Marg'ret Muresyde ! Weel, how they forgather'd an' a' that befel, Tho' it's painful to speak o't, ye'll msh me to tell. She cam' in-about here as it happened to fa'. An' was nearest door neebour to him that's awa'; An' seein' a fu' house an' a free-hearted man. That ken'dna the warld, wi' her wiles she began— Seem'd sober an' decent as ony ye'll see, As quiet an' prudent as woman cou'd be— Was aye brawly busket, an' tidy, an' clean, An' aye at the kirk on the Sabbath was seen— AVas better nor monie, an' marrow't by few, Till a' cam' about as she wish'd it to do; But scarcely her hand and her troth he had ta'en, Till she kyth'd in her ain dowie colours again. They had a short courtship, a brief honeymune! It's aye rue'd at leisure what's owi-e rashly dune. We've a' our ain fau'ts an' our failin's, atweel, But Maggy Muresyde! she's a bauld Ne'er-do- weel I An' the warst o' it was, in an unlucky hour She'd gotten ilk plack o' the purse in her pow'r; An' sune did she lift it, an' sune, sune it gaed— In pennies 'twas gathered, in pounds it was spread; Her worthless relations, an' ithers siclike. Cam' in about swarmin' like bees till a bike; An' they feasted, an' drank, an' profaned the blest Name, An' Sabbath an' Saturday— a' was the same. Waes me! it was sair upon Archie to see The walth he had won, an' laid up a' sae free. To comfort an' keep him when ailin', or auld, Sae squander'd by creatures sae worthless an' bauld; An' sair was he troubled to think o' their sin, An' the awfu' account they wad ha'e to gi'e in; Yet, griev'd as he was at the rash lives they led, He durstna ance say it was ill that they did! But time an' your patience wad fail me to tell How she spent an' abus'd baith his means an' himsel'. For constant an' on, as the rin o' the burn. Her hand it was never but in an ill turn- Till siller, an' gear, an' a' credit were gane— Till he hadna a penny, or aught o' his ain— Till age an' vexation had wrinkl'd his brow — TiU he hadna a morsel to put in his mou' ! 9C ALEXANDER LAING. Aweel, neither able to want nor to win, Ae mornin' last week, ere the daj'-licht cam' in, Thro' the lang eerie muLrs, an' the cauld plashy snaw, Wi' his staff in his hand he had wander'd awa', To seek a fa'n bit for his daily supply, An' to thole the down-leuk o' the proud an' the high. 0! had I but seen him when he gaed a-field, I wad ta'en him inbye to my aiii couthie bield; An' wi' my auld neebour shar'd frankly an' free. My bannock, my bed, an' my hindmost bawbee! How far he had gane — how he'd far'd thro' the day, What trials he had met wi', I eanna weel say; But whan the gray hour o' the gloamin' fell down. He sought the fire-side o' some distant farm- town — Wi' the door halflin's up, an' the sneck in his han'. He faintly inquir'd — wad they lodge a poor man? The mistress gaz'd on him, an' dryhe she spak', "We may lodge you the nicht, but ye maunna come back" — Said beggars and gang'rels were grown unco rife — Speer'd what place he cam' frae — gin he had a wife? Ay! that was a question! 0! sirs, it was sair; Had he no ha'en a u-ife, he had never been there! Cauld, cauld at their backs thro' the evenin' he sat, An' cauld was the bed an' the beddin' he gat, The floor an' the roof -tree was a' they could spare, An' he lay down, alas! but to rise never mair. Was ho lang or sair ill, there was nane heard nor saw, Gin day-licht poor Archie had worn awa'! Wha anco wad ha'e thocht it that he wad ha'e been A beggar, an' dee't in a bam a' his lane! But we needna think this will, or that winna be. For, the Linger we live, the mae uncos we see. THE BROWNIE OF FEAEXDEN. Thair livit ane man on Norinsyde, Whan Jamis lielde his aine; lie had ane maylen faire and wyde, And servants nyne or tone. He had ane servant dwellving neir, Worthe all liis maydis and men; And wha was this gyn ye wald speir? The Brownie of Fearnden! Whan thair was corne to tliresh or dichte, Or barne or byre to clene, He had ane bizzy houre at nicht, Atweene the twall and ane; And thouch the sna" was never so deip, So wylde the wynde or rayne, He ran ane errant ia a wiieip. The Brownie of Fearnden! Ae nicht the gudewyfe of the house Fell sicke as sicke could be. And for the skilly mammy- wyfe She wantit ane to gae; Tlie nicht was darke, and never a sparkc AVald venture doun the glen. For feir that he micht heir or see The Brownie of Fearnden! But Brownie was na far to seeke, For Aveil he heard the stryfe; And ablynis thocht, as weil lie mychte. They sune wald tyne the wyfe: He afFe and brankis the ryding mear, And throch the wynde and rayne; And sune was at the skilly wyfe's, Wha livit owre the den! He pullifc the sneke, and out he spak', That she micht bettere heir, "Thair is a mothere wald gyve byrth. But hasna strengthe to beir. "0 ryse! ryse! and hape you weil. To keip you fra the rayne." " Whaur do you want me?" quoth the wyfe. "0 whaur but owre the den!" Whan baytlic waur mountit on the mear. And ryding up the glen; "0 watt ye, laddy," quoth the wyfe, "Gyne we be neir the den? "Are we com neir the den?" she said; "Tush! wyshte, ye fule!" quoth he, "For Avaure na ye ha'e in your armis, This nicht ye wynna see!" They sune waur landit at the doore. The wyfe he handit doun — "I've lefte the house but ae haufe houre, I am a clever loun!" " What mak's your feit sac brayde?" quoth she, "And Avhat sae reid your cen?" "I've wandert mony a weary foote. And unco sichtis I've seen! "But mynd the wyfe, and mynd the weane. And see that all gae richt; ALEXANDER LAING. And keip the beyld of biggit land Till aynce the mornyng licht: And gyne they speir wha brocht you heir, 'Cause they waur scaunte of men! Even tell them that ye rade ahiut The Brownie of Fearndenl" THE TRYST IXG-TREE. The evening sun has closed the day, An' silence sleeps on hill an' plain; The yellow moon is on her way AVi' a' her glinting starry train. The moment dear to love an' me — The happy moment now is near, AVhen by our lanely trystingtree I'll meet my lov'd Eliza dear. "Where mild the vernal mornings rise, An' meek the summer e'enings fa'; "Where soft the breeze of autumn sighs, An' light the blasts o' winter blaw; AVhere Keithock winds her silver stream, By birken tree an' blooming thorn ; Of love and bliss we fondly dream, Till often dawns the early morn. Her voice like warbled music sweet, "Would lead the minstrels of the grove; Her form, where a' the graces meet, "Would melt the coldest heart to love; Her wistfu' look, an' winning smile. So sweetly kind, so chastely gay, "Would sorrow's mirkest hour beguile. And chase the deepest grief away. My lov'd Eliza! wert thou mine! My own endear 'd— endearing wife. How blest ! around thy heart to twine. In a' the changing scenes of life; Though beauty, fancy, rapture, flies ■\Vhen age his chilling touch imparts; Yet time, while breaking other ties. Will closer bind our hands and hearts. THE HAPPY MOTHER. An' 0! may I never live single again, I wish I may never live single again; ^ I ha'e a gudeman, an' a hame o' my ain. An' 0! may I never live single again. I've twa bonnie bairnies, the fairest of a'. They cheer up my heart when their daddie' awa'; Vol. II.— G I've ane at my foot, and I've ane on my knee; An' fondly they look, an' say " Mammie" to me. At gloamin' their daddie comes in frae the plough, The blink in his e'e, an' the smile on his brow, Says, " How are ye, lassie, 0! how are ye a', An' how's the wee bodies sin' I gaed awa?" He sings i' the e'enin' fu' cheery an' gay. He tells o' the toil and the news o' the day ; The twa bonnie lammies he tak's on his knee. An' blinks o'er the ingle fu' couthie to me. happy's the father that's happy at hame, An' blythe is the mither that's blythe o' the name, The cares o' the warld they fear na to dree— The warld is naething to Johnny an' me. Though crosses will mingle wi' mitherly cares, Awa', bonnie lassies — awa' wi' your fears; Gin ye get a laddie that's loving and fain, Ye'll wish ye may never live single again. ADAM GLEN. Pawkie Adam Glen, Piper o' the clachan, "When he stoitet ben, Sairly was he pechan; Spak' a wee, but tint his win', Hurklit down, an' hostit syne. Blew his beik, an' dichtit's een. An whaistl't a' forfoughten. But, his coughin' dune, Cheerie kyth't the bodie, Crackit like a gun. An' leugh to Auntie Madie; Cried, " My callans, name a spring, ' Jinglin' John,' or onything. For weel I'd like to see the fling 0' ilka lass an' laddie." Blythe the dancers flew, Usquebae was plenty, Blythe the piper blew, Tho' shakin' ban's wi' ninety. Seven times his bridal vow Ruthless fate had broken thro'; "Wha wad thocht his comin' now Was for our maiden auntie! She had ne'er been sought, Cheerie hope was fadin', Dowie is the thocht To live and dee a maiden. 98 ALEXANDEK CAKLILE. How it comes, we caiina ken, AVanters aye maun wait their ain, Madge is hecht to Adam Glen, An' sune we'll ha'e a weddin'. AULD EPPIE. Auld Eppie, poor bodie, she wins on the brae, In yon little cot-house aneath the auld tree; Far aff frae a' ithers, an' fu', fu' o' flaws, Wi' rough divot sunks haudin' up the mud wa's; The storm-tattered riggin' a row'd here an' there, An' the reekit lum-framin' a' broken an' bare. The lang raggit eaves hangin' down the laigh door. An' ae wee bit winnock amaist happit ower; The green boor-tree bushes a' wavin' aroun', An gray siller willow-wands kissin' the grun' ! "Auld Eppie's a weird-wife," sae runs the rude tale, For ae nicht some chiels, comin' hamo frae their ale, Cam' in by her biggin', an' watchin' apart. They saw Eppie turnin' the beuk o' black art; An' 0! the strange sichts an' the uncos that fell, Nae livin' cou'd think o', nae language cou'd tell. Nae body leuks near her, unless it may be When cloudie nicht closes the day's dowin' e'e. That some, wi' rewards an' assurance, slip ben, The weils an' the waes o' the future to ken ! Auld Eppie's nae weird-wife, though she gets the name. She's wae for hersel', but she's waer for them; For tho' ne'er a frien'ly foot enters her door. She's blest wi' a f rien' in the Friend o' the Poor. Her comfort she draws frae the Volume o' Licht, An' aye reads a portion o't mornin' an' nicht — In a' crooks and crosses, she calmly obeys. E'en seasons o' sorrow are seasons o' praise. She opens an' closes the day on her knee — That's a' the strange sicht ony body can see. THE YOUNG INQUIRER AND AGED CHRISTIAN. "Old man! I would speak a word or two! I long have wished to learn of you — Your kindred and friends to the grave are gone, And helpless and poor you are left alone. Yet, aged Pilgrim, as happy you seem As Youth with its gay and golden dream! Oh! tell me — I would fain possess The secret of your happiness." "Young man! your answer is shortly given, My will is the sovereign will of Heaven, Believing, whatever my lot may be. That all things work for good to me^ And trusting alone to saving grace For the blessings of pardon, hope, and peace, I rest on the promise now and ever — ' My loving-kindness faileth never.' ' ' Young man ! would you my happiness share. With humble heart and fervent prayer — The voice of the contrite sinner raise To God your life and length of days— That He as a father, forgetful of none, Would give you the portion of a son, As He in Christ hath given to me The hope of a happy eternity!" ALEXANDEB CAELILE. Born 1788 — Died 1860, Alexander Carlile, the author of several spirited songs, was born at Paisley, the birth- place of so many poets, in the year 1788. He was educated first at the grammar-school of his native town, and then in the University of Glasgow. He afterwards established himself in Paisley as a manufacturer, and devoted much of his leisure time to literature, contri- buting to the leading magazines both in prose and verse. In 1855 he collected and published his poetical compositions under the title of Poenifi. His popular song " Wha's at the Window?" composed in early life, finds a place in all the collections of Scottish songs. Mr. Carlile, who was greatly interested in all movements tending to benefit the social and moral welfare of his fellow-citizens, died in his native town, August 4, 1860, aged seventy- two. A friend who was well acquainted Avith him, as well as his most estimable and accom- ALEXANDER CAELILE. 99 plisheil brother, the Rev. Dr. Carlile of Dublin, tells us that he was one to whom the words of the old dramatist might most truthfully be applied: — "A most incomparable man, breath'd. as it were. To an uutirable and continuate goodness;" and Dr. Rogers, in his Century of Scottish Life, remarks "that during his latter years, when I knew him, he was a grave and reve- rend-looking old man. He was much in his libi'ary, which was well stored with the best books"" WHA'S AT THE WINDOW? Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha? Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha? Wha but blithe Jamie Glen, He's come sax miles and ten, To tak' bonnie Jeanie awa', awa'. To tak' bonnie Jeanie awa'. He has plighted his troth, and a', and a', Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a'. And sae has she dune, By a' that's abune. For he loe's her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', bune a', He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'. Bridal-maidens are braw, braw. Bridal-maidens are braw, braw; But the bride's modest e'e. And warm cheek are to me 'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a', 'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'. It's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha', it's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha'; There's quaffing and laughing. There's dancing and dafKng, And the bride's father's blithest of a', of a'. The bride's father's blithest of a'. It's no that she's Jamie's ava, ava. It's no that she's Jamie's ava, ava. That my heart is sae weary, When a' the lave's cheerie. But it's just that .she'll aye be awa', awa'. It's just that she'll aye be awa'. THE VALE OF KILLEAX. Oh yes, there's a valley as calm and as sweet As "that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green, 'Mid Scotia's dark mountains — the Vale of Killean. The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam. The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home, That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close. Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose. How solemn the broad hills that curtain around This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found, Whose echoes low whisper, " Bid the world fare- well. And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!" Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore, 'Mid the world's wild turmoil I'fl mingle no more, And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear. Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear. Young Mom, as on tiptoe he ushers the day, Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray; And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart To the soul her own meekness— a rich glow to the heai't. The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest, As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast; And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise Like the mist from the mountam, to blend with the skies. THE CORBIE AND CRAW. The corbie wi' his roupy throat. Cried frae the leafless tree, " Come o'er the loch, come o'er the loch, Come o'er the loch to me." The craw put up his sooty head. And look'd o'er the nest whare he lay, And gied a flaf wi' his rousty wings, And cried, "Whare tae? whare tae?" Cor. " Te pike a dead man that's lying A hint yon meikle stane." 100 THOMAS PEINGLE. Cra. Cor. Cra. Cor. " Is he Ui, is he fat, is he fat, is he fat? If no, we may let him alaiie." " He cam' frae merry England, to steal The sheep, and kill the deer." " I'll come, I'll come, for an Englishman Is aye the best o' cheer." " we may breakfast on his breast. And on his back may dine; For the lave a' fled to their ain count rie, And they've ne'er been back sinsyne." MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY TREES. My brothers are the stately trees That in the forests grow; The simi:)le flowers my sisters are, That on the green bank blow. With them, with them, I am a child Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild. The daisy, with its tear of joy, Gay greets me as I stray; How sweet a voice of welcome comes From every trembling .spray! How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hom-s I spend among those songs and flowers! I love the spirit of the wind, His varied tones I know; His voice of soothing majesty, Of love and sobbing woe; Whate'er his varied theme may be. With his my spirit mingles free. I love to tread the grass-green path. Far vip the winding stream; For there in nature's loneliness The day is one bright dream. And still the pilgrim waters tell Of wanderings wild by wood and dell. Or up the mountain's brow I toil Beneath a wid'ning sky, Seas, forests, lakes and rivers wide. Crowding the wondering eye. Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings, To cloudless regions upwards .springs I The .stars — the stars! I know each one, With all its soul of love. They beckon me to come and live In their tearless homes above; And then 1 spurn earth's songs and flowers, And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers. THOMAS PEINGLE. BoRX 1789— Died 1834. Thomas Prixgle, a poet and miscellaneous writer, was born at Blacklaw, in Roxburgh- shire, January 5, 1789. AVhen young he met with an accident by which his right hip-joint was dislocated, and he was obliged ever after to use crutches. In liis fourteenth year he was sent to the grammar-school at Kelso, and three years afterwards entered the University of Edinburgh. In the year 1808 he obtained a situation in the General Register House, and in 1811, in conjunction with his friend Robert Storj', published a satirical poem en- titled "The In.stitute," which obtained for its young authors great praise but small profit. In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's Albijn s Antholorjy ; he also compo.scd an ex- cellent imitation of Sir Walter Scott's poetical style for the Ettrick Shepherd's Poetic Mirror. In the following year he assumed the editor- ship of the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, projected by James Hogg and himself, and published by William Blackwood, as a rival to the Scots Magazine. Brewster, Cleghorn, Lockhart, the Shepherd, and Professor Wilson were among the contributors to this periodical, whicli afterwards became the famous Black- icood's Magazine. Pringle soon withdrew from its management, but he continued to be the conductor of the Edinburgh Star newspaper and editor of Constable's Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany. Before this time he had married, and finding the emoluments from these literary sources insufficient to maintain his family, he was fain to abandon them and return in 1819 to his old place in the Register IIou.sc. THOMAS PRINGLE. 101 Priagle published during the same year the "Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems/' but the poetical field at that season was so pre-occupied by greater singers, that his little volume, though appreciated by the judicious few, brought him but small profit. In 1820, in company^ with his brothers and other rela- tives and friends, in all twenty-four persons, he embarked for South Africa, Avhere they landed in safety, and took possession of a tract of twenty thousand acres assigned to them by the government, which tiiey named Glen Lynden. The poet afterward removed to Cape Town, where he filled the position of govern- ment librarian, and kept a large boarding- school. Here, after some difficulty, he estab- lished the South African Journal, a magazine which appeared in Dutch and English, and he also assumed the editorship of a weekly news- paper. But ere long he had disagreements with the governor, Lord Charles Somerset, and weary of his CatiVeland exile he returned to England in 1826, and obtained the appoint- ment of secretary to the Anti-Slavery Societj', a post which he retained until the abolition of slavery in the colonies of Great Britain ren- dered the society unnecessary. Meantime he was a constant contributor of prose and verse to the chief periodicals of the day; edited an annual. Friendship's Offerlnrj; and published a " Narrative of his Residence in South Africa," also " Ephemerides, or Occasional Poems." Failing health induced him to decide to remove to a warmer climate as the only means of saving his life, and he was preparing to return to the Cape with his wife and sister-in law, when he became worse, and died December 5, 1834. His remains were interred in Bunhill Fields, and a tombstone with an elegant inscription marks the spot where thej' lie. Pringle's poetical works, with a memoir written by Leitch Ritchie, were published in 1839. Many of his compositions exhibit a highly cultivated taste, combined witli deep and generous feeling. The fine pastoral lyric " 0, the Ewe-bughting's bonnie," left un- finished by Lady Grizzel Baillie (see vol. i. p. 91), was completed by our author. Allan Cunningham wrote: — " Thomas Pringle is a poet and philanthropist: in poetry he has shown a feeling for the romantic and the lovely, and in philanthropy he has laboured to introduce liberty, knowledge, and religion, in the room of slavery and ignorance." Another Scottish poet says: — "His poetry has great merit. It is distinguished by elegance rather than strength, but he has many forcible pas- sages. The versification is sweet, the style simple and free from all superfluous epithets, and the descriptions are the result of his own observations. His 'African Sketches,' which consist of poetical exhibitions of the scenery-, the characteristic habits of animals, and the modes of native life in South Africa, are alone sufficient to entitle him to no mean rank as a poet." The first of our selections was greatly admired by Sir Walter Scott and many other distinguished poets of Pringle's period. Cole- ridge was so highly delighted that he did little else for several days than read and recite it. AFAE IN THE DESERT. Afar in the Desert T love to ride. With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I turn to the past; And the eye is suffused with regretful tears. From the fond recollections of former years; And the shadows of things that have long since fled, Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead- Bright visions of gloiy that vanished too soon — Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon — Attachments by fate or by falsehood reft — Companions of early days lost or left — And my native land! whose magical name Thrills to my heart like electric flame; The home of my childhood— the haunts of my prime ; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time, When the feelings were young and the world was new. Like the fresh bowers of Paradise opening to view! All — all now forsaken, forgotten, or gone; And 1, a lone exile, remembered of none. My high aims abandoned, and good acts undone — Aweaiy of all that is under the sun ; With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan I fly to the Desert afar from man. 102 THOMAS PEINGLE. Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife; The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear; And the scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear; And mahce and meanness and falsehood and folly, Dispose me to miising and dark melancholy ; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high. And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh — Oh, then! there is freedom, and joy, and pride. Afar in the Desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed. With the death-fraught firelock in my hand— The only law of the Desert land — But 'tis not the innocent to destroy. For I hate the huntsman's savage joy. Afar in the Desert I love to ride. With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; Away— away from the dwellings of men. By the wild-deer's haunt and the buffalo's glen; By valleys remote, where the oribi plays; Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze; And the gemsbok and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forests o'ergrown with wild vine; And the elephant browses at peace in his wood; And the river horse gambols unscared in the flood ; And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the Vley, where the wild ass is drinking his fill. Afar in the Desert I love to ride. With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: O'er the brown Karroo where the bleating cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. In fields seldom freshened by moisture or rain; And the stately koodoo exultingly bounds. Undisturbed by the bay of the hunter's hounds; And the timorous quagga's wild whistling neigh Is heard by the brak fountain far away; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste; And the vulture in circles wheels high overhead. Greedy to scent and to gorge on the dead; And the grisly wolf, and the shrieking jackal, Howl for their prey at the evening fall; And the fiend-like laugh of hyenas grim, Fearfully startles the twilight dim. Afar in the Desert T love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: Away — away in the wilderness vast. Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the quivered Korauna or Bechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan : A region of emptiness, howling and drear. Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone. And the bat flitting forth from his old hollow stone ; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot: And the bitter melon, for food and diink, Is the pilgrim's fare by the Salt Lake's brin'v : A region of drought, where no river glides. Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; Nor reedy pool, nor mossy fountain. Nor shady tree, nor cloud-capped mountain. Are found — to refresh the aching eye : But the barren earth and the burning sky. And the black horizon round and round, Without a living sight or sound, Tell to the heart, in its pensive mood. That this is — Nature's solitude. And here — while the night winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, As I sit apart by the caverned stone. Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone. And feel as a moth in the mighty hand That spread the heavens and heaved the land — A " still small voice" comes through the wild (Like a father consoling his fretful child) Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear — Saying, "Man is distant, but God is near!" THE LION AND GIRAFFE. Would'st thou view the lion's den ? Search afar from haunts of men — Where the reed-encircled rill Oozes from the rocky hill. By its verdure far descried 'Mid the desert brovra and wide. Close beside the sedgy brim, Couchant, lurks the lion grim. Watching till the close of day Brings the death-devoted prey. Heedless at the ambush'd brink The tall giraffe stoops down to drink ; Upon him straight the savage springs With cruel joy. The desert rings With clanging sound of desperate strife — The prey is strong, and he strives for life. Plunging off with frantic bound To shake the tyrant to the ground. He shrieks — he rushes through the waste With glaring eye and headlong haste. In vain! — the spoiler on his prize Rides proudly — tearing as he flies For life — the victim's utmost speed Is mustered in this houi- of need. THOMAS PRINGLE. 103 For life — for life— his giant might He strains, and pours his soul in flight; And mad with terror, thirst, and pain, Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain. 'Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking His streaming blood — his strength is sinking; The victor's fangs are in his veins — His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains— His panting breast in foam and gore Is bathed — he reels — his race is o'er. He falls — and with convulsive throe, Resigns his throat to the ravening foe ! — And lo ! ere quivering life is fled, The vultures, wheeling overhead, Swoop down, to watch in gaunt array, Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey. COME AWA', COME AWA'. Come awa', come aAva', An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie; Leave your southern wooers a', My winsome bride to be, lassie! Lands nor gear I proffer you, Nor gauds to busk ye line, lassie; But I've a heart that's leal and true, And a' that heart is thine, lassie! Come awa', come awa', And see the kindly north, lassie, Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair, And by the links o' Forth, lassie! And when we tread the heather-bell, Ahoon Demayat lea, lassie. You'll view the land o' flood and fell, The noble north countrie, lassie! Come awa', come awa'. And leave your southland hame, lassie; The kirk is near, the ring is here. And Fm your Donald Graeme, lassie! Eock and reel and spinning-wheel, And English cottage trig, lassie; Haste, leave them a', wi' uie to speel The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie! Come awa', come awa', I ken your heart is mine, lassie; And true love sliall make up for a' For whilk ye might repine, lassie! Your father he has gi'en consent. Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie; that our feet were on the bent, An' the lowlands far behind, lassie! Come awa', come awa', Ye'U ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie; Mr cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw. By bonnie Avondhu, lassie! There's birk and slae on ilka brae, And brackens waving fair, lassie. And gleaming lochs and mountains gray- Cau aught wi' them compare, lassie? Come awa', come awa', &c. FAREWELL TO TEVIOTDALE. Our native land — our native vale — A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue. Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds. And streams renown'd in song — Farewell ye braes and blossom'd meads, Our hearts have lov'd so long. Farewell, the blythesome broomy knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow — Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe. The mossy cave and mouldering tower, That skirt our native dell — Tiie martyr's grave, and lover's bower. We bid a sad farewell ! Home of our love! our father's home! Land of the brave and free! The sail is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee! AVe seek a wild and distant shore. Beyond the western main — We leave thee to return no more. Nor view thy clifts again! Our native land — our native vale — A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue! MAID OF MY HEART. Maid of my heart — a long farewell! The bark is launch'd, the billows swell, And the vernal gales are blowing free. To bear me far from love and thee! I hate ambition's haughty name, And the heartless pride of Avealth and fame; Yet now I haste through ocean's roar To woo them on a distant shore. 104 JOHN BURTT. Can pain or peril bring relief To him wlio bears a darker grief? Can absence calm this feverish thrill? — Ah, no! — for thou wilt haunt me still! Thy artless grace, thj' open truth, Thy form that breath'd of love and youth, Thy voice by nature fram'd to suit Tlie tone of love's enchanted lute! Thy dimpling cheek and deep-blue eye, Where tender thought and feeling lie! Thine eyelid like the evening cloud That comes the star of love to shroud! Each witchery of soul and sense, Enshrin'd in angel innocence, Combin'd to frame the fatal spell — That blest— and broke my heart — Farewell! JOHN BUETT. Born 1789 — Died 1866. The Rev. John Burtt was born at Knock- marloch House, in the parish of Riccarton, Ayrshire, May 26, 1789. While he was still a child he lost his mother, and went to reside with his maternal grandfather, Avith whom he spent his boyhood, during which time he attended school and became a good classical scholar. He was then sent to learn the weaving trade, but he soon abandoned the loom and returned to his books. In his si.xteenth year lie was decoyed into a small boat by a press-gang, carried on board the Magn'ificent, a ship-of-war stationed near Greenock, and compelled to serve as a common sailor. Effecting his escape after being five years in the service, he returned to Scotland and opened a private school at Kil- marnock. In 1816 he removed to Glasgow, where he attended the medical lectures at the university. During his career as a sailor Burtt had occu- pied many of his leisure hours in the composi- tion of verses, and had also written some lyrics during the period of his teaching at Kilmar- nock. These he collected and published at GlasgoAv in 1817. The same year he proceeded to the United States, and soon after entered the Theological Seminary at Princeton, New Jei-sey, where he studied theology. On leaving that institution Burtt for some time acted as a domestic missionary of the Presbyterian Church at Trenton and Philadelphia, until called to a ministerial charge at Salem, N.J. In 1831 he removed to Philadelphia and assumed the editorship of a weekly journal named The Pres- hjterkin. Two years later he became the pastor of a church in Cincinnati, at the same time acting as editor of The Standard. In 1812 he accepted the charge of a congregation at Black- woodtown, where he remained until 1859, Avhen the infirmities of age induced him to resign and retire to Salem, N.J., wliere he died, March 24, 1866. Mr. Burtt mari-ied JNIiss Mary N. Fisher of Philadelphia, Sept. 29, 1820. Of his family a daughter survives, to whom the Avriter is chiefly indebted for the particulars of her father's career; and two sons, one of whom has served his country as a surgeon both in the army and navy, while the other is doing his Master's work as a missionary among the American Indians. During the first years of Mr. Burtt's resi- dence in the New World he wrote a number of poems, which, with those published in Scot- land, were issued in 1819, at Bridgeton, N.J., with the title of Horce Poeticce. Later in life he occasionally contriljuted verses to the col- umns of The Prenhiitcrlan and other religious periodicals. " The Pev. John Burtt," remarks a correspondent, writing to us in 1875, "Avas a man of great excellence of character, and in the vigour of his years Avas one of our best preachers and poets. His Avas truly a remark- able life, Avith the golden ending so seldom allotted to the children of song." JOHN BURTT. 105 ON THE DIVINE MERCY. Shall the wanderer's harp of sorrow Always tell the tale of woe? Shall the night no joyful morrow Of unclouded transport know? Shall the bosom filled with sadness — Shall the boiling blood of madness Never know the calm of peace, Balm of hope and beam of bliss? "Wake, my harp! nor weak nor mildly Let thy notes of rapture swell : AVake, my harp! and warbling wildly. Of immortal triumphs tell. Holy fire— seraphic feeling — O'er my melting mind are stealing; Heavenward rolls my raptured eye, Loud I strike the harp of joy! "Weeping orphan! God has found thee. Led thee to thy mother's breast; AVandering stranger! all around thee Smiles the blissful home of rest. Strengthen'd is the arm of weakness; Cool'd the fever'd heart of sickness; 3Iortal strifes and pangs are o'er — lilortals live to die no more. Sons of earth! behold Him bending — God, your Father, from above; Peace and mercy sweetly blending AVith His tender looks of love. Sweeter than a seraph's vespers Is the welcome which He whispers; — "Come, ye weary and opprest. Come, ye heavy laden — rest ! " Eest ye from the care and sorrow, AVhich in seasons past ye knew: 'Tis an everlasting morrow — Scenes of endless bliss ye view: From the snares of guilt and error. From the grasp of death and terror IJest secure! — on IMe depend — Me, your Father and your Friend." THE FARE\YELL. welcome winter! wi' thy storms. Thy frosts, an' hills o' sna'; Dismantle nature o' her charms, For I maun lea' them a'. I've mourn'd the gowan wither'd laid Upon its wallow bier; I've seen the rosebud drooping fade Beneath the dewy tear. Then fare ye wcel, my frien's sae dear. For I maun lea' you a'. will ye sometimes shed a tear For me, when far awa"? For me, when far frae hame and you, AVhere ceaseless tempests blaw, AVill ye repeat my last adieu, An' mourn that I'm awa? I've seen the wood, where rude winds rave. In gay green mantle drest; But now its leafless branches wave "Wild whistling in the blast: So perish'd a' my youthfu' joy. An' left me thus to mourn; The vernal sun will gild the sky, But joy will ne'er return. Then fare ye weel, &c. In vain will spring her gowans spread Owre the green swairded lea: The rose beneath the hawthorn shade AVill bloom in vain for me: In vain will spring bedeck the bowers Wi' buds and blossoms braw — The gloomy storm already lowers That drives me far awa'. Then fare ye weel, &c. winter! spare the peacefu' scene AVhere early joys I knew; Still be its fields unfading green. Its sky unclouded blue. Ye lads and lasses! when sae blythe The social crack ye ca', spare the tribute of a sigh For me, when far awa' ! Then fare ye weel, &c. O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.^ O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray moun- tain straying, AVhere the wild winds of winter incessantly rave ; What woes wring my heart, while intently sur- veying The stomi's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. 1 This song enjoyed for many years the distinction of being attributed to Burns, and of being iuchuled in several editions of his poems. It celebrates Burtt's first love, who died young, and was Avritteu at Kilmarnock when in his twenty-second year, before he bade adieu to Scotland.— Ed. 106 WILLIAM KNOX. Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore; Where the flower that bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more! No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast — I haste with the storm to a far distant shore, Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest. And joy shall revisit iny bosom no more. 0! LASSIE I LO'E DEAREST! 0! lassie I lo'e dearest! Mair fair to me than fairest, Mair rare to me than rarest. How sweet to think o' thee. When blythe the blue-ey'd dawnin' Steals saftly o'er tlie lawnin', And furls night's sable awniii', 1 love to think o' tliee. An' while the honey'd dew-drap Still trembles at the flower-tap. The fairest bud I pu't up. An' kiss't for sake o' thee. An' when by stream or fountain, In glen, or on the mountain, Tlie lingering moments counting, 1 pause an' think o" thee. When the sun's red rays are streamin', Warm on the meadow beamin', Or on the loch wild gleamia', My heart is fu' o' thee. An' tardy-footed gloamin', Out-owre the hills slow comin', Still finds me lanely roamin'. And thinkin' still o' thee. When soughs the distant billow, An' night blasts shake the willow, Stretch'd on my lanely pillow. My dreams are a' o' thee. Then think when frien's caress thee, Oh, think when cares distress tiiee. Oh, think when pleasures bless thee, 0' him that thinks o' thee. SWEET THE BARD. Sweet the bard, and sweet his strain, Breath'd where mirth and friendship reign. O'er ilk woodland, hill, and plain, And loch o' Caledonia. Sweet the rural scenes he drew, Sweet the fairy tints he threw O'er the page, to nature true, And dear to Caledonia. But the strain so lov'd is o'er. And the bard so lov'd no more Shall his magic stanzas pour To love and Caledonia. Ayr and Doon may row their floods, Birds may warble through the woods, Dews may gem the opening buds. And daisies bloom fu' bonnie, 0: Lads fu' blythe and lasses fain Still may love, but ne'er again Will they wake the gifted strain 0' Burns and Caledonia. While, his native vales among. Love is felt, or beauty sung. Hearts will beat and harps be strung To Burns and Caledonia. WILLIAM KNOX. Born 1789 — Died 1825. William Knox, the author of the pathetic poem which was so great a favourite with the late President Lincoln, beginning, "Oh! wby sliould the spirit of mortal be proud!" was born at Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, August 17, 1789. His parents were in comfortable circumstances, and he received a liberal education, first at the parish WILLIAM KNOX. 107 school of Lilliesleaf, and afterwards at tlie grammar-school of Musselburgh. In 1812 he became lessee of a farm near Langholm, but he was so uusuccessful as a farmer that at the end of five years he gave up his lease, and commenced that precarious literary life which he continued to the close. From his early youth he had composed verses, and in 1818 he published The Lonelj Hearth, and other Poems, followed six years later by Tlie Songs of Israel. In 1825 appeared a third volume of lyrics, entitled The Harp of Z ion. Knox's poetical merits attracted the attention of Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly coun- tenance and occasional pecuniary assistance. Professor Wilson also thought highly of his poetical genius, and was ever ready to befriend him. He was a kind and affectionate son, and a man of genial disposition; but he un- wisely squandered his resources of liealtli and strength, and died of paralysis at Edinburgh, November 12, 1825, in his thirty-sixth year. Knox's poetry is largely pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. In the pre- face to his Songs of Israel he says — "It is my sincere wish that, Avhile I may have provided a slight gratification for the admirer of poetry, I may also have done something to raise the devotional feelings of the pious Christian." A new edition of his poetical works was pub- lished in London in 1847. Eesides the volumes mentioned above he also wrote A ]'isit to Dublin, and a Christmas tale entitled "ilarianne, or the AVidower's Daugiiter." Much of his authorship, however, was scattered over the periodicals of the day, and especially the Literary Gazette. As a prose writer his works are of little account, but the same can- not be said of his poetry, which possesses a richness and originality that insure for it a more lasting popularity. Sir Walter Scott, alluding to our poet, remarks — "His talent then showed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry, called, I think, "The Lonely Hearth," far superior to that of Michael Bruce, whose consumption, by the way, has been the life of iiis verses." He was keenly alive to his lite- rary reputation, and could not but have been greatly gratified had he known that a poem of his would one day go the rounds of the Ameri- can press and that of the Canadas as the pro- duction of a president of the United States. THE WOOER'S VISIT. My native Scotland ! how the youth is blest To mark thy first star in the evening sky, AVhen the far curfew bids the weary rest, And in his ear the milk-maid's wood-notes die! O ! then unseen by every human eye. Soon as the lingering daylight hatli decayed. Dear, dear to him o'er distant vales to hie, While every head in midnight rest is laid, To that endearing cot where dwells his favourite maid. Though he has laboured from the dawn of mom, Beneath the summer sun's unclouded ray, Till evening's dewdrops glistened on the thorn. And wild-flowers closed their petals with the day; And though the cottage home be far away, Where aU the treasure of his bosom lies, O ! he must see her, though his raptured stay Be short — like every joy beneath the skies — And yet be at his task by morning's earliest rise. Behold him wandering o'er the moonlit dales. The only living thing that stirs abroad, Tripping as lightly as the breathing gales That fan his cheek upon the lonesome road. Seldom by other footsteps trod ! Even though no moon shed her conducting ray, And light his night-path to that sweet abode. Angels will giiide the lover's dreariest way, If but for her dear sake whose heart is pure as they. And see him now upon the veiy hill. From which in breathless transport he doth hail, At such an hour so exquisitely still, To him the sweetest, far the sweetest, vale That e'er was visited by moimtain gale. And, 0! how fondly shall be hailed by him The guiding lamp that never yet did fail — Tliat very lamp which her dear hand doth trim To light his midnight way when moon and stars are dim. But who shall tell what her fond thoughts may be, The lovely damsel sitting all alone. When every inmate of the house but she To sweet oblivion of their cares have gone ? By harmless stealth unnoticed and unkno^vu, 108 WILLIAM KNOX. Behold her sccated by her midnight fire, And turning many an anxious look upon The lingering clock, as if she would require The steady foot of time to haste at her desire. But though the appointed hour is fondly sought, At every sound her little heart will beat, And she will blush even at the very thought Of meeting him whom she delights to meet. Be as it may, her ear would gladly greet The house-dog's bai-k that watch'd the whole night o'er, And C! how gently shall she leave her seat. And gently step across the sanded floor. With trembling heart and hand, to ope the creaking door. The hour is past, and still her eager ear Hears but the tinkle of the neighbouring rill; No human footstep yet approaching near Disturbs the night calm so serene and still, That broods, hke slumber, over dale and hill. Ah! who may tell what phantoms of dismay The anxious feelings of her bosom chill — The wiles that lead a lover's heart astray— The darkness of the night— the dangers of the way ? But, lo! he comes, and soon shall she forget Her griefs, in sunshine of this hour of bliss; Their hands in love's endearing clasp have met. And met their lips in love's delicious 'kiss. 0! what is all the wealth of worlds to this! Go— thou mayest cross each foreign land, each sea. In search of honours, yet for ever miss The sweetest boon vouchsafed by Heaven's de- cree — The heart that loves thee well, the heart that's dear to thee. And may I paint their pleasures yet to come. When, like their heai-ts, their willing hands are joined, The loving inmates of a wedded home. For ever happy and for ever kind ? And may I paint their various charms combined In the sweet offspring that around them plays, Who— tho' on mountains with the bounding hind Be rudely nursed — may claim a nation's praise, And on their native hills some proud memorial raise ? l\ry native Scotland! 01 thy northern hills, Tliy dark brown hills, are fondly dear to mc; And aye a warmth my swelling bosom fills For all the filial souls that cling to thee— Pure be their loves as human love can be, And still be worthy of their native land The little beings nursed beside their knee. Who may at length their country's guardians stand. And own the undaunted heart, and lift the un- conquered hand ! MORTALITY. Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ! Like a fast-flying meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave — He passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust, and together shall he. A child that a mother attended and loved. The mother that infant's affection that proved. The husband that mother and infant that blest, Each— all are away to their dwelling of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye. Shone beauty and pleasure— her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne. The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave. Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep. The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away hke the grass that we tread. The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven. The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just. Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes— like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes— even those we behold, To repeat every tale that hath often been told. For we are the same things that our fathers have been. We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we nni the same course that our fathers have run. WILLIAM KNOX. 109 The thoughts we arc thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shi-inkiug from, they too would shrink, To the Ufe we are clinging to, they too would cling — But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. They loved — but their story we cannot unfold; They scorned — but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved — but no wail from their slumbers may come; They joyed — but the voice of their gladness is- dumb. They died — ay, they died I and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on then- pilgi-image road. Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain. Are mingled together like sunshine and rain, And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge. Still follow each other like surge upon surge. 'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the di-aught of a breath. From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud — ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ! HARP OF ZION. Harp of Zion! pure and holy! Pride of Judah's eastern land! May a child of guilt and folly Strike thee with a feeble hand? May I to my bosom take thee, Trembling from the prophet's touch. And with throbbing lieart awake thee To the songs I love so much? I have loved thy thrilling numbers Since the dawn of childhood's day, When a mother soothed my slumbers With the cadence of thy laj" — Since a little blooming sister Clung with transport round my knee, And my glowing spirit blessed her With a blessing caught from thee. IMother— sister — both are sleeping Where no heaving liearts respire, While the eve of age is creeping Piound the widowed spouse and sire. He and his, amid tlieir sorrow, Find enjoyment in thy strain. — Harp of Zion! let me borrow Comfort from thy chords again. THE DEAR LAXD OF CAKES. 0! brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends, Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds; Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west. And courage is lull'd in the wan'ior's breast. Here social pleasure enlivens each heart. And friendship is ready its warmth to impart; The goblet is filled, and each worn one partakes, To drink 'plenty and peace to the dear Land of Cakes. Though the Bom-bon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills. Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills; Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers. There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours. Though our island is beat by the storms of the north, There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth ; There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes From that cradle of virtue, the dear Land of Cakes. 0! valour, thou guardian of freedom and trutli, Thou stay of old age, and thou guidance of youth! Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid. And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land; Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes. When called in defence of the dear Land of Cakes. ShaU the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud. When the rage of the battle is dreadful and loud, See us shrink from our standai-d with fear and dismaj', And leave to our foemen the pride of the day ? No, by heavens! we will stand to our honour and trust. Till our heart's blood be shed on our ancestors' dust, Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet breaks, Beneath the brown heath of the dear Laud of Cakes. no WILLIAM GLEN. ! peace to the ashes of those that have hied For the land where the proud thistle raises its head! 0! peace to the ashes of those gave us birth, lu a land freedom renders the boast of the earth! Though theii- lives are extinguish'd, their spu-it remains, And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins; Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes. For the honour and weal of the dear Land of Cakes. Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart. From our word, from our trust, let us never depart; Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd, And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound ; And still to our bosom be honesty dear, And still to our loves and our friendships sincere; And, till heaven's last thunder the firmament shakes, May happiness beam on the dear Land of Cakes. TO-MORROW. To-morrow! — mortal, boast not thou Of time and tide tliat are not now! But think, in one revolving day How earthly things may pass away! To-day— while hearts with rapture spring, The youth to beauty's lip may cling; To-morrow — and that lip of bliss May sleep unconscious of his kiss. To-day — the blooming spouse may press Her husband in a fond caress; To-morrow — and the hands that pressed May wildly strike her widowed breast. To-day — the clasping babe may drain The milk-stream from its mother's vein; Tomorrow — like a frozen rill. That bosom-current may be still. To-day — thy merry heart may feast On herb and fruit, and bird and beast; To-mon-ow^ — spite of all thy glee. The hungry worms may feast on thee. To-morrow! — mortal, boast not thou Of time and tide that are not now! But think, in one revolving day That even thyself may'st pass away. THE SEASON OF YOUTH. Rejoice, mortal man, in the noon of thy prime! Ere thy brow shall be traced by the ploughshare of time — Ere the twilight of age shall encompass thy way, And thou droop'st, like the flowers, to thy rest in the clay. Let the banquet be spread, let the wine-cup go round, Let the joy-dance be wove, let the timbrels re- sound — While the spring-tide of life in thy bosom is high, And thy spirit is light as a lark in the sky. Let the wife of thy love, like the sun of thy day. Throw a radiance of joy o'er thy pilgrimage way— Ere the shadows of grief come, like night from the west, And thou weep'st o'er the flower that expired on thy breast. Rejoice, mortal man, in the noon of thy jirime. But muse on the power and the progress of time; For thy life shall depart with the joy it hath given, And a judgment of justice awaits thee in heaven. WILLIAM GLEN, Born 1789 — Died 1826. William Glex, tlic author of " Wae's me for Prince Charlie," perhaps the most popular and pathetic of modern Jacobite lyrics, was born at Glasgow, Nov. li, 1789. His ances- tors were for many generations persons of con- sideration in Renfrewshire. William received a good education, and on the organization of the Glasgow Volunteer Sharpshooters joined WILLIAM GLEN. Ill the corps as lieutenant. He entered upon a mercantile career, and was for some time a manufacturer in his native city, carrying on a prosperous trade with the West Indies, where he resided for several years. In 1814 he was elected a manager of the Merchants' House of Glasgow and a director of the Chamber of Commerce. Soon after he met with several heavy losses, which caused his failure in busi- ness, which he never again resumed. His latter days were marked by the poet's too fre- quent lot — poverty and misfortune. During the last few years of his short life he spent his summers with relations of Mrs. Glen residing at Rainagour, in the parish of Aberfoyle, and received pecuniary assistance from an uncle living in Russia. He died of consumption in his native city, December, 1826, and the Edi- tor's father was one of the few friends of the unfortunate poet who followed his remains to their last resting-place in God's acre.^ In 1815 Glen published a .small volume of verses, entitled Poems, chiefly Lyrical. The lovers of Scottish minstrelsy will rejoice to learn that a large number of unpublished songs and poems which he left behind him in MS. are .soon to be issued, together with a memoir of the bard by the editor the Rev. Dr. Rogers, and a narrative, written by a lady, of the interesting educational work carried on at Aberfoyle for many years by the widow and daughter of Glen. THE BATTLE-SONG. Raise high the battle-song To the heroes of our land; Strike the bold notes loud and long To Great Britain's warlike band. Burst away like a Avhirlwind of flame. Wild as the lightning's wing; Strike the boldest, sweetest string, And deathless glory sing — - To their fame. See Corunna's bloody bed! 'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene; There the imperial eagle fled, And there our chief was slain. Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast, High honour seal'd his doom, And eternal laurels bloom Round the poor and lowly tomb Of his rest. Strong was his arm of might, When the war-flag was unfurl'd; But his soul, when peace shone bright, Beam'd love to all the world. And his name through endless ages shall endure; ' Aberfoyle, though neither the birth-place of the poet nor tlie spot where he breathed his last, has never- theless many interesting associations connected with William Glen. It was here he often wandered in his youth, here that he won the fair Kate of Aberfoyle, here on the banks of the lovely Loch Ard, " Bright mirror set in rocky dell," that he composed many of his sweetest songs, and it was here that he spent, on the farm of Rainagour, the High deeds are Avritten fair In that scroll, which time must spare, And thy fame's recorded there — Noble Moore. Yonder's Barossa's height, Rising full upon my view, Where was fought the bloodiest fight That Iberia ever knew. Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led. With bay'nets levell'd low, They rush'd upon the foe, Like an avalanche of snow From its bed. Sons of the " Lonely Isle," Your native courage rose, When surrounded for a while By the thousands of your foes. But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of war. He resistless led ye on. Till the bloody field was won, And the dying battle-groan Sunk afar. closing years of his brief career. A few weeks before his death he said to his amiable wife, " Kate, I would like to go back to Glasgow." "Why, Willie?" she asked, " are ye no as well here ?" "It's no myself I'm thinking about," he answered. " It was of you, Kate; for I know well it is easier to take a living man there than a dead one." So the sorrowful woman with her dying husband departed from the place, and the warm Highland hearts missed and mourned for him, forget- ting his faults and remembering only his virtues.— Ed. 112 WILLIAM GLEN. Our song Balgowan share, Home of the cliieftaiii's rest; For thou art a lily fan- In Caledonia's breast. Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love soothing strain, For beauty there doth dwell, In the mountain, flood, or fell. And throws her witching spell O'er the scene. But not Balgowan's charms Could lure the chief to stay; For the foe were up in arms. In a country far away. He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame; Ages may pass by. Fleet as the summer's sigh, But thy name shall never die — Gallant Graeme. Strike again the boldest strings To our great commander's praise; Who to our memory brings " The deeds of other days." Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain; The blaze of hope illumes Iberia's deepest glooms, And the eagle shakes his plumes There in vain. High is the foemen's pride. For they are sons of war; But our chieftain rolls the tide Of battle back afar. A braver hero in the field ne'er shone; Let bards, with loud acclaim. Heap laurels on his fame, " Singing glory" to the name Of Wellington. Could I with soul of fire Guide my wild unsteady hand, I would strike the quivering wire. Till it rung throughout the land. Of all its warlike heroes would 1 sing; Were powers to soar thus given. By the blast of genius driven, I would sweep the highest heaven With my wing. Yet still this trembling flight ^lay point a bolder way. Ere the lonely beam of night Steals on my setting day. Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow tree; And when I come again. Thou wilt not sound in vain, For I'll strike thy highest strain — Bold and free. WAE'S ME FOR PPJKCE CHAELIE.1 A wee bird cam' to our ha' door. He warbled sweet and clearly, An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang Was "Wae's me for Prince Charlie. 0! when I heard the bonnie soun' The tears cam' happin' rarelj-, I took my bannet aff my head. For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie, Quoth I, " My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a sang ye borrow. Are these some words ye've learnt by heart, Or a lilt 0' dool an' sorrow?" " Oh! no, no, no," the wee bird sang; " I've flown sin' mornin' early. But sic a day o' wind an' rain — Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie! " On hills that are by right his ain He roves a lanely stranger. On every side he's press'd by want. On every side is danger; Yestreen I met him in a glen. My heart maist burstit fairly, For sadly chang'd indeed was he — Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie! " Dark night cam' on, the tempest roar'd Loud o'er the hills an' valleys. An' whare was't that your prince lay down, Whase hame should been a palace? He row'd him in a Highland plaid, Which cover'd him but sparely. 1 Alexamler Whitelaw, in his admirable collection entitled The Book of Scottish Song, relates that during one of her Majesty's earliest visits to tlie North, " Wae's me for Prince Charlie" received a mark of royal favour, which would have sweetened, had he been alive, poor Glen's bitter cup of life. While at Taymouth Castle, the marquis had engaged the celebrated vocalist John Wilson to sing before the Queen. A list of the songs Mr. Wilson was in the habit of singing was sub- mitted to her Majesty, that she might signify her pleasure as to those wliich she would wish to hear, when the Queen immediately fixed upon the following: — "Lochaber no more," "The Flowers of the Forest," " The Lass o' Gowrie," " John Anderson, my Jo," "Cam' ye by Athol," and "The Laird of Cockpen." The pre- sent song was not in Mr. Wilson's list, but her Majesty herself asked if he could sing "Wae's me for Prince Charlie," which fortunately he was able to do. The selection of songs which the Queen made displays emi- nently her sound taste and good feeling. A better or more varied one, both as regards music and words, taking the number of pieces into consideration, could not easily be made. — Ed. WILLIAM GLEN. 113 An' slept beneath a bush o' broom — Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie!" But now the bird saw some red coats, An' he sheuk his wings wi' auger, " Oh! this is no a Land for me, I'll tarry here nae langer." lie hover'd on the wing a while Ere he departed fairly; But weel I mind the fareweel strain Was, "Wae's me for Prince Charlie!" Then blow a steady gale, ye win's, waft him across the sea, And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn and me. HO\Y EERILY, HOW DREARILY. How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine. When my love's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine; Three years ha'e come an' gane sin' first he said to me. That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live and die; The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild and drear, An' every hour that passeth by I water wi' a tear. I kiss my bonnie baby — I clasp it to my breast, Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace its father hath me prest! And whan I gaze upon its face, as it hes upon my knee. The crystal drops out-owre my cheeks will fa' frae ilka e'e; ! mouy a mony a burning tear upon its face will fa', For oh! it's like my bonnie love, an' he is far awa'. Whan the spring-tims had gane by and the rose began to blaw. An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonnie shaw, 'Twas then my love cam' courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart. An' mony a tear it cost my love ere he could frae me part; But though he's in a foreign land, far, far across the sea, I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto me. Ye wastlin' win's upon the main, blaw wi' a steady breeze, And waft my Jamie hame again across the roarin' seas; 0! when he clasps me in his arms, in a' his manly pride, I'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the world beside, Vol. II.— H THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA. Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim. High glory gie to gallant Graham, Heap laurels on our marshal's fame, AVha conquer'd at Vittoria. Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,, An' raised her stately form again. Whan the British lion siiook his mane On tlie mountains of Vittoria. Let blustering Suchet crousely crack, Let Joseph rin the coward's track. An' Jourdan wish liis baton back He left upon Vittoria. If e'er they meet their worthy king. Let them dance roun' him in a ring. An' some Scots piper play the spring He blew them at Vittoria. Gie truth and honour to the Dane, Gie German's monarch heart and brain. But aye in sic a cause as Spain Gie Britain a Vittoria. The English rose was ne"er sae red. The shamrock waved whare glory led. An' the Scottish thistle rear'd its head In joy upon Vittoria. Loud was the battle's stormy swell, Whare thousands fought an' mony fell. But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell At the battle of Vittoria. The Paris maids may ban them a'. Their lads are maistly wede awa'. An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw They lie upon Vittoria. Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees The eagle standard-bearer flees, While the " meteor flag" floats to the breeze. An' wantons on Vittoria. Britannia's glory there was shown, By the undaunted AVellington, An' the tyrant trembled on his throne, Whan hearin' o' Vittoria. Peace to the spirits o' the brave. Let a' their trophies for them wave. An' green be our Cadogan's grave. Upon thy field, Vittoria! There let eternal laurels bloom, While maidens mourn his early doom, 114 JOHN MACDIAEMID. An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb Wi' roses on Yittoria. Ye Caledonian war-pipes play, Barossa heard your Hielan' lay, An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day A prelude to Vittoria. Shout to the heroes— swell ilk voice, To them wha made poor Spain rejoice, Shout Wellington an' Lynedoch, boys, Barossa an' Vittoria! THE MAID OF OEONSEY, Oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain; Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows; Sweet bird, oh! warble it again, Thou'st touched the string o' a' my woes; Oil! lull me with it to repose, I'll dream of her who's far away, And fancy, as my eyelids close, AVill meet the maid of Oronsey. Could'st thou but learn frae me my grief, .Sweet bird, thou'dst leave thy native grove, And fly to bring my soul relief, To where my warmest wishes rove; Soft as the cooings of the dove Thon'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay. And melt to pity and to love The bsnnie maid of Oronsey. Well may I sigh and sairly weep. The song sad recollections bring; Oh! fly across the roaring deep. And to my maiden sweetly sing; 'Twill to her faithless bosom fling Remembrance of a sacred day; But feeble is thy wee bit wing, And far's the isle of Oronsey. Then, bonnie bird, wi' mony a tear I'll mourn beside this hoary thorn, And thou wilt find me sitting here Ere thou can'st hail the dawn o' morn ; Then high on airy pinions borne, Thou'lt chant a sang o' love and wac, An' soothe me weeping at the scorn Of the sweet maid of Oronsey. And when around my weary head, Soft pillowed where my fathers lie, Death shall eternal poppies spread, An' close for aye my tearfu' eye; Ferehed on some bonny branch on high, Thou'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay. And soothe my " spirit passing by" To meet the maid of Oronsey. MARY GRAY. Once William swore the sacred oath, That I my love had never weary; And I gave him my virgin troth. But now he's turned awa' frae Mary. I thought his heart was link'd to mine. So firm that it could never stray; Yet, AVilliam, may that peace be thine Which thou hast ta'en frae Mary Gray. I once was happy in his love. No gloomy prospect made me dreary; I thought that he would never rove, But aye be faithfu' to his Mary. Bright on me shone sweet pleasure's sun, I sported in its gladdening ray; But now the evening shades are come. And soon will close round Mary Gray. Yet, AVilliam, may no gloomy thought Of my love ever make thee dreary; I've suffer'd much — 'twas dearly bought, — Peace now has fled frae wretched Mary.— And when some maid more loved than me. Thou lead'st to church on bridal day. Perhaps the lowly grave you'll see Of poor neglected Mary Gray. JOHN MACDIARMID. Born 1790 — Died 1852. John MacDiarmid, a gifted writer and jour- nalist, was born, it is said, in Edinburgh in 1790. The death of his father, the Rev. Hugh MacDiarmid, for many years minister of a Gaelic church in Glasgow, left him at an early age to make his own way in the world. He JOHN MACDIARMID. 115 first became a clerk in a counting-house, and afterwards obtained a situation in tiie Com- mercial Bank, Edinburgh, where he rose to a good position. During this time he managed to attend several classes in the university, and devoted all his leisure hours to reading and stud}'. He also for two years acted as occa- sional amanuensis to Professor Playfair, from whom he obtained the privilege of attending his classes, and the free use of his library. MacDiarmid's first literary effort seems to liave been some spirited verses on the battle of Waterloo, which he wrote in 1815, on the occasion of erecting a commemorative monu- ment at Newabbey, near Dumfries. The poem attracted notice, and the editor of the Edln- 6(t)-/7/ti?et>iew signified his willingness to receive contributions from MacDiarmid's pen. while the publishers Oliver and Boyd engaged him to compile several works, for which service he was paid £50. This, the first-fruits of his literary labour, had not been half an hour in his pos- session before he gave the whole amount to an impecunious poet-friend, who, it is almost needless to remark, never returned it. In 1816, in company with two friends, he estab- lished the Scotsman newspaper in Edinburgh, now perhaps the most prosperous journal in Scotland; and the year following he accepted the editorship of the Dumfries and Oalloioay Courier. Although devoted to the business of his news- paper, MacDiarmid still continued to cherish his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published an edition of Cowpers Poems, with a well- written memoir of the poet, which passed through several editions. The Scrap Book, a volume of selections and original contributions in prose and verse, appeared in 1820, and was soon followed by a second volume, both of which were highly successful. In 1823 he prepared a memoir of Goldsmith for an Edin- burgh edition of the Vicar of WakcJiM. In 1825 he originated the Dumfries Mafjazlne, and five years later published his Sketches from Nature, chieSy illustrative of scenery and character in the districts of Dumfries and Galloway. He also contributed an interesting account of the ancient burgh and its neigh- bourhood to the Picture of Dumfries, an illus- ~ trated work published in 1832; and in the intervals of his leisure wrote a description of Moffat and a memoir of Xicholsou the Galloway poet. The Courier, which ultimately became ^Mac- Diarmid's exclusive property, and in which most of his poems appeared, acquired a char- acter rarely attained by a provincial paper, and its editor was highly esteemed by Sir Walter Scott, Wilson, Jeffrey, Lockhart, and other leading literary men of his day. To his kind heart and liberal patronage many young aspirants for poetic fame were indebted for assistance. Isabella, the youngest sister of Burns, told the Editor in 1855 that her brother's widow and children had found in Mr. MacDiarmid a most faithful friend, and that after the death of Mrs. Burns he acted as her executor. Not even Eobert Chambers pos- sessed a more minute knowledge of the life and writings of Scotland's great national poet, or enriched the world with more original anec- dotes concerning him, than did John Mac- Diarmid. He died universally respected by his fellow -men, November 18, 1852, leaving several children, one of whom became his bio- grapher. As a fitting tribute to his memory, a number of friends subscribed a sufficient sum to found a bursary bearing his name for £10 annually in the University of Edinburgh, to be competed for by students from the counties of Dumfries, Kirkcudbright, and Wigton. EVENING. Hush, ye songsters! day is done; See how sweet the setting sun Gilds the welkin's boundless breast. Smiling as he sinks to rest; Now the swallow down the dell, Issuing from her noontide cell, ilocks the deftest marksman's aim, Jumbling in fantastic game: Sweet inhabitant of air, Sure thy bo.^om holds no care; Not the fowler full of wrath. Skilful in the deeds of death — Not the darting hawk on high (Ruthless tyrant of the sky '.) 116 JOHN MACDIAEMID. Owns one art of cruelty Fit to fell or fetter thee, Gayest, freest of the free! Ruling, whistling shrill on high, Where yon turrets kiss the sky. Teasing with thy idle din Drowsy daws at rest within; Long thou lov'st to sport and spring On thy never-wearying wing. Lower now 'midst foliage cool, Swift thou skimm\st the peaceful pool, Where the speckled trout at play, Eising, shares thy dancing prey, While the treach'rous circles swell Wide and wider where it fell, Guiding sure the angler's arm Where to find the puny swarm ; And with artificial fly. Best to lure the victim's eye, Till, emerging from the brook, Brisk it bites the barbed hook; Struggling in the unequal strife. With its death, disguised as life, Till it breathless beats the shore, Ke'er to cleave the current more! Peace! creation's gloomy queen, Darkest Night, invests the scene! Silence, Evening's handmaid mild. Leaves her home amid the wild. Tripping soft with dewy feet Summer's flowery carpet sweet, Morpheus^drowsy power — to meet. Ruler of the midnight hour. In thy plenitude of power. From this burthen'd bosom throw Half its leaden load of woe. Since thy envied art supplies What reality denies, Let thy cheerless suppliant see Dreams of bliss inspired by thee — Let before his wond'ring eyes Fancy's brightest visions rise — Long-lost happiness restore, None can need thy bounty more. MY FAITHFUL SOMEBODY. AVhen day declining gilds the west, And weary labour welcomes rest. How lightly bounds his beating breast At thought of meeting somebody. My fair, my faithful somebody, Jly fair, my faithful somebody; When sages with their precepts show. Perfection is unknown below, They mean, except in somebody. Her lovely looks, sae kind and gay, Are sweeter than the smiles of day, And milder than the morn of Jlay That beams on bonnie somebody'. My fair, &c. 'Twas but last eve, when wand'ring here, We heard the cushat cooing near, I softly whispered in her ear, "He woos, like me, his somebody." My fair, &c. With crimson cheek the fair replied, '•As seasons change, he'll change his bride; But death alone can e'er divide From me the heart of somebody." My fair, &c. Enrapt I answer'd, "Maid divine, Thy mind's a model fair for mine; And here I swear I'll but resign With life the love of .somebody." My fair, &c. NITHSIDE. When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree. The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee; The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied. How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside! When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown. And sclioolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown, To hop 'mong plots and borders, an-ay'd in all their pride, How sweet at dewy mom to roam by bonnie Nithside! When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue, And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue; While the coble circles pools, where the nioniu cli salmon glide, Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nith- side! When the comcraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee. And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea; DAVID VEDDER. 11- And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride, How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nith- side! When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear, The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year; And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through oiu- valley wide, Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside! And when winter comes at last, capping everj' hill \rith snow, And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below, You still may share the curler's joys, and find at eventide. Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside! OX THE DEATH OF A CHILD. I cannot weep, yet I can feel Tlie pangs that rend a parent's breast; But ah I what sighs or tears can lieal Thy griefs, and wake the slumberer's rest? AVhat art thou, spirit undefined. That passest with man's breath away. That givest him feeling, sense, and mind. And leavest him cold, unconscious clay? A moment gone, I look'd, and, lo! Sensation throbb'd through all her frame; Those beamless eyes were raised in woe; That bosom's motion went and came. The next, a nameless chanr^e was wrouglit, Death nipt in twain life's brittle thread, And, in a twinkling, feeling, thought. Sensation, motion, — all were fled! Those lips will never more repeat The welcome lesson connd with cai'e; Or breathe at even, in accents sweet, To Heaven the well-remembered prayerl Those little hands shall ne'er essay To ply the mimic ta.sk again, Well pleased, forgetting mirth and play, A mother's promised gift to gain! That heart is still — no more to move. That ciieek is wan — no more to bloom, Or dimple in the smile of love. That speaks a parent's welcome home. And thou, with years and sufferings bow'd. Say, dost tiiou least this loss deplore? Ah! though thy wailings are not loud, I fear thy secret grief is more. Youth's griefs are loud, but are not long; But thine with life itself shall last; And age shall feel each sorrow strong. When all its morning joys are past. 'Twas thine her infant mind to mould. And leave the copy all tliou art ; And sure the wide Avorld does not hold A warmer or a purer heart! I cannot weep, yet I can feel The pangs that rend a parent's breast; But, ah! what sorrowing can unseal Those eyes, and wake tiie slumberer's rest? DAVID YEDDEE. BoEX 1790 — Died 1854. David A'edder, a lyric poet of considerable originality, was born in the parish of Burness, Orkney, in 1790. Having early lost his parents, he chose, as was natural to an island boy, a sailor's life, and at the age of twelve siiipped as a cabin-boy on board a small coasting vessel. He proved an apt scholar in the nautical pro- fession, and when It is worthy of mention that this song, on which Lyle's poetical reputation chiefly rests, was originally attributed to another writer. MaodonalJ. in his Ram- bles round Glasgow, savs— " The song was first published Vol. II.— I " Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, 0, To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, Where the glens rebound the call Of the roaring waters' fall. Thro' the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, 0. in 1S20 in the Harp of Renfreicaliire, a collection of poetical pieces to which an introductory essay on the poetsof the district was contrilMi ted by William JI other- well. In the index to that work the name of John Sim 130 THOMAS LYLE. 0! Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, 0, When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, 0, There the ]May-pink's crimson plum^i Throws a soft, but sweet perfume, Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie,0. Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, 0, As the smile of fortune's thine, bonnie lassie, 0, Yet with fortune on my side, I could stay thy father's pride, And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, 0. But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, 0, On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, 0, Ere yon golden orb of day Wake the warblers on the spray. From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, 0. Then farewell to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, 0, And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, 0, To the river winding clear. To the fragrant scented breer. E'en to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, 0. When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, 0, Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, 0, Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear Of thy lover on his bier. To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, 0. I AKCE KNEW CONTENT. I ance knew content, but its smiles are awa', The broom blooms bonnie, an' grows sae fair; Each tried friend forsakes nie, sweet Phebe an' a'. So I ne'er will gae down to the broom ony mair. How light was my step, and my heart, how gay ! The broom blooms bonnie, the broom blooms fair; Till Phebe was crowned our Queen of the May, When the bloom o' the broom strew'd its sweets on the air. is given as that of the author of ' Kelvin Grove.' Mr. Sim, who had contributed largely to the work, and for a time had even acted as its editor, left Paisley before its completion for the West Indies, where he shortly after- ward died. In the meantime the song Vjecame a general favourite, when Jlr. I.yle laid claim to it as liisonn production, and brought forward evidence of the most onvincing nature to that effect,. So clearly, indeed, did he establish the fact of his authorship that a music- seller in Edinburgh, who had previously purchased the song from the executors of Mr. Sim, at once entered into a new arrangement with him for the copyright. Mr. Lyle, it seems, was in the habit of corresiionding with Mr. Sim on literary matters, and on one occasion sent liira ' Kelvin Grove,' with another song, to be She was mhie when the snaw-draps hung white on the lea. Ere the broom bloom' <1 bonnie, an' grew sae fair; Till May-day, anither wysed Phebe frae me, So I ne'er will gae down to the broom ony mai/. Sing, love, thy fond promises melt like the snaw. When broom waves lonely, an' bleak blaws the air; For Phebe to me now is naething ava'. If my heart could say, "Gang to the broom nae man-." Durst I trow that my dreams in the night hover o'er, Where broom blooms bonnie, an' grows sae fair; The .swain (who, while waking, thou thinks of no more,) Whisp'ring, "Love, will ye gang to the broom ony mair?" No! fare thee well, Phebe; I'm owre wae to weep, Or to think o' the broom growing bonnie an' fair; Since thy heart is anither's, in death I maun .sleep, 'Neatii the broom on the lea, an' the bawm sunny air. DAEK DUNOON. See the glow-Avorm lits her fairy lamp, From a beam of the rising moon; On the heathy shore at evening fall, 'Twixt Holy-Loch and dark Dunoon; Her fairy lamp's pale silvery glare. From the dew-clad, moorland flower, Invite my wandering- footsteps there, At the lonely twilight hour. Wlien the distant beacon's revolving light Bids my lone steps seek the shore. There the rush of the flow-tide's rippling wave Meets the dash of the fisher's oar; And the dim-seen steamboat's hollow sound, As she seaward track.s lier way; All else are asleep in the still calm night, And robed in the misty gray. published anonymously in the Harp of Renfreushire. In the meantime Mr. Sim, who had transcribed both the pieces, was called abroad; and after his death his executors, finding the two songs among his papers and in liis handwriting, naturally concluded that they were productions of his own genius, and published them accordingly." Dr. Lyle, «hen upwards of threescore years of age, and his authorship to the piece in question admitted by all, still alluiled with considerable acri- mony to the wrong and injustice which he had been subjected to in being compelled to prove his just claim to his own property.— Ed. WILLIAM FINLAY. 131 When the glow-worm lits her elfiu lamp, And the night breeze sweeps the hill; It's sweet on thy rock-bound shores, Dunoon, To wander at fancy's will. Eliza! with thee in this solitude, Life's cares would pass away, Like the fleecy clouds over gray Kilmun, At the Avake of early day. WILLIAM FINLAY T EoRN 1792 — Died 1847. William Finlay, the son of a weaver, was born at Paisley in 1792. At an early age he attended Bell's School, and subsequentlj' the Grammar School, where he made such progress that before he was nine years of age he could read and translate Ctesar with facility. For twenty years he followed his father's occupa- tion, after which he was employed in a cotton mill at Duntocher. In 1840 he became an assistant in the office of Mr. Neilson, printer. Paisley, with whom he remained for eight years. He afterwards removed to a bleachfield on the GlenifFer Braes, where he died Novem- ber 5, 1847. As early as his twentieth year Finlay became Icnown as a composer of verses, and ultimately as a successful writer of humorous and satirical poems, which he contributed to the Paisley and Glasgow journals. Several of the most agreeable of his productions are those in which there is a combination of the descriptive, the humorous, and the kindly, delicately .spiced with the satirical. "The Widow's Excuse" is a favourable specimen of this class of com- position. In 1846 Finlay collected a number of his pieces, which were published in Paisley in a volume entitled Poems, J/umowus and Sentimental. He was fond of music and society, and yielding to the fascinations of conviviality he sometimes committed excesses which he deeply regretted. Frequent and touching allusions to his besetting sin are to be met with in his writings, as well as vain regrets at the time squandered among his friends, to the neglect perhaps of the necessary pursuits of a labouring man. He says — " Wliile others have been busy, bustling After wealth and fame, And wisely adding house to house. And Bailie to their name; I, like a thoughtless prodigal. Have wasted precious time, And followed lying vanities To string them up in rhyme." It has been truthfully said that AVilliam Fin- lay's pictures of the evils of intemperance arc equal to Eodger's or Alexander AVilson's. THE MIGHTY MUNRO. Come, brawny John Bai-leycora, len' me your aid, Though for such inspiration aft dearly I've paid, Come cram up my noddle, and help me to show, In true graphic colours, the mighty Muuro. ! could ye hut hear him his stories rehearse, Whilk the hke was ne'er heard o', in prose or in verse, Ye wad laugh till the sweat dovra your haffets did flow, At the matchless, magnificent, mighty Munro. With such pleasing persuasion he blaws in your lug, Ye wad think that the vera inanimate jug Whilk Stan's on the table, mair hriehtly doth glow At the wild witching stories o' mighty JIunro. Such care-killing caper-3— such glorious riggs, Such cantrin' on cuddies, and cadging' in gigs, Such rantin,' and jauntin', and shunting, and show, Could ne'er be displayed but by mighty Munro. 132 WILLIAM FINLAY. Great Goliath o' Gath, who came out and defied, With the gi-eat swelhng words o' vainglory and pride, The brave armies of Israel, as all of ya knnjv, Was a dwarf-looking bodie compared vvi' Munro. And Samson, that hero, who slew men cii masse Wi' naething but just the jaw bane o' an ass; And drew down a house on himsel' and the foe, Was a puir feckless creatur' compared wi' JVIunro. The chivalrous knight of La Mancha, 'tis tnie, And Baron Munchausen, had equals but few; Their exploits have astonished the warl', but lo! Both the Don and the Baron mUst bow to Munro. But a tythe o' his merit nae words can impart, His errors are all of the head, not the heart; Though his tongue doth a little too trippingly go. Yet a guid chiel at bottom is mighty Munro. Though the lamp o' his fame will continue to bum When even his dust to the dust shall return, And for ages to come a bright halo will throw O'er the mouldering remains o' the mighty Munro, THE DREAM OF LIFE'S YOUNG DAY. Once more, Eliza, let me look upon tliy smil- ing face, For there I with the '•'joy of grief" tliy mother's features trace; Iler sparkling eye, her winning smile, and sweet bewitching air — Iler raven locks which clust'ring hung upon her bosom fair. It is the same enchanting smile, and eye of joyous mirth. Which beamed so bright with life and light in her who gave thee birth ; And strongly do they bring to mind life's glad- some happy day, AVhen first I felt within my heart love's pulse begin to play. ]\Iy years were few — my heai-t was pure; for vice and folly wore A hideous and disgusting front, iu those green days of yore : Destructive dissipation tlien, with her deceit- ful train. Had not, with their attractive glare, confus'd and turn'd my brain. Ah! well can I recall to mind liow (piick my heart would beat. To see her, in the house of prayer, so meekly take her seat; And when our voices mingled sweet in music's solemn strains. My youthful blood tumultuously rush'd ting- ling through my veins. It must have been of happiness a more than mortal dream, It must have been of heavenly light a bright unbroken beam; A draught of pure unmingled bliss; for to my wither'd heart It doth, e'en now, a thri'ding glow of ecstacy impart. She now hath gone where sorrow's gloom the brow doth never shade — Where on the cheek the ro>y bloom of youth doth never fade; And I've been left to struggle here, till now my locks are gray. Yet still I love to think upon this "dream of life's young day." THE WIDOWS EXCUSE. " 0, Leezie M'Cutcheon, I canna but say, Your grief hasna lasted a year and a day; The crape aff your bannet already ye've tane; Nae wonner that men ca' us fickle an' fain. Ye sich't and ye sabbit, that nicht Johnnie dee't, I thought my ain heart wad hae broken to see't; But noo ye're as canty and brisk as a bee; Oh! the frailty o' women I wonner to see: The frailty o' women I wonner to see, The frailty o' women I wonner to see; Ye kiss'd his cauld gab wi' the tear in your e'e; Oh, the frailty o' women I wonner to see. "When Johnnie was living, oh little he wist That the sound o' the mools as they fell on his kist. While yet like a knell, ringing loud in your lug. By anither man's side ye'd be sleeping sae snug. Leezie, my lady, ye've surely been fain. For an unco-like man to your aims ye have ta'en; John M'Cutcheon was buirdly,but this ane,I trow, The e'e o' your needle ye might draw him through : 0, the e'e o' your needle ye might draw him through. His nose it is shirpit, his lip it is blue. Oh, Leezie, ye've surely to wale on had few, Ye've looted and lifted but little, I trow." " Now, Janet, wi' jibing- and jeering hae dune. Though it's true that anither now fills Johnnie's shoon. He was lang in sair trouble, and Robin, ye ken, Was a handy bit body, and lived but and ben. WILLIAM BEATTIE. 133 He was unco obliging, and cam' at my wag, Whan wi' grief and fatigue I was liken to fag: 'Deed, John couldna want him— for aften I've seen His e'e glisten wi' gladness when Robin cam' in. Then, how can ye wonner I gied himmyhaun! Oh, how can ye wonner I gied him my haun; When I needed his help he was aye at comman' ; Then how can ye wonner I gied him my haun ? " At length when John dee't, and was laid in the clay, My haun it was bare, and my heart it was wae; 1 had na a steek, that was black, to put on, For wark I had plenty wi' guiding o' John; Now Robin was thrifty, and ought that he wan He took care o't, and aye had twa notes at corn- man'. And he lent me as muckle as coft a black gown, Sae hoo can ye wonner he's wearing John's shoon< Then hoo can ye wonner he's wearing John's shoon, My heart-strings wi' sorrow were a' out o' tune; A man that has worth and twa notes at com- man'. Can sune got a woman to tak him in haun." WILLIAM BEATTIE. Born 1793 — Died 1875. William Beattie, M.D., the friend and biographer of Thomas Campbell, was born in the parish of Dalton, Dumfriesshire, Feb. 24, 1793. After receiving the riuUments of his education at the Clarencefield Academy, he entered the University of Edinburgh in 1813, where in 1820 he took the degree of M.D. He then continued his studies in London and on the Continent for ten years, when he com- menced practice in London, where he ever afterward continued to reside. While actively pursuing his profession, Dr. Beattie, like the late Sir Henry Holland, found leisure for literary pursuits and foreign travel. His first M'ork, giving an account of a four years' resi- dence in Germany, appeared in 1827, followed by "John Huss, a Poem." Dr. Beattie's next poetical publication, "Polynesia, a Poem," celebrated the labours of the missionaries in the South Seas. He is also the author of pro- fessional writings, including a Latin treatise on pulmonary consumption. His most popu- lar work, and the one most likely to keep his name before the public, is his admirable me- moir of the poet Campbell, whose personal friendship he enjoyed for many years. It was through Dr. Beattie's persevering efforts that a statue of Campbell was placed in Westminster Abbey. His latest literary work was an enter- taining memoir, published in 1855, of William Henry Bartlett, whom he had assisted in the preparation of several of his illustrated works. Dr. Beattie was well known as the genial entertainer of men of letters, as a contributor to the magazines, as rendering professional services gratuitously to authors and clergymen, and as a hearty lover of his native land. At upwards of fourscore years of age he continued to mingle in the literary society of London, and to indulge in occasional poetic composi- tion. He was much esteemed for his amiable character and ability in his profession. He died at his residence in Portman Square, Lon- don, March 17, 1875, aged eighty -two years, and was buried at Brighton by the side of his wife, to whom he was married in the summer of 1822. During the last few years of his life Dr. Beattie amused his leisure hours in the preparation of an autobiography, which it is to be hoped that his literary executors, one of whom is Dr. Robert Carruthers of In- verness, will ere long give to the world. From his residence of half a century in the great metropolis, and his wide acquaintance witii many literary and distinguished people, such as Samuel Rogers, Lady Byron, and the Coun- tess of Blcssington, it can hardly fail to be an attractive book. 134 WILLIAM BEATTIE. MONODY OX THE DEATH OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. Hark! — 'Tis the death -knell, from Bononia's shore, 2 Startles the ear, and thrills in every core! Pealed from these cUffs, the echoes of our own Catch, and prolong the melancholy tone. As fast and far the mournful tidings spread— "The light is queuch'd— the ' Bard of Hope' is dead!" Campbell is dead! and Freedom on her wall Shrieks — as she shrieked at Kosciusko's fall! And warrior-exiles, as the dirge they hear, Heave tlie deep sigh, and drojj the bitter tear. Friends of the poet ! — ye to whom belong The prophet's fire — the mystic powers of song — On you devolves the sad and sacred trust To chant the requiem o'er a brother's dust ! His kindred shade demands the kindred tear — The poets' homage o'er a poet's bier! While / — who saw the \atal flame expire. And heard the last tones of that bi-oken lyre — Closed the dim eye, and propp'd the drooping head — And caught the spirit's farewell as it fled — With your high notes my lowly tribute blend. And mourn at once the poet and the friend! Twice twenty summers of unclouded fame Had shed their lustre on our poet's name; And found him over arm'd, and in the van, To guard the rights and dignity of man. On Freedom's altar sacrificing wealth. To Science consecrating life and health; In age retaining all the fire of youth — The love of liberty, the thirst for truth — He spent his days — improved them as they pass'd, And still reserved the brightest for the last ! 'T.vas here — whei'e Godfrey's sullen rampart frowns^ O'er wave-worn cliffs and cultivated downs; Where the cool breeze a bracing freshness throws, "WTiere shade and solitude invite repose; And whispering elms, in soothing cadence, wave O'er Churchill's death-bed and Le Sage's grave^ — 'Tvvas here our poet — on the stranger's soil, 1 Written at Boulogne shortly after the poet's decease, and now publislied for the first time. — Ed. 2 Bononia Galike — the Ge.s.soriacum of antiquity, or Boulogne-sur-Mer of the present day, " Gessoriacum quod nunc Bononia." * Godfrey (of Bouillon), whom lus'.ory represents as having been born in the citadel of Boulo^'iie, not Bouillon in Lorraine. ■• Churchill— the English Juveual— died at Boulogne Retired to pause from intellectual toil; Resign'd the well-fought field, with honours rife, To trim with frugal hand the lamp of life; To solve the mystic writing on the wall — Adjust his mantle ere he let it fall; Weigh life's gi'eat question — commune with his heart. Then, hail the welcome signal and depart. And here — tho' health decay'd — his taste still warm Conferr'd on all it touch'd a classic charm; Dispell'd the gloom, and peopled every shade With foi-ms and visions brilliantly portray'd. Thoughts well directed — i-eason well applied — Philosophy with cheering faith allied — Ins|)ired a fresh and healtlifvil tone of mind That braced the .sisirit as the body pined; While freedom strew'd her laurels at his feet. And song and science dignified I'etreat. But soon life's current darken'd as it flow'd; Gladness forsook the poet's new abode; His hearth grew sad, and swiftly pass'd away The cheerful evening of his well-spent day ! The books, the lyre, the lov'd Achaian strain, That charm'd the fancy, could not lull the pain. That now, in fatal ambush, hour by hour Bore witness to the fever's wasting power. — Yet pain, depression, anguish never wrung Complaint, regret, or murmiu- from his tongue : Or if — amidst his pain, a tear, a sigh Rose on his lip, or trembled in his eye, — 'Twas when sweet memories o'er his spirit came, And his lips mov'd to some beloved name, Which, while the soul was yearning to depart, Still kept its mansion sacred in his heart ! — But else, unmov'd, he watch'd the close of life— Brac'd on his armour for the final .strife; Resolv'd in death, to fall beneath liis shield, Conqueror — not captive — to resign the field. The hour arriv'd: the star of Hope arose To light her poet to his last repose! Life ebbed apace: the seraph, stooping down. Illumed his couch, and showed the future crown. " Welcome!" she whispered — "welcome be the hour That clothes my votary with celestial power! Enough hast thou achieved of earthly fame. To gild the patriot's and the poet's name; Thou hast not pandered to a vicious age, Nor left thy sins recorded in thy page; in 17C4; and Le Sage, the author of Gil Bla.", in 174T: " Ici est mort I'Auteur de Gil Bias, 1747," is engraved on a stone over the door of his house. WILLIAM BEATTIE. 135 But, kindred with the source from which it came, Thy song- hath minister'd to virtue's flame. And now — that longer life were lengthened pain — In brighter realms revive the hallowed strain; That heaven-born genius to thy keeping given, Pure and unsullied, render back to heaven!" tSo said — the radiant herald waved her torch, And, beckoning onward, showed the dismal porch — Death's dreary vale, thro' which the fleeting soul Flies to its fount, like streamers to the pole. As o'er yon headlands,^ where the sun has set, Beams of reflected glory linger yet; So now — to gild the last and closing scene — Fresh on the poet's cheek and brow serene, The setting sun of life's eventful day Has left a soft and sanctifying ray! Campbell is dead! — dissolved the spirit's bond — The bourne is pa^t — and all is light beyond!* Dead — yet not silent! — still to memory dear. His latest accents linger on my ear; His words — his looks, like spirits from the urn — With awful force and tenderness return; While here I watch, beside the breathless clay. The lines, and fleeting hues of life decay. All — all is changed ! — the master-lyre unstrung, Quenched the bright eye, and mute the inspiring tongue. That erst with generous glow, and godlike art. Subdued — exalted— sway 'd the stubborn heart; Abashed the proud, dispelled the exile's fears. And even from despots wrung reluctant tears — In British hearts infused a Spartan zeal, That stirred our spirits like a trumpet-peal. Speak thou, Sarmatia! When the spoiler's hand With blood and rapine filled thy smiling land — When beauty wept, and brave men bled in vain. And reeking slaughter stalked on every plain — Whose voice uprose? — as with a mighty charm, To shield the weak and foil the despot's arm — Whose voice first taught our sympathies to flow In streams of healing through a lanrl of woe ? 'Twas his! 'twas Campbell's soul-inspiring chord, That nerved the heart, and edged the Patriot's sword — That changed— nor faltered— nor relaxed the song. Till, roused to vindicate thy nation's wrong, Britannia, seconding her poet's art. Received thy band of heroes to her heart; And o'er the wreck of Freedom's gory field Threw the broad shade of her protecting shield! 1 The headlands alluded to aie the English cliffs, as fir as Beachy Head: the sunset over which, as seen from the wniparts of Boulogne, is often very beautiful, and was strikingly so at the time mentioned. He loved thee, Poland! with unchanging love; Shared in the sorrows he could not remove! Revered thy virtues, and bewail'd thy woes; And — could his life have purchas'd thy repose — Proud of the sacrifice, he would have bled, And mingled ashes with thy mighty dead! And ye — who in the sad or social hour Have seen, and felt the minstrel's varied power — Say how his soul rejoiced with you to share The noon of sunshine, or the night of care ! His heart — to tenderest sympathies awake — His mind — transparent as the summer lake — Lent all his actions energy and grace, ' And stamped their manly feelings in the face — Feelings— no sordid aim could compromise — That feared no foe, and needed no disguise. To you —his cherished friends and old compeers — The frank companions of his brightest years; Whose friendship strengthened as acquaintance grew — Warmed — glowed, as fate the narrowing circle drew ; — To you — a mournful messenger — I bear The minstrel's blessing, and the patriot's prayer. " Be firm!-" he said; "Freedom shall yet strike home; Worth shall be crowned— the brave shall cease to roam; The exile shall i-egain his father's hearth. And Justice recommence her reign on earth! Thrice happy days! — tho' but to gild my ui"n — Fulfil tho prophecy — return! return!" Britons! when next in Freedom's wonted hall Assembled patriots hold high festival; When, face to face, Sarmatia's sons j^e meet — Miss the loved voice, and mark the vacant seat! When thro' the soul conflicting passions throng, Your poet vdW be present in his song! His spirit will be there! — a shadowy guest — Unseen — unheard — but felt in every breast! He will be there, the minstrel-chair to claim, And fan the sparks of freedom into flame. — I knew him well! — how sad to say / liieir! That word alone brings all my loss to view — I knew his \-irtues — ardently and long Admir'd the poet for his moral song; But soon — when closer intercourse began, I found tho poet's rival in the Ma» — The man, who blended in the minstrel's art The brightest genius with the warmest heart. And thus bereaved — in this her two-fold grief — Where shall the mourning spirit find relief ? She turns instinctive to his page, and hears The voice of Hope, trimnphant in her tears! "Weep not for him,'' she cries, "who leaves behind 133 WILLIAM BEATTIE. The fruits and flowers of an immortal mind. Weep not for him — the minstrel hath a part — A living home in every kindred heart! Fraught with high powers, his lay in every clime Still warms the soul, and prompts the thought sublime. His songs, that haunt us in our grief and joy, Time shall not chill, nor death itself destroy! But, long as love can melt, or hope inspire One heart imbued with Nature's hallowed fire — So long the lay — to virtuous feeling true — Shall breathe, and burn, with fervour ever new." Sweet Bard of Hope! — Shrined with the glorious dead, A nation's love shall guard thy hallow'd bed ; While patriots, as their poet's name they scan. Shall pause, and proudly say — "Here lies the man Whose upright purpose, force nor fraud could bend; Who, serving Freedom, served her to the end; Gave to her sacred cause all man could give, Nor ceased to love her, till he ceased to live!' My task is done; nor care I now to weigh What praise or censure may await my lay: The mournful theme had better poets sung — This voice had slept — this harp remained vm- strung; Deep, but not loud — as warriors mourn then- chief — My heart had grieved, but not confessed its gi-icf. But now — when kindred genius stands aloof And friendship calls my loyalty to j^roof ; Shall I— tho' least of England's minstrels here — Awake no requiem at her poet's bier ? — But, coldly mute, renounce the saddest part ? No! silence now were treason to the heart! Grief must have voice — the wounded spirit vent — The debt be paid — before my day is spent : And if — at friendship's call — the numbers flow In seemly warmth — 'tis sorrow gives the glow.i LINES OX A rORTRAIT.^ Well bath the master's hand depicted here The worth we love, the veteran we revere! ' Ilaviiig watched at the poet's beUside— (lining the last ten )-. D. M. Moii: JANET HAMILTON. 149 One bonny rosebud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh, — That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye. "Xo, no!" she sighs; "bid me not rise, nor lay my cusliion down, To gaze upon Andalhi, with all the gazing town!" "Why rise ye not, Xarifa! — nor lay your cushion down? Why gaze ye not, Xarifa! with all the gazing town ] Hear — hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry! He Slops at Zara's palace-gate! — why sit ye still — oh, why?" — "At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate! ia him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth, with tears, — and was my lover. I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla, with all the gazing town!" JANET HAMILTON, Born 1795 - Died 1873. The Scottish muse found Burns at the plough Avhen turning over the "wee, modest, crimson-tippet flower," and once more she has shown that there is no royal road to poetic fame, for she "threw her inspiring mantle" over JIrs. Janet Hamilton amid the greatest poverty and under the most unfavourable cir- cumstances, Janet Thomson was born in the village of Corshill, parish of Shotts, Lanark- .shire, October 12, 1795, and on her mother's side was a descendant of the Covenanter John Whitelaw, who was executed at Edinburgh in 1683 for his share in the battle of Bothwell Bridge. At the age of fourteen she married John Hamilton, a young man Avho worked with her father at the trade of shoe-making. Although before the age of nineteen she had composed a few religious pieces, Mrs. Hamil- ton was fifty before she learned to write, and fifty-five before she again attempted poetical composition. She made her first appearance as a writer of verses in Cassell's Working-man's Friend. In 1863 she published a volume of Poems and Sonffs; in 1865 Poems and Sketches appeared; three yeai-s later Poems and Ballads was issued; and in 1871 she increased her fame by bringing out a fourth volume, being in part a reprint of her former collections of poetical and prose sketches. Prefixed to the work is a portrait of the venerable poetess, who, though poor, old, and blind, seems to have bated no jot of either poetic heart or hope. Early on Thursday, October 27, 1873, the day of her death, Jlrs. Hamilton made reference to a proposed testimonial in happy and cheery tones, evidently gratified by the interest being taken in her affairs by a number of wealthy friends and admirers; and during the afternoon of the same day her blindness had passed away. She entered into the light of that sinless land of which she had so often and so sweetly sung. Her remains were honoured with a public funeral, at which some five iiundred persons were present, including all the clergymen of the place. Janet Hamilton, the daughter, wife, and mother of working men, all struggling with the vicissitudes of life, received her education at a shoemaker's hearth, her only teacher being a hard-working mother, who, Mhile she plied the spinning-wheel, taught her daughter by her side to read the Bible, the only educa- tion that either ever received. She furnishes the world with another examjde of success in the pursuit of knowledge under the greatest difficulties. Her handwriting, viewed at arm's length, seems something akin to Greek manu- script written with a very blunt pen. She composed some good English verses, but it is to her Scottish poems that she owes her fame as more than a local writer. In the introduc- tion to her last volume Dr. Alexander Wallace says — " It is remarkable that she has never seen a mountain, nor the sea, nor any river but 150 JANET HAMILTON. the Clyde, the Falls of which she never visited, and she has never been the distance of twenty miles from her dwelling. Her region of song, so far as scenery is concerned, has been very limited. It may be comprised in the glen of the Calder and the bosky dells and breckan-covered banks of her favourite stream, the Luggie (poor David Gray"s Luggie), before it was polluted withtlie refuse of the furnaces, and its 'sweet wilding flowers' covered with slag." It is not easy to understand how the Coatbridge poetess — certainly one of the most remarkable Scot- tish singers of the present century — could have lived to such a comparatively great age before her poetic genius was evinced, and it is hard to say what she might have accomplished had she enjoyed the early advantages of a Joanna Baillie or Lady Nairne. THE SKYLAEK— CAGED AXD FREE. Sweet minstrel of the summer dawn. Bard of the sky, o'er lea and lawn Thy rapturous anthem, clear and loud. Rings from the dim and dewy cloud That swathes the brow of infant morn. Dame Nature's first and fairest born! From grassy couch I saw thee spring. Aside the daisy curtains fling, Shake the bright dew-drops from thy breast, Prune thy soft wing, and smooth thy crest — Then, all the bard within thee burning, Heaven in thine eye, the dull earth spurning; Thou soar'dst and sung, till lost on high In morning glories of the sky! Not warbling at thine own sweet will. Far up yon " heaven-kissing hill." AVith quivering wing, and swelling throat, On waves of ambient-air afloat — - Not so, I saw thee last, sweet bird; I heard thee, and my heart was stirred, Above the tumult of a street, AVhere smoke and sulphurous gases meet; Where, night a id day, resounds the clamour Of shrieking steam, of wheel, and hammer — A Babel rude of many a tongue : There, high o'erhead, thou blithely sung. Caged, "cribb'd, confin'd," j'et full and clear, As silver flute, fell on my ear Tliy joyous song: as void of sorrow As when, to bid the sun good morrow. Just rising from his couch of gold. Thou sung, and soar'dst o"er mead and wold. Thy prison song, bird beloved, ^ly heart hath strangely, deeply moved. In reverie, a waking dream Steals o'er my senses, and I seem The joyous girl that knew no care, "When fields were green, and skies were fair; And, sweetest of the Avarbling throng, The thrilling, gushing, voice of song I seem to hear— Ah! 'tis the lark, That, mounting, "sings at heaven's gate," hark ! These rapturous notes are all his own; Bard of the sky, he sings alone! Sweet captive, though thy fate be mine, I will not languish, will not pine; Nor beat my wings against the wires. In vain regrets, and strong desires To roam again, all blythe and free. Through Nature's haunts — again to see The blooming, bright, and beauteous things That in her train each season brings: Spring's bursting buds and tender leaves, The summer flowers, the autumn sheaves, The purple hills, the shining streams, AVhere lingering memory broods and dreams; But, never more — ah! never more To climb the hill, or tread the shore With foot untiring, swift and free — It may not — nay, it cannot be. Ah! cannot be! my eyes are dark — A prisoner too, like thee, sweet lark: But I have sought and found content; And so our songs shall oft be blent — I, singing in my hermitage. Thou, warbling in thy prison cage. Aspire! thou to thine own blue skj', I to a loftier sphere on high ! GRAN'FAITHER AT CAM'SLANG. He donn'd his bannet braid and blue. His hame-spun suit o' hodden gray, His blue boot-hose drew o'er his knees. An' teuk the gate at skreigh o' day. His Bible had he in his pouch, O' scones an' cheese a guidly whang; An' staflf in haun', he's off" to see. The godly wark at auld Cam'slang. THOMAS CAELYLE. 151 " The lingcrin' star that greets the morn"' Was twinkliu' thro' the misty blue; The muireoek craw'd, the paitriek whirr' tl, An' rouu' his head the peesweep flew. He trampit on ower muir an' moss Fortliritty miles an' mair, I ween, Till to the kirk o' auld Cam'slang He cam' on Saturday at e'en. He lodged him in a hamely hoose, Syne daunerd oot intil the nicht; The mune was down, the win's were lown, But a' the lift wi' stars was bricht. Nae soon' o' youngsters oot at e'en, Nae voice o' whisp'ring lovers there; He heard nae soun' but that o' praise — He heard nae voice but that o' prayer. By ilka bush o' whin or broom. By lown dyke back or braeside green, Folk greetin'. prayin', praisin' there, A' sittin', kneelin', roun' war seen. He teuk the bannet aff his heid, An' liftit up to heaven his e'e; Wi' solemn awe, an' holy fear, His heart was fu' as fu' could be. He kneel'd ahint a boortree bush, Whaur but the e'e o' God could see, Whaur but the ear o' God could hear— An' pray'd baith lang and fervently. Neist day, frae a' the kintra roun'. By tens o' hunners folk cam there. To hear the words o' grace and truth Frae preachers in the open air. He thocht to sit within the kirk He rather wad than sit ootbye, Sae in lie gaed, an' there he sat Till stars were blinkin' in the sky. Xae cries he heard, nae fits he saw, But sabs were rife, an' tearfu' een That ne'er leuk'd aff tiie preacher's face, Was a' that could be heard or seen. The dews were fa'in on the yirth — On mony a heart the dews o' grace Had fa'en that day, e'en while they sat At Jesus' feet, in Mary's place. At dawnin' o' the morn he rose On Monday— hame he bou'd to gang; \nd a' his days he ne'er forgat That Sabbath-day at auld Cam'slang. Wlien years had gane, a printed beuk Cani' oot, whilk I hae aften seen, An' it was seal'd, an' it was sign'd, By ministers a guidly whccn. It said that mony hunner souls, ^ What time the wark was at Cam slang, War turn'd to God, an' a' their days Had leev'd an' gane as saints shoud gang. THOMAS CAELYLE. Thomas Carlyle, the " censor of the age,' who has rather tried than exercised his powers as a poet, belongs to the common people, and like his countryman Robert Burns comes from the better class of the Scottish peasantry. He was born at Ecclefechan, near Annan in Dum- friesshire, December 4, 1795, and so has lived to complete fourscore years. Proud of his birth, at once popular and noble, he could say of himself what in one of his works he says of Burns and Diderot, two plebeians like him- self— " How many kings, how many princes are there, not so well born!" In Sartor Besnrtm he tells us of the impressions of his childhood, and the influence which those im- pressions, such as places, landscapes, and sur- rounding scenery, made upon his mind. The cattle-fairs to which his father sometimes took him the apparition of the mail-coach passing twice a day through the village, seeming to him some strolling world, coming from he knew not where, and going he knew not whither- all this he describes with a freshness and vivacity which clearly indicate that they are the ineffaceable impressions of childhood. Be- sides this education Carlyle received another at the high -school of Annan, where he ac- quired the rudiments of his scholastic training. 152 THOMAS CAELYLE. Here he had for a schoolfellow Edward Irving, the distinguished orator and divine, whom Carlyle afterwards nobly delineated. It was the ambition of liis parents to see Thomas "wag his pow in a poopit," and he was accordingly, after the necessary prepara- tion, sent to the University of Edinburgh, where his life was one of comparative poverty and privation. After having graduated, he was for several years tutor in a gentleman's family. He could not like this office — in many, and indeed most families, one of de- pendence and drudgery, unbefitting a strong- hearted, self-reliant man, and accordingly he abandoned it, launching out in 1823 on the career of a man of letters — a calling which he has so well described as "an anarchic, nomadic, and entirely aerial and ill-conditioned profes- sion." His first efforts were published in a country paper ; then came translations of Legendre's Geometrij and Goethe's Wilhelm Melster, followed by hXa Life of Schiller, which led to a lengthened correspondence between him and Goethe. Then appeared some of his finest essays, and Sartor Resartus, which was published in Fraser's Magazine. His brilliant articles on "Burns," "Charactei-istics," and "Signs of the Times," contributed to the Edln- hurcjh lieview, marked the advent of a man of genius. Finding the inconvenience of residing among the moors of Dumfriesshire, he decided to remove to London, the great centre of books, of learning, and intellectual movement. Here he has since resided at Cheyne Row, Chelsea, producing his French Revolution, Past and Present, Oliver Cromwell, and many other valuable contributions to literature, including his remarkable Life of Frederick the Great. His latest work, The Earlij Kings of Norioay, appeared in 1874. In November, 186.5, Carlyle was elected to the rectorship of the Edinburgh University, which, in spite of his stoicism, real or assumed, must have sent a thrill of pleasure to his heart. Throughout many of his works there is to be found a deep under-current of affection for his native land, and although so many years absent from her heathery hills, he has not for- gotten Scotland, nor has Scotland forgotten her gifted son. If one thing more than another could gratify him in his declining years, it must have been this public recognition of his services to literature, and of his talents as a teacher of men, by his native land. After a happy married life of forty years Mr. Carlyle, who is childless, lost his wife. The epitaph he placed on her tombstone is one of the most eloquent and loving memorials ever penned. Since her death his household has been presided over by his niece, Mary Carlyle Aitken, who in 1874: gave to the world an admirable collection of Scottish song. In 1872 the great writer was called to mourn the death of his eldest brother, John Carlyle, who died in Canada, at the age of eighty-one. Another brother, tiie translator of Dante, re- sides at Dumfries, which is also the residence of their sister, Mrs. Aitken, to whom the phi- losopher makes an annual visit after the close of the London season. On his eightieth birth- day Carlyle received from various quarters of the globe, far and near, congratulatory ad- dresses, epistles, and gifts, commemorative of the completion of fourscore years. The opinions of Carlyle's youth are not in all cases the opinions of his old age. In early life he had some claim to the title of a poet, as the following pieces will testify, but in 1870 he wrote a characteristic letter in which he gives it as his mature opinion that the writing of verse, in this age at least, is an unworthy occupation for a man of ability. It is by no means impossible that the "Philosopher of Chelsea" may be indebted to some of the poets whom in his curious letter he beseeches not to write except in prose, for embalming in death- less strophes his own craggy and majestic char- acter, and transmitting through the magic of rhyme his name and fame to the remotest generations of mankind. TRAGEDY OF THE NIGHT-MOTH. MAGNA AUSUS. 'Tis placid midnight, stars are keeping Their meek and silent course in heaven; Save pale recluse, for knowledge seeking. All mortal things to sleep are given. THOMAS CAELYLE. 153 But see! a wandering nigbt-moth enters, Allured by taper gleaming bright; A while keeps hovering round, then ventures On Goethe's mystic page to light. With awe she views the candle blazing; A universe of fire it seems To moih-savaute with rapture gazing Or fount whence life and motion streams. What passions in her small heart whirling, Hopes boundless, adoration, dread; At length her tiny pinions twirling, She darts and— puflF: — the moth is dead! The sullen flame, for her scarce sparkling. Gives but one hiss, one fitful glare; Now bright and busy, now all darkling, She snaps and fades to empty air. Her bright gray form that spreads so slimly, Some fan she seemed of pigmy queen; Her silky cloak that lay so trimly. Her wee, wee eyes that looked so keen, Last moment here, now gone for ever, To naught are passed with fiery pain; And ages circling round shall never Give to this creature shape again! Toor moth ! near weeping I lament thee, Thy glossy form, thy instant woe; 'Twas zeal for "things too high" that sent thee From cheery earth to shades below. Short speck of boundless space was needed For home, for kingdom, world to thee! Where passed, unheeding as unheeded. Thy little life from sorrow free. But syren hopes from out thy dwelling Enticed thee, bade thee earth explore,— Thy frame so late with rapture swelling, is swept from earth for evermore! Foor moth! thy fate my own resembles; Me too a restless asking mind Hath sent on far and weary rambles, To seek the good I ne'er shall find. Like thee, with common lot contented. With humble joys and vulgar fate, I might have lived and ne'er lamented, Moth of a larger size, a longer date! But nature's majesty unveiling AVhat seemed her wildest, grandest charms, Eternal truth and beauty hailing, Like thee, I rushed into her arms. What gained we, little motli? Thy ashes, Thy one brief parting pang may show; And thoughts like these, for soul that dashes From deep to deep, are — death more slow ! THE SOWER'S SOXG. Now hands to seedshect, boys, AVe step and we cast; old Time's on wing; And would ye partake of harvest's joys. The corn must be sown in spring. Fall gently and still, good corn. Lie warm in thy earthy bed; And stand so yellow some morn. For beast and man must be fed. Old earth is a pleasure to see In sunshiny cloak of red and green; The furrow lies fresh; this year will be As years that are past have been. Fall gently, &c. Old mother, receive this corn, Tlie son of six thousand golden sires; All these on thy kindly breast were born; One more thy poor child requires. Fall gently, &c. Now steady and sure again. And measure of stroke and step we keep; Thus up and thus down we cast our grain; Sow well and you gladly reap. Fall gently and still, good corn. Lie warm in thy earthy bed ; And stand so yellow some morn, For beast and man must be fed. ADIEU. Let time and chance combine, combine, Let time and chance combine: The fairest love from heaven above. That love of yours was mine, ;My dear. That love of yours was mine. The past is fled and gone, and gone, The past is fled and gone; If nought but pain to me remain, I'll fare in memory on, Jily dear, I'll fare in memory on. The saddest tears must fall, must fall. The saddest tears must fall; 154 THOMAS CARLYLE. In weal or woe, in this world below, I love you ever and all, M}' dear, I love you ever and all. A long road full of pain, of pain, A long road full of pain; One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part^ AVe ne'er can meet again, j\ly dear. We ne'er can meet again. Hard fate will not allow, allow. Hard fate will not allow; We blessed were as the angels arc, — Adieu for ever now, Jly dear, Adieu for ever now. CUI BONO] What is hope? A smiling rainbow Children follow through the wet; 'Tis not here, still yonder, yonder; Never urchin found it yet. What is life? A thawing iceboard On a sea with sunny shore; — ■ Gay we sail; it melts beneath us; We are sunk, and seen no more. What is man? A foolish baby. Vainly strives, and fights, and frets; Demanding all, deserving nothing; — One small grave is what he gets. PSALM XLVI. (from the GERMAN OF MARTIX LUTHER. A safe stronghold our God is still, A trusty shield and weapon; He'll help us clear from all the ill That hatli us now o'ertaken. The ancient prince of hell Hath risen with purpose fell; Strong mail of craft and power He weareth in this hour — • On earth is not his fellow. By force of arms we nothing can — Full soon were we down-ridden; But for us fights the proper man Whom God himself hath bidden. Ask ye, Who is this same? Christ Jesus is his name. The Lord Zebaoth's Son — He and no other one Shall conquer in the battle. And were this world all devils o'er. And watching to devour us. We lay it not to heart so sore — Not they can overpower us. And let the prince of ill Look grim as e'er he will, He harms us not a whit; For why? His doom is writ — A word shall quickly slay him. God's word, for all their craft and force, One moment will not linger; But, spite of hell, shall have its course- 'Tis written by His finger. And though they take our life. Goods, honour, children, wife. Yet is their profit small; These things shall vanish all— The city of God remaineth. MASON-LODGE. (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE.^) The mason's ways are A type of existence. And his persistence Is as the days are Of men in this world. The Future hides in it Gladness and sorrow: We press still thorow. Nought that abides in it Daunting us, — onward. 1 Originally published in Past and Present, and introduced there by the following words:—" My ingenu- ous readei-s, we will march out of this Third Book with a rhythmic word of Goethe's on our lips— a word which perhaps has already sung itself, in dark hours and in bright, through many a heart. To me, finding it devout, yet wholly credible and veritable ; full of pity, jet free of cant: to me, joyfully finding much in it, and joyfully missing so much in it, this little snatch of music, by the greatest German man, sounds like a stanza in the grand ' Road Song' and ' Marching Song' of our great Teutonic Kindred— winding, winding, valiant and victorious, through the undiscovered Deeps of Time! lie calls it Mason-lodge, not Psalm or Hymn." —Ed. DANIEL WEIR. 155 And solemn before us, Veiled, the dark Portal, Goal of all mortal: — Stars silent rest o'er us, Graves under us silent! While earnest thou gazest, Comes boding of terror, Comes phantasm and error. Perplexes the bravest AVith doubt and misgiving. But heard are the voices, Heard are the sages. The Worlds and the Ages Choose well : your choice is Brief and yet endless; Here eyes do regard you, In Eternity's stillness: Here is all fulness, Ye brave, to reward you : AVork, and despair not. THE FROG AXD THE STEER. (FKOM the GERMAN OF ULKICH BONER.) A frog with frogling by his side Came hopping through the plain, one tide; There he an ox at grass did spy: Much angered was the frog thereby: He said: " Lord God, what was my sin, Thou madest me so small and thin? Likewise I have no handsome feature, And all dishonoured is my nature, To other creatures far and near. For instance, this same grazing steer." The frog would fain with bullock cope, 'Gan brisk outblow himself in hope. Then spake his frogling: " Father o' me, It boots not, let tliy blowing be; Thy nature hath forbid this battle. Thou canst not vie with the black cattle." Nathless let be the frog would not. Such prideful notion had he got; Again to blow right sore 'gan he, And said, " Like ox could I but be In size, within this world there were No frog so glad to tiiee, I swear." The son spake: "Father, me is woe Thou shouldst torment thy body so: I fear thou art to lose thy life : Come, follow me, and leave this strife: Good father, take advice of me, And let thy boastful blowing be." Frog said: " Thou needst not beck and nod, I will not do it, so help me God! Big as this ox is, I must turn, ]\Iine honour now it doth concern." He blew himself, and burst in twain; Such of that blowing was his gain. The like hath oft been seen of such AVho grasp at honour overmuch; They must with none at all be doing, But sink full soon, and come to ruin. He that, with wind of pride accurst, Much puffs himself, will surely burst; He men miswishes and misjudges. Inferiors scorns, superiors grudges, Of all his equals is a hater. Much grieved he is at any better; Therefore it were a sentence wise. Were his whole body set with eyes, WIio envy hath, to see so well What lucky hap each man befell. That so he filled were with fury, And burst asunder in a hurry; And so full soon betid him this Which to the frog betided is. DANIEL WEIK. Born 1796 — Died 1831. Daniel Weir, a poetical bookseller of Green- ock, was born in that town, March 31, 1796. Of humble parentage, he received but a limited education, and at the age of twelve years he M-as apprenticed to a bookseller in his native place. Here he enjoyed many opportunities for improving his education by reading, and of gratifying his verse- making propensities. At nineteen he left his amiable employer to follow the calling on his own account. Weir contributed several pleasing songs to Smith's Scottish Minstrel, and himself edited for a Glas- 156 DANIEL WEIR gow firm tlircro volumes of songs unchr the titles of The National Minstrel, The Sacred Lyre, and Lyrical Gems. In these compila- tions a majority- of his own poems first appeared, while others were published in the Glasgow newspapers. In 1829 the poet published a History of the Town of Greenock, and at his death (November 11, 1831) left behind him numerous unpublished pieces, and a long MS. poem entitled " The Pleasures of Religion." "Possessed," -writes Rev. Charles Rogers, "of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational talents were of a remarkable description, and attracted to his shop many persons of taste, to whom his poetical talents were unknown. He was familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the humour totally irresis- tible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather malformed, he was under the middle size; his head seemed large for his person, and his shoulders Avere of unusual breadth. His complexion was dark, and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance was lit up on the recitation of .some witty tale he looked the impersonation of mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action, he was seriously impressed by reli- gious principle. Some of his devotional com- positions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry." THE MIDNIGHT WIND. I've listened to the midnight wind, Which seem'd, to fancy's ear. The mournful music of the mind, The echo of a tear; And still methought the hollow sound. Which, melting, swept along, The voice of other days had found. With all the powers of song. I've listened to the midnight wind, And thought of friends untrue — Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined. That nought could e'er undo; Of cherish'd hopes once fondly bright — Of joys Avhich fancy gave — Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light Were darken'd in the grave. I've listen'd to the midnight wind When all was still as death; When nought was heard before, behind — Xot e'en the sleeper's breath. And I have sat at such an hour. And heard the sick man's sigh; Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r. At that lone moment die. I've listen'd to the midnight wind, And wept for others' woe; Nor could the heart such music find To bid its tear-drops flow. The melting voice of one we loved. Whose voice was heard no more, Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved. Still breathing as before. I've listen'd to the midnight wind, And sat beside the dead. And felt those movings of the mind AVhich own a secret dread. The ticking clock, which told the hour. Had then a sadder chime; And tiiese winds seem'd an unseen pow'r. Which sung the dirge of time. I've listen'd to the midnight wind, AVhen, o'er the new-made grave Of one whose heart was true and kind. Its rudest blasts did rave. Oh ! there was something in the sound — A mournful, melting tone — AVhich led the thoughts to that dark ground Where he was left alone. I've listen'd to the midnight wind. And courted sleep in vain, While thoughts like these have oft combined To rack the wearied brain. .\nd even when slumber, soft and deep. Has seen the eyelid close. The restless soul, which cannot sleep. Has stray 'd till morning rose. WILLI.\:M MOTHERWELL. 157 ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on; 'Midst the teare that are shed, his eye is unmoved, And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone; Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! The woi'ld, to him, with its sorrows and sighs. Has fled hke a dream when the morn appears; WhUe the spirit awakes in the light of the skies, No more to revisit this valley of tears; — Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand"rer sleeps on his couch of rest ! Few, few were liis years; but, had they been more. The sunshine which smiled might have vanished awaj'. And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore, Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate baj" Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest WTien the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest I Like a rosebud of promise.when fresh in the morn, Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here; But now from thy love, from thine anus he is torn. Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest ! How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er, "Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes; Then rejoice at his rest, for son-ow no more Can start on his di-eams, or disturb his repose : Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest \Mien the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! Who would not recline on the breast of a friend, When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sor- rowful day • WTio would not rejoice at his journey's end, When perils and toils encompass'd his way ? Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! 'XEATH THE WAVE. 'Neath the wave thy lover sleeps, And cold, cold is his pillow; O'er bis bed no maiden weep^, Where rolls the white billow. And though the winds have sunk to rest Upon the troubled ocean's breast, Yet still, oh still there's left behind A restless storm in Ellen's mind. Her heart is on yon dark'ning wave, Where all she lov'd is lying, And where, around her William's grave. The sea-bird is crying. And oft on Jura's lonely .'ihore, Where surges beat and billows roar, She sat — but grief has nipt her bloom, And there they made young Ellen's tomb. RAVEN'S STREAM. 1 Jly love, come let us wander Where Raven's streams meander, And where, in simple grandeur, The daisy decks the plain. Peace and joy our hours .shall measure; Come, oh come, my soul's best treasure! Then how sweet, and then how cheerie, Raven's braes will be, my dearie. The silver moon is beaming, On Clyde her light is streaming, And, while the world is dreaming. We'll talk of love, my dear. None, my Jean, will share this bosom, Where thine image loves to blossom, .\nd no storm will ever sever That dear flower, or part us ever. WILLIAM MOTHEEWELL. Born 1797 — Died 1835. William Motherwell, an antiquary, jour- nalist, and poet, and the author of two Scot- tish ballads unsurpassed for tenderness and pathos, was born in Glasgow, October 13, 1 A small stream in tlieneighbouihoodof Greenock.— Ed. 158 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 1797. His father was an ironmonger in that city, and came of a Stirlingshire family who for thirteen generations had possessed a small property named Muirmill on the banks of the Carron. His mother was the daughter of a prosperous Perthshire farmer, from whom she inherited a considerable property. The family removed to Edinburgh early in the century, and in 1805 William became a pupil of Mr. W, Lennie, in whose school he met the heroine of his beautiful song. The year following he entered the high -school, but was soon after sent to reside with an uncle at Paisley, where he completed his education at the grammar- school, with the exception of attending the Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow during the session of 1818-19. He was placed as an apprentice in the office of the sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and his ability and diligence combined secured for him at the age of twenty-one the honourable position of sherifF-clerk depute of Renfrewshire. While fulfilling the duties of this office Motherwell steadily pursued those literary occupations upon which his claims to public notice are founded. He early evinced a taste for poetry, and in his fourteenth year had pro- duced the first draft of "Jeanie Morrison.'" In 1818 he contributed to a small work pub- lished at Greenock called the Visitor, and in the following year he edited an edition of the Harp of Renfren'sliire , a valuable collection of songs. In 1827 he published his Minstrelsy, A ncient and Modern, a work of great merit and research, which at once gave him rank and influ- ence as a literary antiquary. In the introduc- tion Motherwell exhibits a thorough acquaint- ance with the ballad and romantic literature of his native land. In 1828 he commenced the PaisZej/Tl/aj/rt^/ne, the pagesof which heenriched with some of his best poetical productions; and during the same year he assumed the editor- ship of the Paisley Advertiser, a Tory news- paper previously under the management of his friend William Kennedy. In January, 1830, he was appointed editor of the Glasrjoiv Courier, an influential journal conducted on Tory principles. In his hands the journal maintained its high character as an able exponent of ultra-Tory opinions, and he con- tinued its editorship up to the date of iiis death. In 1832 there appeared from the press of his friend David Robertson a small volume of his best poetical compositions, entitled Poems, Narrative and Lyrical. With the publication of this little book, containing such lyrics as "Jeanie Morrison," "My Held is like to rend, Willie," and " Wearie's Well," compositions which for soft melancholy and touching ten- derness of expression have never been excelled, William Motherwell at once took rank among Scotland's sweetest singers. Miss Mitford says — "Burns is the only poet with whom, for tenderness and pathos, Jlotherwcll can be compared. The elder bard has written much more largely, is more various, more fiery, more abundant; but I doubt if there be in the whole of his collection anything so exquisitely fin- ished, so free from a line too many or a word out of place, as the two great lyric ballads of Motherwell ; and let young writers observe, that this finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of the nicest elaboration. By touching and re-touching, during many years, did 'Jeanie Morrison' attain her perfection, and yet how completely has art concealed art! How entirelj' does that charming song appear like an inexpressible gush of feeling that would find A'ent. In 'My Held is like to rend, Willie,' the appeai'ance of spontaneity is still more striking, as the passion is more intense — intense, indeed, almost to painfulness." In 1835, in conjunction with the Ettrick Shepherd, Motherwell edited an edition of Burns, to which he contributed the principal part of the biography, with copious notes; and he was collecting material for a life of Tanna- hill, when he Avas suddenly struck down by apoplexy, and died after a few hours' illness, Nov. 1, 1835, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. His remains were interred in the Glasgow Kecropolis, where an elegant monument with a life-like bust has been erected to his memory. As a poet Jlotherwell was happiest in pathe- tic and sentimental lyrics, though his own inclinations led him to prefer the chivalrous and martial style of the old minstrels. The translations of Scandinavian poetry which he produced are among the most successful and vigorous which have appeared. After his death a new edition of his poems was published, accompanied by a memoir written by his friend WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 159 and physician James Jl'Coneclij-, who con- cludes with the following paragraph: — " Upon the whole his place as a minor poet is a distin- guished one. He has undoubtedly enriched the language with many noble specimens of manly song; and when it is remembered that he pro- secuted his poetical studies in silence and retirement, animated alone by the love of his art, and sustained through many long years of trial by the distant gleam of posthumous fame, it will not be disputed that his motives to action were exalted, and his exertions in the cause of human improvement disinterested." Another competent critic — Christopher North — said of Motherwell: "All his perceptions are clear, for all his senses are sound: he has fine and strong sensibilities, and a powerful intellect, lie has been led by the natural bent of his genius to the old haunts of inspi- ration — the woods and glens of his native country — and his ears delight to drink the music of her old songs. Many a beautiful ballad has blended its pensive and plaintive pathos with his day-dreams, and while reading some of his happiest effusions we feel — ' Tlie ancient spirit is not dead, — Old times, we say, aio breathing there.' His style is simple, but in his tenderest move- ments masculine: he strikes a few bold knocks at the door of the heart, which is instantly opened by the master or mistress of the house, or by son or daughter, and the welcome visitor at once becomes one of the family." THE MASTER OF WEEMYS. The Master of Weemys has biggit a ship, To saile upon the sea; And four-and-twenty bauld marineres, Doe beare him companie. They have hoistit sayle and left the land, They have saylit mylis three; When up there lap the bonnie merniayd. All in the Norland sea. "0 whare saile ye," quo' the bonnie mermayd, " Upon the saut sea faem 1" "It's we are bounde until NorroAvay, God send us skaithless hame!" "Oh Norroway is a gay gay strande, And a merrie land 1 trowe; But nevir nane sail see Norroway Gin the mermayd keeps her vowe!" Down doukit then the mermayden, Deep intil the middil sea; And merrie leuch that master bauld, With his jollie companie. They saylit awa', and they saylit awa', They have saylit leagues ten; When lo! uplap by the gude ship's side The self-same mermayden. Shee held a glass intil her richt hande, In the uthir shee held a kame. And shee kembit her haire, and aye she sang As shee flotterit on the faem. And shee gliskit round and round about, Upon the waters wan; nevir againe on land or sea Shall be seen sik a faire woman. And shee shed her haire aff her milk-white bree Wi' her fingers sac sma' and lang; And fast as saylit that gude ship on, • Sae louder was aye her sang. And aye shee sang, and aye shee sang As shee rade upon the sea; "If ye bee men of Christian moulde Throwe the master out to mee. "Thro we out to mee the master bauld If ye bee Christian men; But an' ye faile, though fast ye sayle, Ye'll nevir see land agen!" "Sayle on, sayle on, sayle on," said shee, "Sayle on and nevir blinne. The winde at will your saylis may fill. But the land ye shall never win ! " It's never word spak that master bauld, But a loud laugh leuch the crewe; And in the deep then the mermayden Doun drappit frae their viewe. But ilk ane kythit her bonnie face. How dark dark grew its lire; And ilk ane saw her bricht bricht eyne Leming like coals o' fire. 160 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. And ilk ane saw her lang bricht hair Gae flashing through the tide, And tiie sparkles o' the glass shee brake Upon that gude ship's side. "Steer on, steer on, thou master bauld. The wind blaws unco hie;" "0 there's not a sterne in a' the lift To guide us through the sea!" "Steer on, steer on, thou master bauld, The storm is coming fast;'' "Then up, then up, my bonnie boy, Unto the topmost mast. « "Creep up into the tallest mast, Gae up, my ae best man; Climb up until the tall top-mast And spy gin ye see land." "Oh all is mirk towards the eist, And all is mirk be west; Alas there is not a spot of light Where any eye can rest! " "Looke oute, looke oute, my bauldest man, Locke out unto the storme. And if ye cannot get sicht o' land, Do ye see the dawin o' morn]" "Oh alace! alace! my master deare," Spak' then that ae best man; "Nor licht, nor land, nor living thing, Do I spy on any hand." " Looke yet agen, my ae best man, And tell me what ye do see;" " Lord ! 1 spy the false mermayden Fast say ling out owre the sea! " "How can j^e spy the fause mermayden Fast sayling on the mirk sea. For there's neither mune nor mornin' licht — In troth it can nevir bee." "0 there is neither mune nor mornin' licht, Nor ae star's blink on the sea; But as I am a Christian man, That witch woman I see! "Good Lord! there is a .scaud o' fire Fast coming out owre the sea; And fast therein the grim mermayden Is sayling on to thee! "Shec hailes our ship wi' a shrill shrill cry — Shee is coming, alace! more near:" "Ah wae is me now," .said the ma.ster bauld, "For I both do see and hear! 'Come doun, come doun, my ae best man, For an ill weird I maun drie; Yet, I reck not for my .sinful .self, But thou my trew companie! " THE WOOING SONG. Bright maiden of Orkney, star of the blue sea! I've swept o'er the waters to gaze upon thee; I've left spoil and slaughter, I've left a far strand, To sing how I love thee, to kiss thy small hand! Fair daughter of Einar, golden-liaired maid ! The lord of yon brown bark, and lord of this blade; The joy of the ocean, of warfare and wind, — Hath bonne him to woo thee, and thou must be kind. So stoutly Jarl Egill wooed Torf Einar's daughter. In Jutland, in Iceland, on Neustria's shore, Where'er the dark billow my gallant bark bore. Songs spoke of thy beauty, harps sounded thy praise. And my heart loved thee long ere it thrilled in thy gaze. Aye, daughter of Einar, right tall mayst thou stand ; It is a Vikingir who kisses thy hand; It is a Vikingir that bends his proud knee. And swears by great Freya his bride thou must be! So Jarl Egill swore when his great heart was fullest. Thy white arms are locked in broad bracelets of gold; Thy girdle-stead's gleaming with treasures untold; The circlet that binds up thy long yellow hair, Is starred thick with jewels, that bright are and rare; But gifts yet more princely Jarl Egill bestows: For girdle, his great arm around thee lie throws; The bark of a sea-king, for palace, gives he, While mad waves and winds shall thy true subjects be. So richly Jarl Egill endowed his bright bride. Nay, frown not, nor shrink thus, nor toss so thy head, 'Tic a Vikingir asks thee, land-maiden, to wed! He skills not to woo thee, in trembling and fear. Though lords of the land may thus troop with the deer. The cradle he rocked in so sound and so long, Hath framed him a heart and a hand that are strong; WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. IGl He comes then as Jarl should, sword belted to side, To win thee and wear thee with gloi-y and pride. So sternly Jarl Egill wooed, and smote his long; brand. Thy father, thy brethren, thy kin keep from me. The maiden I've sworn shall be Queen of the sea! A ti'uco with that folly, — yon sea-strand can show If this eye missed its aim, or this arm failed its blow; I had not well taken three strides on this land, Ere a Jarl and his six sons in death bit the sand. Nay, weep not, pale maid, though in battle should fall The kemps who would keep thy bridegroom from the hall. So carped Jarl Egill, and kissed the bright weeper. Through shadows and horrors, in worlds un- derground, Through sounds that apjjaU and through sights that confound, I sought the weird women within theh dark cell, And made them surrender futurity's spell ; I made them rune over the dim scroll so free, And mutter how fate sped with lovers like me; Yes, maiden, I forced them to read forth my doom. To say how I should fare as jolly bridegroom. So Jarl Egill's love dared the world of grim siia- dows. They waxed and they waned, they passed to and fro. While lurid fires gleamed o'er their faces of snow; Their stony eyes, moveless, did glare on me long. Then sullen they chanted: "The sword and the song Prevail with the gentle, sore chasten the rude, And sway to their purpose each evil-shaped mood!" Fair daughter of Einar, I've sung the dark lay That the weird sisters runed, and which thou mu.st obey. So fondly Jarl Egill loved Einar's proud daughter. The curl of that proud lip, the flash of that eye, The swell of that bosom, so full and so high. Like foam of sea-billow thy white bosom shows. Like flash of red levin thine eagle eye glows; Ha! firmly and boldly, so stately and free. Thy foot treads this chamber, as bark rides the sea; Vol. II.— L This likes me, — this likes me, stout maiden of mould. Thou wooest to purpose; bold hearts love the bold. So shouted Jarl Egill, and clutched the prouil maiden. Away and away then, I have thy small hand; J.y with me,— our tall bark now bears toward the strand; I call it the Raven, the wing of black night, That shadows forth ruin o'er islands of light; Once more on its long deck, behind us the gale. Thou shalt see how before it great kingdoms do quail; Thou shalt see then how truly, my noble-souled maid. The ransom of kings can be won by this blade. So bravely Jarl Egnll did soothe the pale trembler. Aye, gaze on his largo hilt, one wedge of red gold; But doat on its blade, gilt with blood of the bold. The hilt is i-ight seemly, but nobler the blade, That swart Vehnt's hammer with cunning spells made. I call it the adder, death lurks in its bite. Through bone and proof-harness it scatter., pale light. Fair daughters of Einar, deem high of the fate That makes thee, like this blade, proud Egill's loved mate ! So Jarl Egill bore off Torf Einar's bright daughter. THE MERRY SUMMER MOXTHS. They come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers; They come! the ghuisorae montlis that bring thick leafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart! i^nd walk abroad; fling cark and care aside; Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide; Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, Sean through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity. The grass is soft, its velvet toucli is grateful to the hand; And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland ; The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously; It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee; 162 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. And mark how with thine own thin locks — they now are silvery gray — That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whis- pering, ' • Be gay ! " There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky, But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody; Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold; And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this earth, Can make a scoff" of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, — from yonder wood it camel The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name;— Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind. Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again, — his notes are void of art; But simplest strains do soonest sound tJie deep founts of the heart. Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought- crazed wight like me. To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree! To suck once more in every breath their little souls away. And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youtii's bright summer da}', When, rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy! I'm sadder now — I have had cause; but, oh! I'm proud to think That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet delight to drink; — 1 Tlie heroine of this sonpr. Miss Jane Morrison, after- wards Mrs. Murdoch, was daughter of Mr. Ebeuezer Morrison, brewer in Alloa. lu the autumn of 1807, when in her seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr. Lennie, and for sever;il months occupied the same class room w ith young Motherwell. Of the flame wliich she had e.xcited in the susceptible lieart of lier boy- lover she was totally unconscious. Mr. Lennie, how- ever, in a statement published by the editor of Mother- well's poems, refers to the strong impression which she made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, unclouded sky. Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse — a heart that hath waxed old! JEAIflE MOEKISON.i I've wandered east, I've wandered west. Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path. And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. And sair and sick I pine. As memory idly summons up Tlie blithe blinks o' lang.syne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time — sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. To leir ilk ither leir; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Ecmembered evermair. 1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink. Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. What our Avee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae bulk on our knee. Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. girl, and of good capacity." "Her hair,"headds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expre.«sion; her tem- per was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823 Miss Morrison became the wife of Mr. John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who died in 1820. She never met the poet in after life, and the ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been published for several years before she became aware that she was the heroine. —Ra-. Charles Rogen. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 163 0, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red \\i sliame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', .said We cleeked thegitlier hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (Tiie seule then skail't at noon), When we ran uff to speel the braes, — The brooiny braes o' June? My head rins round and round about — JMy heart flows like a sea. As ane by ane the thochts rush back 0' sculetime and o' thee. mornin' life! mornin' hive! lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang! O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin', dinsome toun, To wander by the green burn side, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet; The throssil whiisslit in the wood. The burn sang to the trees — And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat, In the silentness o' joy, till baith AVi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time. When hearts wei-e fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled — unsung! 1 mai'vel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? 0, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! 0, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near. Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way. And channels deeper, as it rins, The hive o' life's young day. 0, dear, dear Jeanie Jlorrison, Since we were sindered young I've never seen your face, nor heard Tiie music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness;, And happy could I die. Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 0' bygane days and me! MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, AVILLIE. My heid is like to rend, Willie — My heart is like to break; I'm wearin' aff my feet, AVillie — I'm dyiu' for your sake! 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, Your hand on my briest-bane, — 0, say ye'll think on me, Willie, When I am deid and gane! It's vain to comfort me, Willie, — Sair grief maun hae its will; But let me rest upon your briest To sab and greet my fill. Let me sit on your knee, Willie, — Let me shed by your hair, And look into the face, AVillie, I never sail see mair! I'm sittin' on j'our knee, AVillie, For the last time in my life, — A puir heart-broken thing, AVillie, A mither, yet nae wife. Aj', press your hand upon my heart. And press it mair and mair, — Or it will burst the silken twine, Sae Strang is its despair. 0, wae's me for the hour, AVillie, AVhen we thegither met, — 0, wae's me for the time, AVillie, That our first tryst was set! 0, wae's me for the loanin' green AVhere Ave were wont to gae, — And wae's me for the destinie That gart me luve thee sae! 0, dinna mind my words, AVillie — I downa seek to blame; But 0, it's hard to live, AVillie, And dree a warld's shame! Ilet tears are hailin' OAver your cheek. And hailin' ower your chin: 164 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Wliy weep ye sue for wortlilessness, For .sonow, and for sin? I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, And sick v,i a' I see, I canna live as I hae lived. Or be as I should be. But fauld unto rour lieart, Willie, The heart that still is thine, — And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek Ye said was red langsyne. A stoiin' gaes through my heid, Willie — ■ A sair stoun' through my heart; Oh, hand me up, and let me kiss That brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet! — How fast my life-strings break ! — Fareweel, fareweel ! through yon kiikyard Step lichtly for my sake! The laverock in the lift, Willie, That lilts far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie Abune the clay-cauld deid; And this green turf we're sittin' on, Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee As warld has seldom seen. But 0, remember me, AVillie, On land where'er ye be — And 0, think on the leal, leal heart, Tliat ne'er luved ane but thee! And 0, think on the cauld, cauld mools That fill my yellow hair, — That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin Ye never sail kiss mair! THE MERMAIDEX. " The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws shill, And the white faem weets my bree, And my mind misgi'es me, gay maiden. That the land we sail never see! " Then up and spak' the mermaiden, And she spak' blythe and free, " I never said to my bonny bridegroom, That on land we sud weddit be. " Oh! I never said that ane crthlie preest Our bridal blessing should f^d'e, And I never said that a landwart bouir Should bald my luve and me." ' ' And whare is that preest, my bonny maiden, If ane erthlie wicht is na hei" " Oh! the wind will sough, and the sea will rair, When weddit we twa sail be." " And whare is that bouir, my bonnie maiden, If on land it sud na be ? " "Oh! my blythe bouii- is low," said the mer- maiden, " In the bonny green howes o' the sea: My gay bouir is biggit o' the gude ships' keels, And the banes o' the drowned at sea: The fisch are the deer that fill my parks. And the water waste my dourie. " And my bouir is sklaitit wi' the big blue waves, And paved wi' the yellow sand; And in my chaumers grow bonnie white flowers That never grew on land. And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie bridegroom, A leman on earth that wud gi'e Aiker for aiker o' the red plough'd land. As I'll gie to thee o' the sea? ' ' The mune will rise in half ane hour, And the wee bricht sternes will scliine; Then we'll sink to my bouir 'neath the wan water Full fifty fathom and nine." A wild, wild skreich gied the fey bridegroom. And a loud, loud laugh the bride; For the mune raise up, and the twa sanli down Under the silver'd tide. WEARIE'S AVELL. In a saft simmer gloamin', In yon dowie dell. It was there we twa first met, By AVearie's cauld well. We sat on the broom bank. And looked in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn. The corncraik was chirming His sad eerie cry, And the Avee stars were dreaming Their path through the sky ; The burn babbled freely Its love to ilk flower, But we heard and we saw nought In that blessed hour. We heard and we saw nought. Above or around; We felt that our love lived, And loathed idle sound. I gazed on your sweet face Till tears filled my e'e, And they drapt on your wee loof — A warld's wealth to mc. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. IGil Now the winter snaw's fa'ing On bare holm and lea, And the caiild wind is strippia' Ilk leaf afF the tree. But the snaw fa's not faster, Kor leaf disna part Sae sune frae th-e bough, as Faith fades in your heart. Ye've waled out anither You're bridegroom to be; But can his heart luve sae As mine luvit thee? Ye' 11 get biggings and mailings, And mony braw claes; But they a' winna buy back The peace o' past days. Fareweel, and for ever, My first luve and last; Jlay thy joys be to come — Jline live in the past. In sorrow and sadness This hour fa's on me; But light, as thy luve, may It fleet over thee! THE MIDNIGHT "WIND. Mournfully! 0, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by! It speaks a tale of other years, — Of hopes that bloomed to die,— Of sunny smiles that set in tears. And loves that mouldering lie! Mournfully! 0, mournfully. This midnight wind doth moan! It stirs some chord of memory In each dull, heavy tone; The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon, — All, all my fond heart cherished Ere deaUi had made it lone. Mournfully! 0, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy,— Hope's passionate farewell To the dreamy joys of early years. Ere vet grief's canker fell On the^earfs bloom— ay! well may tear- Start at that parting knell ! THE DYING POET.i When I beneath the cold red earth am sleephig, Life's fever o'er, Will there for me be any bright eye weeping That I'm no more • Will there be any heart still memory keeping Of heretofore .- When the great winds, through leafless forests rushing, Like hxW hearts break, When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushmg, Sad music make; Will there be one whose heart despair is cnishing Mourn for my sake^ When the bright sun upon that spot is shining With purest ray, And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining. Burst through that clay; Will there be one still on that spot repining Lost hopes all day 1 ^^^le^ the night shadows, with the ample sweeping Of her dark pall; The world and all its manifold creation sleeping, The great and small — Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping For me — for all ? Vv'hcn no star twinkles with its eye of glory. On that low mound; And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary Its loneness crowned; Will there be then one versed in misery's story Pacing it roimd? It may be so,— but this is selfish sorrow To ask such meed, — A weakness and a wickedness to borrow, From hearts that bleed, The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow Shall never need. Lay me then gently in my naiTow^ dwelling, Thou gentle heart; 1 This pathetic poem was written the very month of the poef s death. He handed it to a friend a few days before his decease. On its first publication in a Glasgow paper it was accompanied by the remark that no slight interest had been excited in that city in noticing how the prophetic yearning of the dying poet for the memory of affection had been realized -his grave having been frequently visited by a young female, keeping fresh the floral memo:ials of love and grief offered there.- Ed. 106 DAVID MACBETH MOIR. And though thy bosom should with grief be sweUing, Let no tear start; It were in vain, for time hath long been knelling— Sad one, depart! THE CAVALIER'S SOXG. A steed! a steed of mutchlesse speed! A sword of metal keene! All else to noble heartes is drosse — • All else on earth is meane. The neighynge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangour of the trumpet lowde — Be soundes from heaven that come. And, oh! the thundering presse of knightes, When as their war-cryes swelle, May tole from heaven an angel bright.. And rowse a fiend from hell. Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your heimes amaine; Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish tears shall fill our eye "When the sword-hilt's in our hand; Hearte-whole we'll parte, and no wliit sighe For the fayrest of the land. Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe, and puling crye; Our businesse is like men to fighte. And like to Iicrocs, die! DAYID MACBETH MOIE. Born 1798 — Died 1851. David Macbeth ]\Ioir, an accomplished poet and miscellaneous writer, was born at Musselburgh, Jan. 5, 1798. He received his education at the grammar-school of his native town, and subsequently attended the medical classes of the University of Edinburgh. In his eighteenth year he obtained the diploma of surgeon, and entered into partnership with Dr. Brown of Musselburgh. Dr. Moir wrote verses from an early age, and in 1816 pub- lished anonymously a volume called The Bom- hordment of Algiers, and other Poems, which was distributed almost Avholly amongst his friends. From its commencement he was a contributor to Constable's Edinhiinjh Maga- zine, and during a long series of years wrote for Blackwood's Magazine, subscribing his graver pieces for the latter witli the Greek letter A (Delta). In 1821 he published his Legend of Genevieve, icith other Tales and Poems, Avhich comprised selections from his contribu- tions to the magazines and several new pieces. His next volume was an admirable imitation of the style of Gait, under the title Juto- hiography of Mansie Waugli, Tailor in Dal- keith, ilost of this amusing book had pi-e- viously appeared in Blackicood's Magazine, and it was greatly relished for its simplicity, shrewdness, and exhibition of genuine Scottish character. Moir's biographer says of this en- tertaining autobiography: " Burns has almost completely missed those many peculiar features of the national character and manners which are broughtout so inimitably inil/foi-s/e Wauch. Mansie himself is a perfect portraiture; and how admirably in keeping with tlie central autobiographer are the characters and scenes which revolve around his needle!" In 1831 appeared Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine. During the fearful visi- tation of cholera which swept over Europe at this time, when many physicians abandoned their duty in despair or fled from it in terror, Moir was to be found daily and hourly at the bedsides of the infected, endeavouring to alle- viate the sufl'erings of the sick by the resources of his skill, or to comfort the dying with the consolations of religion. In 1832 he issued a pamphlet entitled Practiced Observations on Malignant Cholera, which he followed by Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera. In 1843 another volume of poems appeared, entitled Domestic Verses. In 1851 he de- livered a course of six lectures at the Edin- Engraved by W Hotfe from a Photojrapli. [D)/Sv DEL' DAVID MACBETH MOIE. 16^ burgli Philosophical Institution on the poeti- cal literature of the pa^*t half century, whicii was afterwards publislied and met with a very large sale. In June of that year his health became mucli impaired, and in July he pro- ceeded to Dumfries for a change of air and scene, but he died there suddenly, July 6, 1851. His remains were interred in his native place, where a beautiful monument has been erected to his memory. After Dr. Moir's death a collected edition of his best poems was publislied in Edinburgh, under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who prefixed to the work an interesting memoir of his friend. Lord Jeffrey in a letter to Moir said of his Domestic Verses, a new edition of which appeared recently, "I cannot resist the impulse of thanking you with all my heart for the deep gratification you have afforded me, and the soothing, and I hope bettering, emotions which you have excited. I am sure that Avhat you have written is more genuine pathos than anything almost I have ever read in verse, and is so tender and true, so sweet and natural, as to make all lower re- commendations indiflferent." JeflTrey has very correctly set forth the character of Moir's poetry. " Casa AVappy," perhaps the best known of his poems, was written by Dr. Moir on tlie death of his favourite child, Charles Bell— familiarly called by him "Casa Wappy," a self-conferred pet name— who died at the age of four years. It is one of the most tender and touching effusions in the Engli.sh language. We cannot conclude this notice of the Chris- tian poet and accomplished gentleman without quoting a few lines from an old volume of Mat/a: "His, indeed, was a life far more de- voted to the service of others than to liis own personal aggrandizement— a life whose value can only be appreciated now, when he has been called to receive his reward in that better world, the passport to which he sought so diligentlj' — in youth as in manhood, in happiness as in sor- row — to obtain. Bright as the flowers may be which are twined for the coronal of the poet, they have no glory when placed beside the wreath which belongs to the departed Christian. We have represented Delta as he was — as he must remain ever in the affectionate memory of his friends: and with this brief and unequal tribute to his surpassing worth we take farewell of the gentlest and kindest being, of the most true and single-hearted man, whom we may ever hope to meet with in the course of this earthly pilgrimage. " CASA WAPPY. And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond dear boy — • The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy? Pure at thy death as at thy birth. Thy spirit caught no taint from earth, Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy! Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee, Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathom'd agony, Casa Wappy! Thou wert a vision of delight To bless us given; Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven. So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self than a part Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy ! Tliy bright, brief day knew no decline — 'Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine. Beloved boy! This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; That found thee prostrate in decay; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy: Gem of our hearth, our household pride. Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. Our dear, sweet ciiild! Humbly we bow to Fate's decree: Yet had we hoped that Time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy! 138 DAVID MACBETH MOIE. Do what I maj', go where I will, Thou meet'st my siglit; There dost thou glide before me still — A form of light! I feel thy breath upon my cheek — I see thee smile, I hear thee speak. — Till oh! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy! ilethiuks thou smil'st before me now, AVith glance of stealth; The hair thrown back from thy full brow In buoyant health: I see thine eyes' deep violet light — Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright — Thy clasping arms so round and white — Casa "Wappy I The nursery shows thy pictured wall. Thy bat— tiiy bow— Thy cloak and bonnet — club and ball; But where art tliou ? A corner holds thine empty ciiair; Thy playthings, idly scatterd there. But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy! Even to the last, thy every word — To glad — to grieve — AVas sweet, as sweetest song of bird On summer's eve; In outward beauty iindecayed. Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, Casa AVappy! We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night Tlie chamber fills; AVc pine for tiiee, when morn's first light Eeddens the hills; The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, All — to the wallflower and wild pea — Aro changed; we saw the world thro' thee, Casa AVappy! And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth. It doth not own, wiiate'er may seem. An inward birth; AVe miss thy small step on the stair; — AA'e miss thee at thine evening prayer; All day we miss thee — everywhere — Casa AVappy! Snows mufllcd earth wlien thou didst go. In life's spring bloom, Down to the appointed house below — Tiie silent tomb. Dut now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo, and "the busy lee," Return — but with them bring not thee, Casa AYappy! 'Tis so; but can it be — while flowers I'evive again — ]\Ian's doom, in death that we and ours For aye remain? Oh! can it be, that, o'er the grave, The grass renewed should yearly wave, Vet Cod forget our child to save? — Casa AVappy! It cannot be; for were it so Thus man could dife. Life were a mockerj' — thought were woe — And truth a lie; — Heaven were a coinage of the brain — I'eligion frenzy — virtue vain — And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy! Then be to us, dear, lost child! AVith beam of love, A star, death's uncongenial wild Smiling above! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, That led thee back from man to God, Casa AA'appy! Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy. That heaven is God's, and thou art there, AVith him in joy; There past are death and all its woes. There beauty's stream for ever flows. And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa AVappy! Farewell then — for a while, farewell — Pride of my heart! It cannot be that long we dwell, Thus torn, apart. Time's shadows like the shuttle flee: And, dark how'e'er life's night may be. Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa AVappy! TIIE AVIXTER AVILD. How sudden hath the snow come down! Last night the now moon show'd her horn, And, o'er December's moorland brown, Rain on the breeze's wing was borne; But, when I ope my shutters, lo! Old earth hath changed her garb again, DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 169 And, with its fleecy whitening, snow O'ermantles hill and cumbers plain. Briijht snow, pure snow, I love thee well, Thou art a friend of ancient days; Whene'er mine eyes upon thee dwell, Long-buried thoughts 'tis thine to raise; — Far — to remotest infancy — My pensive mind thou hurriest hack, When first, pure blossoms of the sky, I watch'd to earth your mazy track — And upward look'd, with wondering eyes. To see the heavens with motion teem. And buttei-flies, a thousand ways Down flaking in an endless stream ; The roofs around all clothed with white, And leafless trees with feathery claws, And horses black with drapery bright— Oh, what a glorious sight it was! Each season had its joys in store, From out whose treasury boyhood chose; What though blue summer's reign was o'er, Had winter not its storms and snows '. The giant then aloft was piled. And balls in mimic war were toss'd, And thumps dealt round in trickery wild, As felt the passer to his cost. The wintry day was as a spell Unto the spirit— 'twas delight To note its varying aspects well, From dawn to noon, from noon to night, Pale morning on the hills afar — The low sun's ineffectual gleam — The twinkling of the evening star Reflected in the frozen stream: And when the silver moon shone forth O'er lands and lakes, in white array'd, And dancing in the stormy North The red electric streamers play'd; 'Twas ecstasy, 'neath tinkling trees, All low-born thoughts and cares exiled, To listen to the Polar breeze. And look upon " the winter wild." Hollo! make way along the line: — Hark how the peasant scuds along— His iron heels, in concord fine. Brattling afar their under-song: And see, that urchin, ho-ieroe! His truant legs they sink from under, And to the quaking sheet below, Down thwacks he, with a thud like thunder! The skater then, with motion nice, In semicirque and graceful wheel, Chalks out upon the dark clear ice His chart of voyage with his heel; Now skimming underneath the boughs — Amid the crowd now gliding lone— Where down the rink the curler throws, With dext'rous arm, his booming stone. Eehold! upon the lapsing stream The frost-work of the night appears— Beleaguer'd castles round which gleam A thousand glittering crystal spears; Here galleys sail of shape grotes(iue; There hills o'erspread with palmy trees; And, mixed with temples Arabesque — Bridges and pillar'd towers Chinese. Ever doth winter bring to me Deep reminiscence of the past; The opening flower and leafing tree— The sky without a cloud o'ercast — Themselves of beauty speak, and throw A gleam of present joy around. But, at each silent fall of snow, Our hearts to boyhood's pulses bound — To boyhood turns reflection back. With mournful pleasure to behold Life's early morn, the sunny track Of feet, now mingled with the mould; Where are the playmates of those years ? Hills rise and oceans roll between: We call— but scarcely one appears— No more shall be what once hath been. Yes! gazing o'er the bleak, green sea, The snow-clad peaks and desert plain, Mirror'd in thought, methinks to me The spectral past comes back again: Once more in retrospection's eyes, As 'twere to second life restored, The perish'd and the past arise, The early lost, and long deplor'd! HEIGH-HO! A pretty young maiden sat on the grass- Sing lieigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! — And by a blythe young shepherd did pass, In the summer morning so early. Said he, " My lass, will you go with me, My cot to keep and my bride to be; Sorrow and want shall never touch thee, And I will love you rarely." " 0! no, no, no!" the maiden said- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! — And bashfully turn'd aside her head. On that summer morning so early. " My mother is old, my mother is frail. Our cottage it lies in yon green dale; 170 DAVID MACBETH MOIE. I dare not list to any such tale, For I love my kind mother rarely." The shepherd took her lily-white hand- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! And on her beauty did gazing stand, On that summer morning so early. "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave, Alone in her frail old age to grieve; But my home can hold us all, I believe — Will that not please thee fairly? " " (J, no, no, no! I am all too young" — Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! — " I dare not list to a young man's tongue, On a summer morning so early." But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent; Oft she strove to go, but she never went; And at length she fondly blush'd consent— Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly. TO MY INFANT. DAUGHTER. There is no sound upon the night. As by the shaded lamp I trace, My babe, in smiling beauty bright. The changes of thy sleeping face. Hallow'd to us shall be the hour, Yea, sacred tlirough all time to come, Wliich gave us thee, — a living flower. To bless and beautify our home! Thy presence is a charm, which wakes A new creation to my sight; Gives life anotlier liue, and makes The wither'd green — the faded bright. Pure as a lily of the brook. Heaven's signet on thy foreliead lies; And Heaven is read in every look; My daughter, of thy soft blue eyes. In sleep, thy little spirit seems To some bright realm to wander back; And seraphs, mingling with thy dreams. Allure thee to their shining track. Already, like a vernal flower, I see thee opening to the light, And day by day, and hour by hour. Becoming more divinely bright. Yet in my gladness stirs a sigh. Even for the blessing of thy birth, Knowing how sins and sorrows try Mankind, and darken o'er the earth I Ah! little dost thou ween, my child, The dangers of the way before; How rocks in every path are piled, AVhich few unharm'd can clamber o'er. Sweet bud of beauty! how wilt thou Endure the bitter tempest's .strife? Shall thy blue eyes be dimm'd — thy brow Indented by the cares of life? If years are destined thine, alas! It may be — ah! it must be so; For all that live and breathe, the glass Which must be quaf}"d, is drugg'd with woe. Yet, could a father's prayers avail, So calm thy skies of life should be. That thou should' st glide beneath the fail Of virtue, on a stormless sea: And ever on thy thoughts, my child. His sacred truth should be impres.s'd — Grief clouds the soul to sin beguiled. Who liveth best, God loveth best. Across thy path Religion's star Should ever shed its healing ray. To lead thee from this world's vain jar. To scenes of peace, and purer day. Shun vice— the breath of her abode Is poison'd, though with roses strewn! — And cling to virtue; though the road Be thorny, boldly travel on! Yes: travel on — nor turn thee round. Though dark the way and deep the shade; Till on that shore thy feet be found. Where bloom the palms that never fade. For thee I ask not riches — thou AVert wealthy with a spotless name: I ask not beauty — for thy brow Is fair as fancy's wish could claim. Be thine a spirit loathing guilt. To duty wed, from malice free: Be like thy mother, — and thou wilt Be all my soul desires to see. MARY DHU, Sweet, sweet is the rose-bud Bathed in dew; But sweeter art thou, My JIary dhu. Oh! the skies of night. With their eyes of light, Are not so bright As my Slary dhu. DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 171 Whenever thy radiant face I see, The clouds of sorrow depart from me; As the shadows fly From day's bright eye. Thou lightest life's sky, My Mary dhu! Sad, sad is my heart, When I sigh. Adieu! Or gaze on thy parting. My ]\Iary dhu! Then for thee I mourn, Till thy steps' return Bids my bosom burn, — ]\[y Mary dhu. I think but of thee on the broom-clad hills, I muse but of thee by the moorland rills; In the morning light. In the moonshine bright, Thou art still in my sight, My Mary dhu. Tliy voice trembles through me Like the breeze. That ruffles, in gladness, The leafy trees; 'Tis a wafted tone From heaven's high throne. Making hearts thine own, My JNIary dhu. Be the flowers of joy ever round thy feet, AVith colours glowing and incense sweet; And when thou must away, Jtlay life's rose decay In the west wind's sway, My Mary dhu! MOONLIGHT CHURCHYARD. Round thee, pure moon, a ring of snowy clouds Hover, like children round their mother dear In silence and in joy, for over near The footsteps of her love. Within their shrouds, Lonely, the slumbering dead encompass nie! Thy silver beams the mouldering Abbey float, Black rails, memorial stones, are strew'd about; And the leaves rustle on the hollow tree. Shadows mark out the undulating graves; Tranrpiilly, tranquilly the departed lie!— Time is an ocean, and mankind the waves That reach the dim shores of eternity; Death strikes; and silence, 'mid the evening gloom, Sits spectre-like the guardian of the tomb! RURAL SCENERY. Receded hills afar of softened blue. Tall bowering trees, through which the sun- beams shoot Down to the waveless lake, birds never mute. And wild flowers all around of every hue — Sure 'tis a lovely scene. There, knee-deep stand. Safe from the fierce sun, the o'ershadowed kine, And to the left, where cultured fields expand, 'JMid tufts of scented thorn, the sheep recline, Lone quiet farmsteads, haunts that ever please; how inviting to the traveller's eye Ye rise on yonder uplands, 'mid your trees Of shade and shelter ! Every sound from these Is eloquent of peace, in earth and sky. And pastoral beauty and Arcadian case. THE SABBATH. If earth hath aught that speaks to us of heaven, 'Tis when, within some lone and leafy dell, Solemn and slow, we list the Sabbath bell On music's wings through the clear ether driven; Say not the sounds aloud, " Oh man, 'twere well Hither to come, nor walk in sins nnshnven! Haste to this temple, tidings ye shall hear, Ye who are sorrowful, and sick in soul. Your doubts to chase— your downeastness to cYlQQY' To bind affliction's wounds, and make you whole; Hither— come hither; thongh, with Tynan dye Guilt hath polluted you, yet, white as snow. Cleansed by the streams that from this altar flow, , „ Home yo shall pass to meet your Maker s eye. THE SCHOOL BANK. Upon this bank we met, my friend and I— A lapse of years had intervening pass'd Since I had heard his voice or seen him last; The starting tear-drop trembled in his eye. Silent we thought upon the school-boy days Of mirth and happiness for ever flown; When rushing out the careless crowd did raise Their thoughtless voices— now, we were alone. Alone amid the landscape— 'twas the same; Where were our loud companions? Some, alas! Silent reposed among the church-yard grass. And some were known, and most unknown, tc fame : And some were wanderers on the homeless deep; And where they all were happy— we did weep. 172 ALEXANDEK SMAET. ALEXANDER SMAET Born 1 798— Died 1866. Alexander Smart, tlie author of numerous excellent songs, was born at Montrose, April 26, 179S. A portion of his school education Avas received from one Korvai, a teacher in the Jlontrose Academy, and a model of tlie tyrant pedagogues of the past, whose mode of infusing knowledge was afterwards satirized by Smart in hfs poem entitled " Ivecollections of Auld Langsyne." He was apprenticed to a watch- maker in his native town, and on the completion of Ills time of service removed to Edinburgh, where he followed the vocation of a compositor. In 183i he issued a volume of- poems and songs, entitled Ramhllng E/njmes, from Avhich we make the subjoined selections. His vol- ume attracted considerable attention, and Francis Jeffrey wrote to its author in the fol- lowing terms: — "I had scarcely read any of your little book when I acknowledged thereceipt of it. I have now, however, gone tlirough every word of it, and find I have more to thank you for than I was then aware of. I do not allude so much to the very flattering sonnet you have been pleased to inscribe with my name, as to the many passages of great poetical beauty, and to tlie still greater number expres- sive of (and inspired by) those gentle affections, and just and elevated sentiments, which it is so delightful to find in the works of persons of the middling class, on whose time the calls of a necessary and often laborious industry must press so heavily. I cannot tell you the pride and the pleasure I have in such indications, not of cultivated intellect only, but of moral delicacy and elegant taste, in the tradesmen and artisans of our country." A second and enlarged edition was issued in 18-1.5. Smart is also the author of numerous excellent prose sketches, some of which have appeared in Hogij's Instructor. He died at Morningside, near Edinburgh, October 19, 1866, after a protracted mental illness, bringing to a close a life of strenuous toil, generous thoughts, and noble aspirations. Many of Smart's sweetest lyrics were the offspring of his happy domestic relationships and his tender friendships. Seve- ral of his short pieces, such as " Better than Gold" and "The Empty Chair," breathe a spirit of true poetry. His Songs of Labour contain many admirable compositions, and in his Elnjines for Little Headers the fables of yEsop are admirably versified. SPRING-TIME. Tlie catild north wind has soiiglicd awa', The snaw has left the hill. And briskly to the wastlin' breeze Reels round yon bonny mill; The cheery spring, in robes o" green, Comes laughin' ower the lea, While burnies by their flowery bankrs Ivin singin' to the sea. Tiie Untie whids amang the whins, Or whistles on the thorn; The bee comes liummiu' frae his byke, And tunes his bugle-horn; The craik rins rispiu" through the corn, The hare scuds down the furrow; The merry lav'rock frae the lift Pipes out his biythe gude-morrow. Now springs the docken by the dyke, The nettle on the knowe; The puddock's croakin' in the pool. Where green the rushes grow; The primrose nods its yellow head. The gowan sports its charms; The Ijurrie thistle to the breeze Flings out its prickly arras. Now moudiewarts begin to ho« k And bore the tender fallow; And deuks are paidlin' in the pool, AVhere skims the gapiu' swallow; The clockin' hen,.wi' clamorous din. The midden scarts an' scrubs; The guse brings a' her gaislius out. To daidle through the dubs. ALEXANDER SMART. 17:i Xow bairns get aff tlieir hose an' shoon, And riu' tlier'out a' barctit; But rantiu' through the bioomin' wliins, The rogues get niony a ?air fit. Ill fares it then, by busli or brake, If on th& nest they light, Of buntlin' wi' the tuneless beak, Or ill starred yellow-yitc. The gowk's heard in the leafy wood, The lambs frisk o'er the field; The wee bird gathers taits o' woo. To busk its cozy bield; The corbie croaks upon the tree. His auld paternal tower; While the sentimental cushie doo Croods in her greenwood bower. The kye gae lowin' o'er the loan, As cheery daylight fades; And bats come flaffin' through tlie fauld, And birds gae to tlieir beds; Then jinkin' out by bent an' brae, When they are seen by no man, The lads and lasses blithely meet, And cuddle in the gloamin'. The cauld nortli wind has soughed awa', Tlie snaw has left the hill, And briskly to the Avastlin" breeze Eeels round j'on bonny mill; The cheery spring, in robes o' green. Comes laugh in' ower the lea. While burnies by tlieir flowery banks l»ia siniiin' to tlie sea. MADIE'S SCHULE. When weary wi' toil, or when cankered wi' care, Remembrance takes wing like a bird o' the air, And free as a thought that ye canna confine, It flees to the pleasures o' bonnie langsyne. In fancy I bound o'er the green sunny braes, And di-ink up the bliss o' the lang summer days, Or sit sae demure on a wee creepy stool, And con ower my lesson in auld Jladie's schule. Up four timmer stairs, in a gaiTet fu' clean, In awful authority Madie was seen; Her close-lug-git mutch towered aloft in its pride, Her lang winsey apron flowed down by her side. The taws on her lap like some dreaded snake lay. Aye watchin' an' ready to spring on its prey; The wheel at her foot, an' the cat on her knee, — Nae queen on her throne mair majestic than she! To the whir o' the wheel while auld bandrons would sing, On stools, wee an' muckle, a' ranged in a ring. Ilk idle bit ui'chin, wha glowered aff his book. Was caught in a twinklin' by Madie's dread look. She ne'er spak' a word, but the taws she would fling! The sad leather whang up the cul;rit maun bring, While bis sair bluthered face, as the palniies would fa'. Proclaimed through the schule an example to a'. But though Madie cculd punish, .she wcel could reward, The gude and the eydant aye won her regard — A Saturday penny she freely would gi'e, And the second best scholar got aye a bawbee. It .sweetened the joys o' that dear afternoon. When free as the breeze in the blossoms o' June, And bly the as the lav'rock that sang ower the lea. Were the happy wee laddies frac bondage set free. And then when she washed we were sure o' the play, And Wednesday aj-e brought the gi-and washin' day, W^hen Madie relaxed frae her sternness a wee. And announced the event wi' a smile in her e'e; The tidings were hailed wi' a thrill o' delight— E'en dro.wsyauld baudrons rejoiced at the sight, While Madie, dread Madie! would laugh in her chair. As in order we tript down the lang timmer stair. But the schule is now skailt, and will ne'er again meet — Nae mair on the timmer stair sound our wee feet; The taws and the penny are vanished for aye, And gane is the charm o' the dear washin' day. Her subjects are scattered — some lang dead and gane — But dear to remembrance wi' them wha remain, Are the days when they sat on a wee creepy stool. An' conned ower their lesson in auld Madie's schule. on, LE.WE ME KOT. Oh, leave me not! the evening hour, So soft, so still, is all our own; The dew descends on tree and flower, They breathe their sweets for thee alone. Oh. go not yet! the evening star, The ri.sing moon, all bid thee stay; And dying eciioes, faint and far, Invite our lingering steps to stray. 174 JOANNA B. PICKEN. Far from the city's noisy din, Beneath the pale moon's trembling light, That lip to press, those smiles to win. Will lend a rapture to the night. Let fortune fling her favours free To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine; Oh, what is all the world to me While thus I clasp and call thee mine! JOANNA B. PICKEN. BoRX 1798 — Died 1859. Joanna Belfrage Picken, authoress of several admired Scottish songs and vers de society, was born at Edinburgh, May 8, 1798. She was a daughter of the "Poet of Paisley," as Ebenezer Picken was familiarly called, and Robina, sister of the Eev. Dr. Henry Belfrage, the Christian author and philanthropist. Her earliest poems were contributed to iheGlasgoio Courier and Free Press in 1828. Miss Picken emigrated to Canada in 1842, settling in the city of Montreal, and during her residence there contributed under the signature of "Alpha" to the Llterarn Garland and Tran- script. She maintained herself principally by- teaching music, in which art she was a thorough proficient. Miss Picken died at Montreal, March 21, 1859. Her poems were never col- lected for publication in a volume, and the manuscript of some forty-five pieces is now in the possession of her brother H. B. Picken. AN AULD FPJEXD WF A NEW FACE. A queer kind o' lott'ry is marriage — Ye never ken what ye may draw, Ye may get a braw hoose an' a carriage. Or maybe get nae hoose ava. I say na 'tis best to be single. But ae thing's to me unco clear: Far better sit lane by the ingle Than thole what some wives hae to bear. It's braw to be dancin' and gaffin' As lang as nae trouble befa' — But hech! she is sune ower wi' daffin' That's woo'd, an' married, an' a'. She maun labour frae sunrise till dark, An' aft tho' her means be but sma'. She gets little thanks for her wark — Or as aften gets nae thanks ava. She maun tak just whatever may come, An' say nocht o' her fear or her hope; There's nae use o' lievin' in Pome, An' tryin' to fecht wi' the Pope. Hectored an' lectured an' a, Snubbed for Avhate'er may befa', Than this, she is far better afF — That never gets married ava'. Oh, then come the bairns without number, An' there's naething but kisses an' licks — Adieu then to sleep an' to slumber. An' the Pa is as cross as twa sticks. A' the week she is makin' their parritcli. An' turnin' auld frocks into new; An' on Sunday she learns them their carritch, Puir wife! there's nae rest-day for you. Warkin' an' fechtin' awa, Saturday, Sunday, an' a'; In troth she is no that ill afF That never gets married ava. In nae time the cauld an' the wheesles Get into your family sae sma'. An' the chincough, the croup, or the measles Is sure to tak' aflf ane or twa. An' wi' them gang the puir mither's joys, Nae comfort seems left her ava — As she pits by the claes an' the toys That belanged to the wee things awa'. Doctors an' drugs an' a', Bills an' buryin's an' a', Oh surely her heart may be lichtcr That never was married ava. The married maun aft bear man's scornin', An' humour his capers an' fykes; But the single can rise in the mornin', An' gang to her bed when .she likes; An' when ye're in sickness and trouble. Just tell me at wha's door ye ca'; EESKINE CONOLLY. 175 It's no whar ten bairns mak' a bubble, But at hers that has nae bairns ava. Usefu', an' peacefu', an' cantie, Quiet, an' canny, an' a'. It's glide to ha'e sister or auntie That never was married ava. A wife maun be humble an' hamely, Aye ready to rise, or to rin; An' oh! when she's brocht up a family, It's then her warst sorrows begin; For the son, he maun e'en ha'e a wife; An' the dochter a hoose o' her ain; An' then, thro' tlie battle o' life, They ne'er may forgather again. Cantie, an' quiet, an' a', Altho' her bit niailin be sma', In truth she is no that ill aft' That never gets married ava. It's far better still to keep single Than sit wi' yer face at the wa', An' greet ower the sons and the dochters Ye've buried and married aAva'. I fain wad deny, but I canna, Altho' to confess it I grieve, Folks seldom care muekle for grannie, Unless she has something to leave. It's nae that I seek to prevent ye, For that wad be rhyme thrown awa'; But, lassies, I pray, just content ye, Altho' ve're ne'er married ava. THE DEATH-WATCH. Tie, tic, tic! — I've a qiiarrel to pick AYith thee, thou little elf— For my heart beats quick As thy tic, tic, tic, Eesounds from the old green shelf. AVhcn I cease to weep. When I strive to sleep, Tiiou art there with thy tiny voice; And thoughts of the past Come rushing fast, E'en with that still, small voice. 'Tis said thou hast power. At the midnight hour. Of death and of doom to tell ; Of rest in the grave. That the world ne'er gave, And I love on this theme to dwell. Dost thou call me home? — Oh! I come, I come; For never did lone heart pine For a quiet berth In its mother earth, With a deeper throb than mine. Then tic, tic, tic — Let thy work be quick; I ask for no lengthen'd day — 'Tis enough, kind one. If thy work be done In the merry month of May. For birds in the bowers, And the blooming flowers, Then gladden the teeming earth; And methinks that I Would like to die In the month that gave me birth. EESKINE CONOLLY. Born 1798 — Died 1843. Erskine Coxolly, author of the popular song of "Mary Macneil," was born at Crail, Fifeshire, June 12, 1798. He was educated at the burgh-school of his native place, and afterwards apprenticed to a bookseller in An- struther — the birthplace of Chalmers, Ten- nant, and Charles Gray. He then started business on his own account as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh, but after a few years gave it up and went to Edinburgh. Here he became a messenger-at-arms — a voca- tion, it would naturally be inferred, of all others unsuited for a poet; but in "Auld Eeekie" a great part of the messenger's busi- ness consists in serving merely formal writs, and he is rarely a witness to scenes of real 17G ERSKINE CONOLLY. distress. Cono'.ly's manner was exceedingly gentle and refined — his disposition amiable and affectionate. He never married, and his friends surmised that some mystery in this respect overshadowed his life. He was a favourite in society, and had a Avide circle of friends, among whom may be mentioned the poets Gilfillan, Gray, Tedder, and Latto, to the last-mentioned of whom the Editor is chiefly indebted for the information contained in this brief notice. ConoUy did not write much, but had considerable versatility; he could be witty, quizzical, dignified, or sentimental, as the humour prompted. In his piece "The Greetin' Bairn" there is much weird power, and several of liis songs and poems are highly finished. He was fastidious in polishing his verses, and had a happy faculty of imitating some of the early bards, especially "Peter Pindar" and the author of "Anster Fair." Conolly's poems were never collected or published. He died at Edinburgh, January 7, 1S43. THE GREETIN' BAIRN. Why hies yonder wicht wi' sic tremblin' speed Whar the saughs and tlie fir-trees grow ? And why stands he wi' sic looks o' dreid Whar the waters wimplin flow ? eerie the tale is that I could impart, How at Yule's black and dreary return Cauld curdles the bluid at the bauldest heart, As it crosses the Dennan Burn! 'Twas Yule's dread time, when the spirits hae power Through the dark yetts o' death to return ; — 'Twas Yule's dread time, and the midnieht hour When the witches astride on the whirlwinds ride On theii- way to the Dennan Burn! weary The ill-bodin' howlet screight eerily by, And loudly the tempest was ravin', When shrill on the blast cam' the woman's cry, And the screams o' the greetin' bairn! "0, open the door, for I've tint my gate, And the frost winds snelly blaw! save my wee bairn frae a timeless fate, Or its grave is the driftin' snaw!" "Now get on your gate, j-e fell weird wife— Ower my hallan ye sail na steer; Though ye sicker can sweep thro' the tempest's strife, On my lintel-stane is the rowan-tree rife, And ye daurna enter here!" "0 nippin' and cauld is the wintry blast. And sadly I'm weary and worn; save my wee bairn— its blood's freezin' fast. And we'll baith live to bless ye the morn!" "Now get on your gate, ye unco wife; Nae scoug to sic gentry I'll gi'e; On my lintel the red thread and rowan-tree is rife. And ye daunia lodge wi' me !'' Sair, sair she prigget, but prigget in vain, For the auld carle drove her awa' ; And loud on the nicht breeze she vented her mane. As she sank wi' her bau-n, ne'er to waken again, Whar the burn ran dark through the snaw. And aften sin' .syne has her ghaist been seen Whar the burn winds down by the fern ; And aft has the traveller been frighted at e'en By the screams o' the greetin' bairn. MARY MACNEIL. The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fare- weel; An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin', As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil. A' glowin' wi' gladness she leaned on her lover, Her een tellin' secrets she thought to conceal; And fondly they wander'd whar nane might dis- cover The tryst o' yoimg Ronald an' Mary Macneil, Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily, That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal; Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil. She moved, and the gi-aces playecl sportive aromid her; She .smil'd, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill; She sang, and the mavis cam' listenin' in wonder. To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil. But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin', Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal; EOBERT GILFILLAN. 17' An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in, Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal. The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hicin'; The autumn, his corse on the red battletiel'; The winter the maiden found heartbroken, dyin'; An' spring spread the green turf owor Mary Macneil. TO MY FIRST GRAY HAIR. Herald of old age, or offspring of care, How shall I greet thee ? my first gray hair ! Comest thou a soother, or censor i in ruth For the woes, or in ire for the errors of youth f To speak of thy parent's companionship past, Or proclaim that thy master will follow thee fast? Comest thou like ark-dove, commissioned to say That the waters of life are fast ebbing away, And soon shall my tempest-toss'd bark be at rest ? Or, avenger of talent-buds recklessly slain. Art thou sent like the mark to the forehead of Cain ? Thou art silent, but deeply my heart is fmpress'd \Yith all thy appearance should stimulate there — May it cherish thy lessons, my first gray hair ! EOBEET GILFILLAN Born 179S — Died 1850. Robert Gilfill.vx was born, July 7, 1798, at Dunfermline, in tlie county of Fife. His parents were in humble circumstances, but were much respected in their neighbourhood. Robert, their second son, received the rudi- ments of his education at a Dunfermline school, and at tiie age of thirteen his parents removed to Leith, where he was bound apprentice to the trade of a cooper. To this handicraft, however, he seems never to have taken kindly; yet he faithfully served his employers the usual -period of seven years, giving liis earnings from week to week to his mother, and enlivening his leisure hours by reading every book lie could borrow, composing verses, and playing on a one-keyed flute, which he purchased with a small sum of money found by him in the streets of Leith. It was at this time, and ever afterward, his practice to read to his mother and sister (he never married) his songs as he wrote them; and he was entirely guided by their judgment regarding them. This was an improvement on Moli^re and his housekeeper. At the end of his apprenticeship he became an assistant to a grocer in his native town, with whom he remained for three years. He subsequently returned to Leith, and from his twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year acted as clerk for an extensive wine-merchant. YoL. II.— M While thus engaged he found time for compos- ing, and in 1831 published a A-olume of Ori'ji- nal Soiiijs, Avhich was favourably received. Encouraged by his succe.ss, Gilfillan i.ssued in 1835 another edition, containing fifty addi- tional songs. Soon after the publication of this volume lie was entertained at a public dinner in Edinburgh, when a splendid silver cup was presented to him. In 1837 he was appointed collector of police-rates at Leith — a highly respectable position, which lie retained until his death. In 1839 he published a ihird and still larger edition of his original volume, sixty new songs and poems being added to the collection. Mr. Gilfillan died of apoplexy at Hermitage Place, Leith, Dec. 4, 1850, aged fifty -two. A handsome monument was erected by a few friends and admirers over his grave in the churchyard of South Leith, where also rest the remains of John Home, the eminent dramatic poet. The year after his death a fourth edition of his poetical works was published in Edinburgh, with an interesting memoir of the gentle poet, who is frequently referred to in the Xoctes Ambrosiauce by the Ettrick Shepherd as the "fine chiel doun at Leith." His biographer says— "He fills a place in Scottish poetry altogether difterent and distinct from any of 178 ROBEET GILFILLAN. the acknowledged masters of Scottish song. He is certainly not so universal as Burns, nor so broad and graphic a delineator of Scottish manners as Eamsaj', Fergusson, or Hogg, nor is he so keenl.y alive to the beauties of external nature as Eobert Tanuahiil; but in his own peculiar walk, that ( f home and the domestic affections, he has slo.vn a command of happy thought and imagery, in which it may be truly said that he has not been excelled as a poet of nature by any of his predecessors, with the exception only of Burns himself." THE AUTUMN WINDS ARE BLAWING. The autumn winds are bla\\ing, red leaves are fa'ing, An' nature is mourning the simmer's decay; The wee birdies singing, the wee flowerets spring- ing, Hae tint a' their sangs, an' wither'd away! I, too, am mourning, for death has nae returning, Where are my bairnies, the young an' the gay! ^V]ly should they perish?— the blossoms we cherish — The beautiful are sleeping cauld in the clay! Fair was their morning, their beauty adorning, The mavis sang sweet at the closing o' day; Now the winds are raving, the green grass is waving. O'er the buds o' innocence canld in the clay! Ilka night brings sorrow, grief comes ilk mori-ow — Should gowden locks fade before the auld an' gray? But still, still they're sleeping, wi' nae care nor weeping, The robin sits chirping ower their cauld clay! In loveliness smiling, ilka day beguiling. In joy and in gladness, time murmured by; What now were pleasure, wi' a' the warld's trea- sure ? My heart's in the grave where my fair blossoms lie! The autumn winds are blawing, red leaves are fa'ing. Moaning is the gale as it rides on its way; A wild music's sighing, it seems a voice crying, — " Hapi^y is that land that knows no decay!" 0! WHAT IS THIS WORLD? 0! what is this world, wi' its wealth and renown, If content is awanting ilk pleasure to crown ? And where that does dwell, be't in cot e'er sae low. There's a joy and a gladness nae wealth can be- stow. There's mony a wee biggin', in forest and glen, Wi' its clean sandit floor, an' its hut and its ben, Where there's mair o' that peace whilk content- ment aye brings. Than is found in the palace o' princes or kings. We canna get fortune, we canna get fame. We canna behind us a' leave a bit name; But this we can a' hae, and 0! 'tis na' sma', A heart fu' o' kindness to ane and to a'! They say that life's short, and they dinna say wrang, For the langest that live can ne'er ca' it lang; Then, since it is sae, make it pleasant the while; If it gang by sae soon, let it gang wi' a smile. Wha e'er climbs the mountain maun aye risk a fa', While he that is lowly is safe frae it a', The flower blooms unscathed in the valley sae deep. While the storm rends the aik on its high reeky steep! My highest ambition — if such be a crime — Is quietly to glide down the swift stream o' time; And when the brief voyage in safety is o'er. To meet with loved friends on the far distant shore! MANOR BRAES. Where Manor stream rins blithe and clear, And Castlehill's white wa's appear, I spent ae day, aboon a' days. By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes. The purple heath was just in bloom. And bomiie waved the upland broom. The flocks on flowery braes lay still. Or, heedless, wander'd at their will. 'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose, Where Manor clearest, saftest flows, I met a maiden, fair to see, Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e; Her beauty to the mind did bring A morn when summer blends wi' spring, EGBERT GILFILLAN. 179 So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair, 'Twas bliss to look — to linger there! Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm, Wi' love to win and sense to charm, So much of nature, nought of art, She'll live enthroned within my heart! Aboon her head the laverock sang. And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang. Oh! let me dwell where beauty strays, By Manor stream an' Manor braes. I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care? She said her heart frae love was free, But aye she blush'd wi' douncast e'e. The parting cam, as partings come, Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb; Yet I'll return, ere many days. To live and love 'mang Manor braes! Nae doot, we have hacn our ain sorrows and troubles, Aften times pouchestoom, and hearts fu'o'care; But still, wi' our crosses, our sorrows and losses. Contentment, be thankit,hasaycbeeuourshare! I've an' auld rusty sword that was left by my father, Whilk ne'er shall be drawn till our king has a fae; We ha'e friends ane or twa, that aft gie us a ca'. To laugh when we're happy, or grieve when we're wae. The laird may ha'e gowd mair than schoolmen can reckon. An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e; His lady, aye braw, may sit in her ha', But are they mair happy than Janet an me? A' ye wha ne'er kent the straught road to be happy, Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree, Come down to the dwallin' of whilk I've been telling, Ye'se learn it by looking at Janet an' me! JANET AN' ME. 0, wha are sae happy as me and my Janet? O, wha are sae happy as Janet and me? We're baith turning auld, and our walth is soon tauld, But contentment ye'U find in our cottage sae wee. She spins the lang day when I'm out wi' theowsen. She croons i' the house while I sing at the plough; And aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil, As up the lang gleu I come wearied, I trow! When I'm at a beuk she is mending the cleading, She's darning the stockings when I sole ihe shoon ; Our cracks keep us cheery— we work till we're weary, And syne we sup sowans when ance we are done. She's baking a scone while I'm smoking my cutty. While I'm i' the stable she's milking the kye; I envy not kings when the gloaming time brings The canty fireside to my Janet and I! Aboon our auld heads we've a decent clay bigging. That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa' ; We've twa wabs o' Unen, o' Janet's ain spinning, As thick as dog lugs, and as white as the snaw! We've a kebbuck or twa, and some meal i' the gimel; Yon sow is our ain that plays grumph at the door; An' something, I've guess'd, 's in yon auld painted kist. That Janet, fell bodie, 's laid up to the fore! THE HAPPY DAYS 0' YOUTH. 0! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky; An' whaur shall we shelter frae its stoi-ms when they blaw, Wlien the gladsome daj's o' youth are flown awa" ? They said that wisdom came wi' manhood's riper years, But naething did they tell o' its sorrows and tears; 0! I'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine. For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne. I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn. For the blithe happy days that never can return; When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue. An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young. 01 the bonnie waving broom, whaur aften we did meet, Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet; The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee, As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk tree. 0! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain. There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain; Sae fareweel happy days, an' fareweel youthfu' glee, The young may court your smiles, but ye're gane frae me. 180 EOBEET GILFILLAN. THE EXILES SONG. Oh! why left I my hame ? Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land Where my forefatliers sleep ] I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink 0' my ain countriel The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; And, to the Indian maid, The bulbul sweetly sings. But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang 0' my ain countriel Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reajjers heard Amang the yellow corn; For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun o' freedom shines In my ain countrie! There's a liope for every woe, And a balm for every pain. But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep. And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countriel FARE THEE WELL.i Fare thee well, for I must leave thee. But, oh! let not our parting grieve thee; Happier days may yet be mine. At least I wish them thine — believe me ! We part — but, by those dew-drops clear. My love for tliee will last for ever; I leave thee — but thy image dear. Thy tender smiles, will leave me never. Fare thee well, &c. 1 Gilfillan used to say that the first idea of fame whic)i he ever entertained was wlien Iiis sister and a young lady, a cousin of his own, wept on hearing him read tliis pathetic song. — Ed. 0! dry those pearly tears that flow — One farewell smile before we sever; The only balm for parting woe Is — fondly hope 'tis not for ever. Fare thee well, &c. Though dark and dreary lowers the night, Calm and serene may be the morrow; The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright. Without some mingling drops of sorrow I Fare thee well, &c. THE BONNIE BRAES 0" SCOTLAND. 01 the bonnie braes o' Scotland — my blessin's on them a'. May love be found in ilka cot, an' joy in ilka ha'. Whane'er a beild, however laigh, by burn or brae appears, Be there the gladsome smile o' youth, the dig- nity o' years! 0! the bonnie braes o' Scotland, sae bloomin' and sae fair, There's mony a hame o' kindness, an' couthie dwallin' there; An' mair o' warldly happiness than folk wad seem to ken. For contentment in the heart maks t'.ie canty but and ben! 0! wha wad grasp at fame or power, or walth seek to obtain, Be't 'mang the busy scenes o' life, or on the stormy main? Whan the shepherd on his hill, or the peasant at his plough. Find sic a share o' happiness wi' unco sma' ado? The wind may whistle loud an' cauld, and sleety blasts may blaw, Or swirlin' round, in whit'nin' wreaths, may drift the wintry snaw; But the gloamin' star comes blinkiu', amaist afore he ken. An' his wife's cheerfu' smile maks a canty but and ben! 0! the bonnie braes o' Scotland to my remem- brance bring The lang, lang simmer sunny day, whan life was in its spring; Whan 'mang the wild flowers wandering, the happy hours went by. The future wakening no a fear, nor yet the past a sigh ! JAMES IIYSLOP. 181 01 the bonnie braes o' Scotland, hame o' the fair an' free, An hame it is a kindly word, whare'cr that hame ma3' be; Jly weary steps I'd fain retrace back to the happy days. When youthfu' hearts together joy'd 'mang Scotland's bonnie braes ! IX THE DAYS 0' LAXGSYXE. In the days o' langsyne when we caiies were young, An' nae foreign fashions amang us had sprung; When we made our ain bannocks, and brewed our ain yill, An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the hill; 0! the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart aye fill! In the days o' langsyne we were happy and free, Proud lords on the land, and kings on the sea! To our foes we were fierce, to our friends wo were kind, An' where battle raged loudest, 3'ou ever did find The banner of Scotland float high in the wind! In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted and sang By the warm ingle-side, or the wild braes amang; Our lads husked braw, and our lasses looked fine, An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to shine ; ! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne • In the daj's o' langsyne ilka glen had its talc, Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale ; An' ilka wee bum had a sang o' its ain. As it trotted alang through the valley or plain; Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again! In the days o' langsjTie there were feasting and glee, Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk e'e; And the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed to tyne. It was your stoup the nicht, and the morn 'twas mine; ! the days o' langsyne — ! the days o' langsyne. JAMES HYSLOP. Born 1793 — Died 1827. James IIyslop^ was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, near the burgh of Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire, July 13, 1798. Under the care of a pious grandfatlier he was taught to read, and while yet a child was sent in summer to herd cows on the neighbouring farm of Dalblair, occasionally attending school during the winter months. He was next em- ployed as a shepherd in tiie vicinity of Airs- moss, in Ayrshire, the scene of a skirmish in July, 1680, between a party of soldiers and a small band of Covenanters, when their pastor Eichard Cameron was slain. Tlie traditions floating among the peasantry concerning this conflict arrested the attention of the young shepherd, and he afterwards turned them to good account in his well-known poem. AVhen a lad he had received only a little education, 1 This name is usually jirinted Hislop, but ive liave the poet's own authority lu his manuscript for the s; ell- ing adopted.— Ed. but SO eager was his thirst to acquire more, that before he reached his twentieth year he had become an excellent scholar, mostly by his own exertions. After teaching for a time an evening school in his native district, he in 1819 removed to Greenock and opened a day- school, which proved unsuccessful, and he again returned to pastoral pursuits. In February, 1821, "The C'ameronian's Dream" appeared in the Ed'mburijh Mmjazine, and attracted the attention of Lord Jefi'rcy, by whom Hyslop was induced to open a school in Edinburgli. Through the influence of his literary friends he was soon after appointed schoolmaster on board the frigate Doris. During her cruise he con- tributed to the pages of the Ed'mhurrjh Maga- zine a series of " Letters from South America," describing the scenes he had visited in that country; also sending an occasional poem. The "Letters" were well written, but the masterly pen of Captain Hall had gone over the same 182 JAMES HYSLOP. ground before him, lAliicli left the poet or any person but little to glean for a long time. In 1825 Hyslop visited London, carrying with him letters from Lord Jeffrey and the Eev. Archibald Alison to Joanna Baillie and her sister, John Gibson Lockhart, and Allan Cunningham, by all of whom he was kindly received, and through wliose assistance he was appointed head-master of an academy near London, after having been for a time a reporter on the Times newspaper. At the end of a year Hyslop, on account of ill health, exchanged tlie academy for an appointment as school- master on board the Ttveed man-of-war, bound for India, and commanded by Lord John Spence. Among several poems composed dur- ing this voyage that entitled "The Scottish Sacramental Sabbath," in the style of tlie "Cotter's Saturday Night," is perhaps the best. It is said to have been suggested by the commemoration of the ordinance in Sanquhar churchyard, and is valuable as a faitliful pic- tui-e of one of the customs of bis native land. "While the Tweed was cruising oflf the Cape de Yerd Islands Hyslop and a number of the officers landed on the island of St. lago. They slept on shore in the open air, and were in con- sequence seized with a malignant fever, to which most of them fell victims, and poor Hyslop among the rest. After lingering for twelve daj-s the young poet died, Dec. 4, 1827, in his twenty-ninth year, adding another to the bead- roll of Scottish poets wiio passed from the world before they had seen thirty summers. John MacCall of Sunny Beach, Strone, writes to the Editor (Aug. 11, 1875): "Hyslop spent an evening with me in Glasgow, I think in 1825, shortly before setting out on his last voyage, and I may say it was one of the hap- piest I ever spent;" and Allan Cunningham describes Hyslop's poetic gifts as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty too." In MacDiarmid's Sketches from Nature there is an interesting memoir of this "inheri- tor of unfulfilled i-enown," several of whose hitherto unpublished poems we have pleasure in presenting to our readers. THE SCOTTISH SACRAMENTAL SAEBATH. The Sabbath morning gilds the eastern hills, The swains its sunny dawn wi' gladness greet, Frae heath-clad hamlets, 'niang the mnirland rills, The dewy mountains climb wi' naked feet, Skiffin' the daisies droukit i' the weet; The bleating flocks come nibblin' doun the brae, To shadowy pastures screen'd frae sumniei"'s heat; In woods where tinklin' waters glide away, 'Mong holms o' clover red, and bright brown rye- grass hay. His ewes and lambs brought caref u' frae the height. The shepherd's children watch them frae the corn ; On green sward scented lawn, wi' gowans white, Frae page o' pocket psalm-book, soil'd and torn, The task prepar'd, assign'd for Sabbath mom, The elder bairns their parents join in prayer; One daughter dear, beneath the flowery thorn, Kneels down apart her spirit to prepare, On this her hrst approach the sacred cuj) to share. The social chat wi' solemn converse mix'd, At early hour they finish their repast. The pious .sire repeats full many a text Of sacramental Sabbaths long gone |)ast. To sec her little family fcatly dress'd The carefu' matron feels a mother's pride, Gie's this a linen shirt, gie's that a vest; The fnigal father's frowns their finery chide, He prays that Heaven their souls may wedding robes provide. The sisters buskit, seek the garden walk, To gather flowers, or watch the warning bell. Sweet-william, danglin' dewy frae the stalk. Is mix'd wi' mountain-daises, rich in smell, Green sweet-briar sprigs, and daises frae the dell. Where Spango shepherds pass the lane abode, An' Wanlock miners cross the muirland fell; Then down the sunny winding muirland road, The little pastoral band approach the house of God. Streams of my native mountains, oh ! how oft That Sabbath morning walk in youth was mine; Yet fancy hears the kirk -bell, sweet and soft, Ring o'er the darkling woods o' dewy pine; How oft the wood-rose wild and scented thyme I've stoop'd to pull while passing on my way; But now in sunny regions south the line, ' Nac birk.s nor bi'oom-flow'rs shade the summer brae, — Alas! I can but dream of Scotland's Sabbath-day. JAMES HYSLOP. 183 But dear that cherisli'd dieam I still behold: The ancient kii-k, the plane-trees o'er it spread, And seated "mong the graves, the old, the young, As once in summer days, for ever fled. To deck my dream the grave gives up its dead : The pale precentor sings as then he sung, The long-lost pastor wi' the hoary head Pours forth his pious counsels to the young, And dear ones from the dust aj;ain to life are sprung. Lost friends i-etum from realms bej'ond the main. And boyhood's best beloved ones all are there; The blanks in family cu-cles fiU'd again; No seat seems empty roimd the house of piT.yer. The sound of psalms has vanish'd in the air, Borne up to heaven upon the mountain breeze. The patriarchal priest wi' silvery hair. In tent erected 'neath the fresh green trees. Spreads forth the book of God with holy pride, and sees The eyes of circling thousands on him fix'd. The kirkyard scarce contains the mingling mass Of kindred congregations round him mix'd; Close seated on the gravestones and the grass. Some crowd the garden-walls, a wealthier class On chairs and benches round the tent draw near; The poor man prays far distant, and alas! Some seated by the graves of parents dear, Among the fresh green flow'rs let fall a silent tear. Sublime the text he chooseth: " Who is this From Edom comes? in garments dy'd in blood. Travelling in greatness of His strength to bless. Treading the wine-press of Almighty God." Perchance the theme, that Mighty One who rode Forth leader of the armies cloth'd in hght, Ai-ound whose fiery forehead rainbows glowVl, Beneath whose head heav'n trembled, angels bright Their shining ranks arrang'd around his head of white. Behold the contrast, Christ, the King of kings, A houseless wanderer in a world below; Famt, fasting by the desert springs. From youth a man of mouming and of woe. The birds have nests on summer's blooming bough. The foxes on the mountain find a bed; But mankind's Friend found every man his foe, His heart with anguish in the garden bled, Ue, peaceful like a lamb, was to the slaughter led. The action-sermon ended, tables fenc'd, "While eldei-s forth the sacred sjnnbols bring, ^ The day's more solemn sei-vice now commenc'd; To heaven is wafted on devotion's wing. The psalms these entering to the altar sing, " I'll of salvation take the cup, I'll call With trembling on the name of Zion's King; His courts I'll enter, at His footstool fall. And pay my early vows before His people all. Behold the crowded tables clad in white. Extending far above the flowery graves; A blessing on the bread and wine-cup bright With lifted hands the holy pastor craves. The summer's sunny breeze his white haii- waves, His soul is with his Saviour in the skies; The hallow'd loaf he breaks, and gives The symbols to the elders seated nigh. Take, eat the bread of life, sent down from heaven on high. He in like manner also lifted up The flagon fiU'd with consecrated wine. Drink, drink ye all of it, salvation's cup, Memorial moiu-nful of his love dirine. Then solemn pauseth;— save the rustling pine Or plane-tree boughs, no sounds salute mine ears; In silence pass'd, the silver vessels shine. Devotion's Sabbath dreams from bygone years Retum'd, till many an eye is moist with spiing- ing toai-s. As^in the preacher breaks the solemn pause. Lift up your eyes to Calvary's mountain — see. In mourning veild, the mid-day sun withth-aws, \\Tiile dies the Sa\-iour bleeding on the tree; But hark! the stars again sing jubilee, With anthems heaven's armies hail their King, Ascend in glory from the grave set free; Triumphant see Him soar on seraph's wing. To meet His angel hosts around the clouds of spring. Behold His radiant robes of fleecy light, Melt into sunny ether soft and blue; Then in this gloomy world of teai-s and night. Behold the table He hath spread for you. "WTiat though you tread afiliction's path — a few, A few short years your toils will all be o'er. From Pisgah's top the promis'd countiy view; The happy land beyond Inmianuel's shore. Where Eden's blissful bower blooms green for evermore. Come here, ye houseless wanderers, soothe your grief, ■While faith presents your Father's lov'd abode; And here, ye friendless mourners, find relief. And dry your tears in di-;xwing near to God; The poor may here lay down oppression's load. The rich forget his crosses and his care; Youth enter on religion's narrow road. The old for his eternal change prepare. And whosoever will, life's waters freely share. How blest are they who in thy coiu-ts abide. Whose strength, whose tnist, uixm Jehovah stay; For he in his pa\-iUon shall them hide 184 JAMES HYSLOP. In covert safe when comes the evil day; Though sliadowy darkness conipasseth his way, And thick clouds hke a curtain hide his tlu'one; Not even through a glass our eyes shall gaze, In brighter worlds his wisdom shall be shown. And all things work for good to those that are his own. And blessed are the young to God who bring The morning of their days in sacrilice, The heart's young flowers yet fresh with spring Send forth an incense pleasing in his eyes. To me, ye children, hearken and be wise, The prophets died, our fathers where are they ? Alas! this fleeting world's delusive joys, Like morning clouds and early dews, decay; Be yours that better part that fadeth not away. Walk round these walls, and o'er the yet green graves Of friends whom j^ou have lov'd let fall the tear; On many dresses dark deep mourning waves, For some in summers past who worshipp'd here Around these tables each revolving year. What fleeting generations I have seen, Where, where my youthful friends and comrades dear ? Fled, fled away, as they had never been, All sleeping in the dust beneath those plane-trees green. And some are seated here, mine aged friends, Wlio round this table never more shall meet; For him who bowed with age before you stands, The mourners soon shall go about the street; Below these green boughs, shadow'd from the heat, I've bless'd the Bread of Life for threescore years; And shall not rnanj' mould'ring 'neath my feet, And some who sit around me now in tears, To me be for a crown of joy when Christ appears ? Behold he comes with clouds, a kindling flood Of fiery flame before his chariot flees. The sun in sackloth veil'd, the moon in blood. All kindreds of the earth dismay shall seize. Like figs untimely shaken by the breeze; The fix'd stars fall amid the thunder's roar; The buried spring to life beneath these trees, A mighty angel standing on the shore. With arms stretch'd forth to heaven, swears time shall be no more! The hour is near, your robes unspotted keep, The vows you now have sworn are seal'd on high ; Hark! hark! God's answering voice in thunders deep, 'Midst waters dark and thick clouds of the sky; And what if now to judgment in your eye He burst, where yonder livid lightnings play, His chariot of salvation passing by; The great white throne, the terrible array Of Him before whose frown the heavens shall flee away. My friends, how dreadful is this holy place, Where rolls the thick'ning thunder, God is near. And though we cannot see Him face to face, Yet as from Horeb's mount His voice we hear; The angel armies of the upper sphere Down from these clouds on your communion gaze; The spirits of the dead, who once were dear, Are viewless witnesses of all your ways; Go from His table then, with trembling tune His praise. THE cameronia:n's dream. In a dream of the night I was wafted away, To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen. Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green. 'Twas a dream of th:se ages of darkness and blood. When the minister's home was the mountain and wood; Wlien in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying. 'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew Glisten'd there 'mong the heath-bells and nioun- ' tain flowers blue. And far wp in heaven, near the white .'•■unny cloud. The song of the lark was melodious and loud, And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep. Were the whistling of jjlovers and bleating of sheep. And Wellwood's .sweet valleys breathed music and gladness. The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning. And drink the delights of July's sweet morning. But, oh! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings, Illumed by the light of i^rophctic rcvealings, JAMES HYSLOP. 185 Who drank from the scenery of beauty but soitow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow. 'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl was crying, THE CAMERONIAN'S YISIOX.i From the climes and the seas of the fair sunny south, I rcturn'd to the gray hills and green glens of youth. For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were By mountain graves musing on days long gone hovering, i past. And their bridle reins rung through the thin A dream-Uke illusion around me was cast. misty covering. Thoir faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed. But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed; With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the God of Salvation. The hills with the deep mournfid music were ringing. The curlew and plover in concert were singing; In a vision, it seem'd that the chariot of time Was roU'd back till I stood in the ages of ciimc, Wlien the king was a despot, who deeni'd with his nod He would cancel the lx)nd bound a nation to God. The religion of Christ, like a lamb, took its flight. As the horns of the mitre wax'd powerful in might, And prelates with priestcraft men's spirits en- chain'd, But the melody died mid dension and lauu-htcr, _.,, ^, ^ ,, , , ■ , > • i ,. ,,,,,„ ,, , ,, , ,, 1 'vt : Till they fear d to complain when their iicart s As the host of ungodly rush don to the slautfhter. ,, , , ■ ,, b ood was drain'd. ungodly i Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded, , ■ ■ r r ■, , , , Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and The spirit of Scotland to curb and restrain unbending. They stood like the rock which the tliunder is rending. Stern lav.' made religion no longer a link The soul to sustain on eternity's brink; But the gold of the gospel was changed to a chain, The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming. The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming. The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling. When in Wellwood's dark rauu-lands the mighty were falling. When the righteous liad fallen and tao combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud de- scended; Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness. And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining, And the souls that came forth out of great tribu- lation Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation, On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Thi-ough the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits ! the prize is before yo, A cro^vai never fading, a kingdom of glory! A political bridle the people to check, Wlien the priest or the prince chose to ride on their neck; For churchmen a chariot in splendour who roU'd, At the poor man's expense, whose salvation they sold. From the court, over Scotland went forth a decree — " Let the ku-k of the north to the king bend th3 knee : To the prince and his priesthood divine right is given, A sceptre to sway both in earth and in heaven. " Let no one presume from the pulpit to read The Scriptures, save curates by courtiers decreed; At their peril let pai-ents give precepts to youth. Till prelates and prayer-books put words in their mouth. "And none 'mong the hills of the heather shall dare To meet in the moorlands for praises and prayer; Nor to Heaven in private prefer their reipiest, Except as the prince should appoint by the priest." 1 Written ou the banks of the Ciawick, Sept. 30, 1325.— Ed. 186 JAMES HYSLOP. The nation of Knox held the mnndate accurs'd : He the fetters of Popery and priestcraft had burst, With the stamp of his foot brought their towers to the ground, Till royalty ti'embling shrunk back when he frown'd. And Melville the fiery had fearlessly dared, In a prince's own presence his priesthood to beard; On the archbishop's head made his mitre to shake. And the circle of courtiers around him to quake. And Scotland's Assemblies in council sat down, God's word well to weigh with decrees of the crown : A Covenant seal'd, as they swore by the Lord, Their Bibles and birthi'ights to guard with the sword. These priests from their kirk^j by the prelates were driven, A shelter to seek with the fowls of the heaven; The wet mist their covering, the heather their bed, By the sjirings of the desert in peril they fed. At the risk of their lives with their flocks they would meet, In storm and in tempest, in rain and in sleet; Where the mist on the moorglens lay darkest, 'twas there In the thick cloud conceal'd, they assembled for prayer. At their wild mountain worship no warning bell rung. But the sentries were fix'd ere the psalm could be sung; When the preacher his Bible brought forth from his plaid. On the damp rock bsside him his drawn sword he laid. The sleepless assemblies around him who met, Were houseless and hungry, and weary and wet; The wilderness wandering, through peril and strife. To be fiU'd with the word and the waters of life. For in cities the wells of salvation were seal'd. More brightly to burst in the moor and the field; And the Spirit, which fled from the dwellings of men, Like a manna-cloud rain'd round the camp of the glen,— I beheld in my vision a prince on his throne; Around him in glory the mitred heads shone; And the sovereign assembly said, "Who shall go forth In the moorlands to murder the priests of the north ? " Our horssemen now hunted the moor and the wood, But the soldiers shrunk back from the shedding of blood; And some we sent forth with commission to slay. Have with Renwick remain'd in the mountains to pray. " Is there no one around us whose soul and whose sword Will hew down in the desert that priesthood abhorr'd; With their blood, on the people's minds print our decree ? The warrior's reward shall be Viscount Dundee." 'Twas a title of darkness, dishonour, and shame; No warrior would wear it, save Claver'se the Graham. With the warrant of death, like a demon he flew, In the blood of his brethren his hands to imbrue. The mission of murder full well fitted him. For his black heart with malice boil'd up to the brim; Remorse had his soul made like angels who fell, And his breast was imbued with the sjjirit of hell. A gleam of its flame in his bosom had glow'd, Till his devilish delight was in cursing of God : He felt him a foe, and his soul took a pride Bridle-deep through the blood of His sufferers to ride. His heart, hard as flint, was with cruelty mail'd; No tear of the orphan with him e'er prevail'd; In the blood of its sire while his sword was defil'd. The red blade he wav'd o'er the widow, and smiled. — My vision was changed, and I stood in a glen Of the moorlands, remote from the dwellings of men, 'Mong Pricsthill's black scenery, a pastoral abode, Where the shepherds assembled to worship their God. A light-hearted maiden met there with her love. Who had won her affections, and fix'd them above : Conceal'd 'mong the mist on the dark mountain side. Stood Peden the prophet, -with Brown and his bride. A silent assembly encircled the seer, A breathless expectance bent foi'ward to hear; For the glance of his gray eye wax'd bright and sublime, As it fix'd on the far-flood of fast-coming time. " Scotland! the angel of darkness and death One hour the Almighty hath staid on his path: I see on yon bright cloud his chariot stand still; But liis red sword is naked, and lifted to kill. JAMES HYSLOP. 187 " 111 mosses, in mountains, in moor and in wood, That sword must be bath'd yet in slaughter and blood. Till the number of saints who shall suffer be seal'd, And the breaches of backsliding Scotland be heal'd. " Then a prince of the south shall come over the main, Wlio in righteousness over the nations shall reign; The race of the godless shall fade from the throne. And the kingdom of Christ shall have kings of its own. "But think not, yo righteous, your sufferings are past; In the midst of the furnace ye yet must be cast; But the seed we have sown in affection and tears, Shall be gather'd in gladness in far distant years. "On the scroll of the Covenant blood must bo spilt. Till its red hues shall cancel the backslider's guilt. Remember my warning. Around me are some Who may watch, for they know not the hour He shall come. " And thou, pretty maiden, rejoice in the truth Of the lover I link for thy husband of youth. Be kind while he lives; clasp him close to thy heart ; For the time is not far when the fondest must part. " The seal of the Saviour is printed too deep On the brow of thy bridegroom for thee long to keep. The wolf round the sheepfold will prowl for his prey, And the lamb be led forth for the lion to slay. " His winding-sheet linen keep woven by thee; It will soon be requii-'d, and it bloody will be. A morning of terror and tears is at hand. But the Lord will give strength in thy trial to stand." — My vision was changed : happy summers had fled O'er the heath-circled home where the lovers were wed; Affection's springs bursting from hearts in their prime, The stream of endearment grew deeper with time. At the door of his home, in a glad summer's night. With his children to play was the father's dehght; One dear little daughter he fondly caress'd, For she look'd like the young bride who slept on his breast. Of her sweet smiling offspring the mother was fain, Each added a new link to love's wedded chain; One clung to her bosom, one play'd round her knee, And one 'niong the heather ran chasing the bee. In union of warm hearts, of wishes, of thought, The prophet's prediction was almost forgot; With weilded affection their heai'ts overHow'd, And their lives pass'd in rearing their offspring to God. The mist of May morning lay dark on the moun- tains; The lambs eropt the flowers springing fresh by the fountains; The waters, the woods, and the green holms of hay, lay In sunshine asleep down in Well wood's wild vallej'. In Priesthill at dawning the psalm had ascended, The chapter been read, and the humble knee bended; Now in moors thick with mist, at his pastoral employment. The meek soul of Brown with his God found enjoyment. At home Isabella was busy preparing The meal, with a husband so sweet aye in sharing; On the floor, at her feet, in the cradle lay smiling Her infant, as wild songs its fancies beguiling. His daughter went forth in the dews of the morning, To meet on the footpath her father returning; Alone 'mong the mist she e-^pected to find him. But horsemen in armour came riding behind him. The mother, in trembling, in tears, and dismay, Clasp'd her babe to her bosom, and hasted away; She clung to her husband, distracted and dumli. For she felt that the hour of her trial was come. But vain her distraction, her tears, and her prayer, For Claver'se commanded his horsemon come there ; With his little ones weeping around him, he brought The fond father forth, in their sight to be shot. " Bid farewell thy family, and welcome thy death. Since thou choosest so fondlj' to cherish thy faith; Some minutes my mercy permits thee for prayer. Let six of my horsemen their pistols prepare." — "My widow, my orphan, God! I resign To thy care; and the babe yet unborn, too, is thine : Let thy blessing be round them, to guard and to keep, When over my green grave forsaken they weep." — At the door of his home, on the heather he knelt; His prayer for his family the pitiless felt; 188 JAMES HYSLOP. The rough soldiers listou'd with tears and with sighs, Till Claver'se curs'd him, and caus'd him arise. For the last time the lips of his young ones he kiss'd. His dear little daughter he clasp'd to his breast; " To thy mother be kind, read thy Bible, and pray; The Lord will protect thee when I am away. " Isabella, farewell! Thou shalt shortly behold Thy love on the heather stretch'd bloody and cold. The hour I've long look'd for hath come at the last— Art thou willing to part?— all its anguish is past." — "Yes, willing," she said, and she sought his embrace. While the tears trickled down on hor little one's face. " 'Tis the last time I ever shall cling to thy heart, Yet with thee I am willing, yes, willing to part. " — 'Twas a scene would have soften'd a savage's ire; But Claver'se commanded his horsemen to fire; As they curs'd his command, turning i-ound to retreat, Tlic demon himself shot him dead at his feet. His temples, all shatter'dand bleeding, she bound. While Claver'se with insult his cruelty crown'd: "Well, what thinkest thou of thy heart's cher- ish'd pride ? It were justice to lay thee in blood by his side." — " I doubt not, if God gave permission to thee. That thou gladly wouldst murder my offspring and me; But thy mouth he hath muzzled, and doom'd thee, in vain. Like a bloodhood to bay at the end of thy chain. "Thou friendles.^, forsaken, hast left me and mine, Yet my lot is a bless'd one, when balanc'd with thine. With the viper remorse on thy vitals to prey. And the blood on thy hands that will ne'er wash away. "Thy fame shall be wafted to far future time, A proverb for cruelty, cursing, and crime; Thy dark picture, painted in blood, shall remain While the heather waves green o'er the graves of the slain. " Thy glory shall wither; its wreaths have been gain'd By the slaughter of shepherds, thy sword who disdain'd: That sword thou hast drawn on thy country for hire. And the title it bi-ings shall in blackness expire. "Thy name shall be Claver'se, the bloodthirsty Scot, The godly, the guiltless, tlie grayhair'd who shot. Round my Brown's bloody brow glory's garlands .shall wave. When the muse marketh 'murder' over thy grave." A LOVE SONG. How sweet the dewy bell is spread. Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin', The heathery locks o' deepenin' red Around the mountain brow aye waviu' ! Here, on the sunny mountain side. Dear lassie, we'll lie down thegither. Where nature spreads luve's crimson bed. Among the bonnie bloomin' heather. Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid, Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye; And now, aneath my tartan plaid. How blest I lie wi' you aside me! And art thou hapjiy, dearest, speak, Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie? — Yes: that dear glance, sao saft and meek, Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie. The saftncss o' the gentle dove. Its eyes in dying sweetness closin'. Is like thae languid eyes o' love, Sae fondly on my heart reposin'. When simmer suns the flowers expand. In a' their silken beauties shinin'. They're no sae saft as thy white hand, Ujion my love-warm cheek reclinin'. While thus aneath my tartan plaid Sae warmly to my lips I press ye, That hinnied bloom o' dewy red Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie! Reclined on luve's soft crimson bed. Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither. Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets si>read. How happy, happy 'mang the heather! SOXG— TO YOU. The Woodland Queen in her bower of love. Her gleaming tresses with wild-flowers wove, But her breathing lips, as she sat in her bower. Were richer far than the honey'd flower! The waving folds of the Indian silk Hung loose o'er her ringlets and white neck of milk; JAMES HYSLOP. 189 And 0! the bosom that sigh'd below AVas pure and soft as the wintei" snow I A tear-drop bright in her dark eye sliono, To think that sweet summer would soon be gone; How blest the hand of the lover who may From an eye so bright wipe such tears away! How blest is he in the moonlight hour Who may linger with her in her woodland bower, 'Midst the gleaming ringlets and silk to sigh, And share in the tear and the smile of her eye. My heart was a stranger to love's young dream Till I found her alone by the fairy stream; But she glided away tlu-ough the branches green. And left me to sigh for the Woodland Queen! Exulting 'midst fire and blood, Then sang the pibroch loud, 'Dying, but unsubdued— Scotland for ever.'" See at the war-note the proud horses prancing — The thick gi-oves of steel trodden down in their path, The eyes of the brave like their bright swords are glancing, Triumphantly riding through ruin and death. Proud heart and nodding plume Dance o'er the warrior's tomb, Dy^d with blood is the red tartan wave, Dire is the horseman's wheel, Shiv'ring the ranks of steel; Victor in battle is Scotland the brave! LET ITALY BOAST. Let Italy boast of her bloom-shaded waters. Her bowers, and her vines, and her warm sunny skies, Of her sons drinking love from the eyes of her daughters, While freedom esph-es mid their softness and sighs. Scotland's bleak mountains wild. Where hoary cliffs are piled. Towering in grandeur, are dearer to me I Land of the misty cloud — Land of the tempest loud — Land of the brave and proud— land of the free ! Enthroned on the cliff of the dark Highland mountain. The spirit of Scotland reigns fearless and free; While her tartan-folds wave over blue lake and fountain, Exulting she sings, looking over the sea: "Here on my mountains wild I have serenely smiled. Where armies and empires against mc were hurled ; Tlu-oned on my native rocks. Calmly sustained the shocks Of Caesar, and Denmark, and Rome, and the world. When kings of the nations in council assemble. The frown of my brow makes then- proud hearts to quake, The flash of mine eye makes the bravest to tremble, The sound of my war-song makes armies to shake. France long shall mind the strain Sung on her bloody plain, While Europe's bold armies with terror did shiver; FRAGMENT OF A DREAM. I follow'd it on by the pale moonlight. Through the deep and the darksome wood; It tarried— I trembled— it pointed and fled!— 'Twas a grave where the spirit had stood: — 'Twas a grave — but 'twas mystery and terror to think How the bed of the dead could be here; 'Twas here I had met in the morning of life With one that was loving and dear: — 'Twas here we had wandcr'd while gathering flowers In the innocent days of our childhood. And here we were screen'd from the warm sunny showers By the thickening green of the wildwood. And here in the sweet summer morning of love Young affection first open'd its blossom. When none were so innocent, loving, and land As the maiden that lay in my bosom:— I look'd on the woods; they were budding as green As the sorrowful night that we parted, — When turning again to the grave I had seen. At the voice of a spirit I started ! — In terror I listen'd! No sound met mine ear Save the lone waters murmuring by ; But I saw o'er the woods, in the dead of the night, A dark mourning carriage draw nigh :— By the green grave it hovcr'd, mine eye could perceive. Where a white covered coffin now lay — It hover'd not long, but again through the woods It mournfully glided away!— 190 HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. "Where the kirk-yard elms shade the flat gray stones With the long green grass overgrown, The carriage stood still o'er an opening grave, And I saw a black coffin let down. Upon its dark page were a name and an age — 'Twas my Lydia in death that lay sleeping; All vanish'd away, but her spirit pass'd by, As alone by the grave I stood weeping! How death-like and dim was the gaze of that eye, Where love's warmest fires once were glowing; The pale linen shroud now cnfaulded the cheek Where once beauty's ringlets were flowing! Lydia, why thus dost thou gaze upon me, And point to the darksome wood? — An invisible hand seem'd to proffer a ring. Or a dagger all stained with blood: — But the bright sun of summer return'd with his ray, And the singing of birds brought the morrow; Those visions of darkness all faded away As I woke from my slumber of sorrow! HENEY SCOTT EIDDELL. Born 1798 — Died 1870. Henry Scott TJiddell Avas born at Sorbie, in the Yale of Ewes, Dumfriessliire, Sept. 23, 1798. His father was a shepherd, and a man of strong though uneducated mind. Young Henry herded the cows in summer, and went to school during the winter months. At first a careless scholar, he afterward-; became a dili- gent one, and while "out-bye herding" was either studying nature or a book, or composing verses. The lines of an epistle Avritten by him subsequently will convey some idea of his habits at this period: — ■ " My early years were pass'd far on The hills of Ettrick wild and lone; Tlirongh summer sheea and winter shade Tending the flocks that o'er them stray 'd. In l)old enthusiastic glee I sung rude strains of minstrelsy, Which mingling with died o'er the dale, Unheeded as the plover's wail. Oft where the waving rushes shed A sliel ter frail around my head, Weening, tliough not through hopes of fame. To fix on these more lasting claim, I'd there secure in rustic scroll The wayward fancies of the soul. Even where yon lofty rocks arise, Hoar as the clouds iu wintry skies, Wrapji'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath The colder cone of drifted wreath, I noted them afar from ken, Till ink would freeze upon the pen; So deep the spell which bound tlie heart Unto the bard's undying art — So rapt the charm that still beguiled The minstrel of the mountains wild." After Iicrding for two years at Deloraine lie removed to Todrig to follow the same occupa- pation. Here he met a congenial spirit in William Knox, the cultured author of " The Lonely Hearth," and their friendship continued ever afterwards. "While here," he says, "my whole leisure time was employed in writing. I composed while walking and looking the hill. I also wrote down among the wilds. 1 yet remember, as a dream of poetry itself, how blessedly bright and beautiful exceed- ingly were these wilds themselves early in summer mornings, or when the Avliite mists filled up the glens below, and left the summits of the mountains near and far away as sight could travel, green, calm, and serene as an eternity." AVhile at Todrig Eiddell's style of thought and experience — doubtless through contact with William Knox — underwent agreat change. He abandoned frivolous compositions, and applied himself to sacred themes. " My read- ing," he says, "was extended, and having begun to appreciate more correctly what I did read, the intention which I had sometimes entertained gathered strength: this was to make an effort to obtain a regular education (to fit himself for the Christian ministry). The consideration of the inadequacy of my means had hitherto bridled my ambition, but having herded as a regular shepherd nearly three years, during which I had no occasion HENRY SCOTT EIDDELL. 191 to spend much of my income, my prospects ' behoved to be a little more favourable. It was in this year that the severest trial that had yet crossed my path had to be sustained. The death of my father overthrew my happier mood ; at the same time the event, instead of subduing my secret aim, rather strengthened my determination. ]\Iy portion of my father's worldly effects added something considerable to my own gainings. 1 bade farewell to the crook and plaid." He went to school at Biggar, where he found a kind schoolmaster, who taught him much beside Latin and Greek. Here he studied earnestly, and cultivated a circle of intellectual acquaintances, and in due time entered as a student at the University of Edinburgh, where he attracted the attention of Professor Dunbar by a translation of one of the odes of Anacreon. He also won for himself the affectionate regard of Professor Wilson, whose house was always open to him, with all the companionship of genius which graced its hospitable roof-tree. AVhen his university course was completed. Ins last session having been spent at St. Andrews, Mr. Kiddell went to reside at Pamsay Cleughburn with his brother, and shortly after became the minister of Teviothead, He then married the excellent lady whose affectionate counsel and companionship were a solace and stay to him in liis chequered life. There was no manse at Teviothead when he received the charge. He therefore occupied the farmhouse of Flex, nine miles distant; and as his income of £52 a year could not enable him to keep a conveyance, he had to Avalk eighteen miles every Sabbath, and whenever he went to visit his hearers. The Duke of Buccleuch built a cottage for the minister, and it was while it was in progress that, returning liome from preaching one Sabbath afternoon, wet and weary, Mrs. Piddell, looking forward with pleasant anticipation of getting the new home, exclaimed, while he was changing his wet clothes, "Ab! Henry, I wish we were hame to our ain folk!" This was the inspiration to which we are indebted for his most exquisite lyric — a strain Avhich cannot die. Mr. Paddell ministered faithfully to the people of Teviothead for nearly nine years. His genius and worth had been recognized and appreciated, and everything seemed to bid fair for his progress in the church; but in 1S41 a serious attack of nervous disease came upon him, not to pass away for years; and when he did recover, it Avas deemed prudent that he should not return to the labours of the pastorate. The Duke of Buccleuch generously permitted him to occupy the manse cottage during his lifetime, and also granted him a small annuity and a piece of ground beside his dwelling. This was enough for his simple wants and for the education of his three boys, one of whom died full of poetic promise when budding into manhood. During the remaining years of his life the poet resided in this spot by the banks of the Teviot, reclaiming and beautifying his land, and cherishing his poetic tastes. He had intended to be present at the meeting of the Border Counties Association, held at Hawick, July 28, and his name was associated with the toast of the " literature of the Borders;" but on that day he was seized with a mortal illness, and died on July 30, 1870, aged seventy-two. On August 2, sur- rounded by a great concourse of friends from far and near, all that Avas mortal of the Bard of Teviotdale was laid in its last resting-place, in that " cliurchyard that lonely is lying Amid the deep greenwood by Teviot's wild strand." The poet's loving and faithful wife died May 29, 1875, and now rests by his side. Piiddell wrote much, and much that he wrote became extremely popular. When a student of theology he composed many of his best songs for the Irkli Minstrel and Select Melodies of R. A. Smith, and for the Orhjinal National Melodies of Peter M'Leod. His Songs of the Ark, tvitJi, other Poems, ap- peared in 1831, followed in 1844 by a prose work entitled The Christian Politician, or the Bight Way of Thinking. Three years later he published a third volume, Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces; and in 1855 he prepared for publication, by request of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a translation of the Gospel of St. Matthew into Lowland Scotch, followed in 1857 by a similar translation of the Psalms. Mr. Eiddell also wrote a valuable series of papers on "Store- Farming in the South of Scotland," and a number of prose tales similar to those in Wilson's Tales of the Border. His last composition Avas a poem Avritten for a 192 HENEY SCOTT EIDDELL. meeting of the Border Association, lield at Hawick two days before his death. In 1871 two volumes of Riddell's poetical works, accom- panied by a portrait, and a well-written memoir from the pen of his friend James Brydon, M. D. , were published in Glasgow. In a letter accompanying a song written for Mrs. Mary Wilson Gibbs in 1867, the vener- able poet remarks, "In addressing a song to you I wish that it had turned out somewhat more worth while than now appears to be the case. At all events I might have adopted a more harmonious measure, and thereby have given myself at least a chance of wording more harmonious verses: and I could now wish that I had done so, regardless of the air: but I was ambitious of putting the air in your possession, it having been composed by the Ettrick Shep- herd. I am no daul) — or rather a great daub in the literal sense of the term — at copying music, and in Attempting to give you a copy I am uncertain whether I have given you alto- gether a correct one; but I hope you Avill make it out in some way. Of the song which I originally wrote to it Hogg was wonderfully fond, and I had always to sing it to him when we met. I dare say it is much better as a song than that which I send you: I was not then so hoary-headed, and could write with more freedom and vigour. Yet it is not greatly unlike the verses with which I trouble you, and that you may judge for yourself 1 Avill also herewith copy it, more especially as it also related to one who could by her exquisite sing- ing cast asjicll of enchantment oyer the human heart. . . . "Mrs. Oliver informed me when you in- tended to leave old Scotland: I therefore made up my mind to write out these things to-day. Tiiey are of little consequence I readily confess, but from the respect which I entertained for your father, together with that which I enter- tain for yourself, I felt anxious to do something that might if possible prevent you from utterly forgetting that we had met. ... I shall hope that you will soon return to tlie 'gay green braes of Teviotdale,' and cheer our hearts as in days gone by." A brother of the late bard, known as Borth- wick Iiiddell, a dark, stalwart, and indepen- dent-looking man, who was, both in regard to musical talent and personal appearance, an impersonation of the spirit of ancient Border minstrelsy — a worthy representative of AUister M'AUister, Habbie Simpson, and Eab the llanter — was in his day and generation the most celebrated piper on the Border. As the writer listened to his soul-stirring strains near Canobie Lee, he appeared to be just such a minstrel as we can imagine strode forth before the Bruce, the Bold Buccleuch, or the Black Douglas of bygone davs. THE CROOK AND PLAID. I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, Though he should own that tender love that's only felt by few; For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd. Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true to his lassie — he's aye true to his lassie. Who wears the crook and plaid. At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view, While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew; His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd. Sae blythe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid ; And he's aye true, &c. At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell. And views his flock* beneath him a', fair feed- ing in the dell; And then he sings the sangs o' love, the sweet- est ever made; 0! how happy is the laddie that wcr-rs tho crook and plaid; And he's aye true, &c. He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily flowers sae meek, Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath- bell like my cheek; v^ HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 193 His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heasen shed; And weel 1 love to list tlie lad who wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c. When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on, When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan, lie whistles through the glen sae sweet, the lieart is lighter made To ken tiie laddie hameward hies, who wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c. Beneath the spreading hawthorn gra_y, that's growing in the glen. He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken, To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said, He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid; For he's aye true, &c. The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride. And woo across the table cauld his maJam- titled bride; But I'll gang to tlie hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid, 0! nae wooers like the laddie that rows mc in his plaid; And he's aye true, &c. To own the truth o' tender love what lieart Avad no comply, Since love gives purer happiness than aught aueatli the sky? If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid; And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c. v/ OUR MARY.i Our Mary liket weel to stray Where clear the burn was rowin', And trouth she was, though I say sae. As fair as ought e"er made o' clay, And pure as ony gowan. > From Mr. Riddells poem "The Cottasers of Glen- dale."— Ed. Vol. II.— X And happy, too, as ony lark The ciud might ever carry; She shunned the ill and sought the good. E'en mair tlian weel was understood; And a' fouk liket Mary. But she fell sick wi' some decay. When she was but eleven; .\nd as she pined frae day to day, We grudged to see her gaun away, Though she was gaun to heaven. There's fears for them that's far awa'. And fykes for them are flitting; But fears and cares, baitii grit and sma', We by-and-by o'er-pit them a' ; But death there's nae o'er-pitting. And nature's bands arc hard to break. When tluis they maun be broken; And e'en the form we loved to see, We canna lang, dear though it be. Preserve it as a token. But Mary had a gentle heart — Heaven did as gently free her; Yet lang afore she reach'd that part, Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start Had ye been here to see her. Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, And growing meek and meeker; Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair. She wore a little angel's air, Ere angels cam' to seek her. And when she could na stray out by. The wee wild flowers to gather; She oft her household plays would try. To hide her illness frae our eye, Lest she should grieve us farther. But ilka thing we said or did Aye pleased the sweet wee creature; Indeed ye wad hae thocht she had A something in her made her glad, Ayont the course o' nature. For though disease, beyond remeed, AVas in her frame indented. Yet aye the mair as she grew ill. She grew and grew the lovelier still. And mair and mair contented. But death's cauld hour qam' on at last, As it to a' is comin': And may it be, whene'er it fa's, Kae waur to others than it was To Jlary^sweet wee woman ! 194 HENRY SCOTT PJDDELL. WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS AVAYE. Would that I were where wild woods wave, Aboon the beds where sleep the brave; And where the streams o' Scotia lave Her hills and glens o' grandeur! Where freedom reigns and friendship dwells, Bright as the sun upon the fells, When autumn brings tlie heather-bells In all their native splendour. The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins, The bii-ks mix wi' the mountain pines. And heart with dauntless heart combines For ever to defend her. Then would I were, &c. There roam the kind, and live the leal, By lofty ha' and lowly shiel; And she for whom the heart must feel A kindness still mair tender. Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw, The wild flowers bloom by glen and shaw; But she is fairer than them a', Wherever she may wander. Then would I were, kc. Still, far or near, by wild or wood, I'll love the generous, wise, and good; But she shall share the dearest mood That Heaven to life may render. What boots it then thus on to stir. And still from love's enjoyment err. When I to Scotland and to her Must all this heart surrender. Then would I were, &c. SCOTLAND YET.i Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair, — Gae, bring it free and fast, For I maun sing another sang Ere a' my glee be past; And trow ye as I sing, my lads, The burden o't shall be Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes. And Scotland's hills for me — I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. The heath waves wild upon her hills, And foaming frae the fells, 1 This song set to music was first publislied in a sep- arate sheet, and the profits given for the purpose of jiutting a jiarapet and railing round the monument of Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh. Her fountains sing o' freedom still As they dance down the dells; And weel I lo'e the land, my lads. That's girded by the sea; Then Scotland's dales and Scotland's vales, And Scotland's hills for me — I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. The thistle wags upon the fields Where Wallace bore his blade. That gave her foeman's dearest bluid To dye her auld gray plaid; And looking to the lift, my lads. He sang this doughty glee — Auld Scotland's right and Scotland's might. And Scotland's hills for me — I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. They tell o' lands \vi' brighter skies. Where freedom's voice ne'er rang; Gie me the hills where Ossian lies, And Coila's minstrel sang; For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads. That ken na to be free; Then Scotland's right and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me — I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. THE WILD GLEX SAE GREEX. W^hen my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, And tlie gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast, I'll take my plaid and hasten tlirough yon woody dell unseen, And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green. I'll meet her by thetrysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane. Where I hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane. There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd, I ween, Tlian a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green. Her head reclined upon this breast, in simple bliss I'll share. The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care, HENRY SCOTT EIDDELL. 195 And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene, AVliile I woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green. My fauldin' plaid sliall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale; The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale — Our simple tale o' tender love — that tauld sae oft has been To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green. It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day. To meet vfi those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay; But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green. O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss, If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this; And I could spurn a' earthly wealth — a palace and a queen, For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green! THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE. I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary, And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade, For remembrance was fraught vdth the fai--tra- vell'd story, That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid: I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me, I heard not its anthems the mountains among; But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely Than others would seem to the earth that be- long. " Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber Sleep on, gentle bard ! till the shades pass away; For the lips of the living the ages shall number That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay, Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood. Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen, Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood , And the worm only living where rapture hath been. ' ' Till the footsteps of time are then- travel for- saking. No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come, To break the repose that thy ashes are taking, And call them to life from their chamber of gloom ; Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent forever, Thyliarp in the hall of the chieftain is hung; No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever The tales that it told, and the strains that it suno-." THE EMIGRANT'S 'WISH. I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. Where the gentle are leal, and thesemple are weal, And the hames are the hames o' our ain folk. We've met wi' the gay and the guid where we've come; We're canty wi' mony and con thy wi' some; But something's awantin' we never can find, Sin' the day that we left our auld neebors behind. I wish we were hame to our ain folk. Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, When daffin' and glee, wi' the friendly and free, Made our hearts aye sae fond o' our ain folk. Some told us in gowpens we'd gather the gear, Sae soon as we cam' to the rich mailens here; But what is in mailens, or what is in mirth. If 'tis na enjoyed in the land o' our birth ? 0, I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our tnie-hearted ain folk. When maidens and men, in thestrathand theglcn, Still welcomed us aye as their ain folk; Though spring had its trials, and summer its toils, And autumn craved pith ere we gathered its spoils; But winter repaid a' the toil that we took, When ilk ane craw'd crouse at his ain ingle nook. I wish I were hame to our ain folk. Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. But deep are the howes, and heigh are the knowes. That keep us awa' frae our ain folk; The seat at the door, where our auld fathers sat. To tell o'er their news, and their views, and a' that; While down by the kail-yard the burnie row'd clear, Is mair to my liking than aught that is here. I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, 196 EGBERT POLLOK. Where the wild thistles wave o'er the beds o' the brave. And the graves are the graves o' our :iin folk; But happy-gae-lucky, we'll trudge on our way, Till the arm waxes weak and the haffet grows gray; And though in this world our own still we miss, We'll meet them at last in a warl' o' bliss; And then we'll be hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. Where far 'yond the moon, in the heavens aboon, The hames are the hames o' our ain folk. EOBEET POLLOK, Born 1798 — Died 1827. Thegifted authorof the " Course of Time" was born at the farm of North iluirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Eenfrewshire, October 19, 1798. He acquired the rudiments of liis edu- cation at Langlee and at a school at Newton- Mearns, and afterwards entered the University of Glasgow. Being destined for the ministry he studied for five years in the divinity hall of the United Secession Church at Glasgow, under the Rev. Dr. Dick of that city. During his student days he wrote a series of tales relating to the sufferings of the Covenanters, which were published anonymously. A second edition of these "Tales," accompanied by a portrait and memoir of the author, appeared after his death. The spirit of poetry and inspiration was formed and "became a living soul" within Robert Pollok in the rural solitudes of Muir- house, where he spent his boyhood. His short compositions written at this time gave, how- ever, little promise of the poetic power de- veloped by him later in life. His celebrated poem was commenced in December, 1824, and finished in the space of nineteen months. The following letter announcing its completion was addressed to his brother, July 7, 1826: — " It is with much pleasure that I am now able to tell you that I have finished my poem. Since I wrote to you last, I have written about three thousand five hundred verses; which is considerably more than a hundred every suc- cessive day. This you will see was extraor- dinary expedition to be continued so long; and I neither can nor wish to ascribe it to anvthing but an extraordinary manifestation of divine goodness. Although some nights I was on the borders of fever, I rose every morn- ing equally fresh, without one twitch of head- ache; and with all the impatience of a lover hasted to my study. Towards the end of the tenth book — for the whole consists of ten books — where the subject was overwhelmingly great, and where I, indeed, seemed to write from immediate inspiration, I felt the body begin- ning to give way. But now that I have finished, though thin with the great heat and the unintermitted mental exercise, I am by no means languishing and feeble. Since the 1st of June, which was the day I began to write last, we have had a Grecian atmosphere: and I find the serenity of the heavens of incal- culable benefit for mental pursuit. And I am convinced that summer is the best season for great mental exertion, because the heat pro- motes the circulation of the blood, the stagna- tion of which is the great cause of misery to cogitative men. The serenity of mind which I have possessed is astonishing. Exalted on my native mountains, and writing often on the top of the very highest of them, I proceeded from day to day as if I had been in a world in which there was neither sin, nor sickness, nor poverty. In the four books last written I have succeeded, in almost every instance, up to my wishes; and in many places I have ex- ceeded anything that I had conceived. This is not boasting, remember. I only say that I have exceeded the degree of excellence which I had formerly thought of." The "Course of Time" was issued in March, 1827, and was at once recognized as a great work. In style it sometimes resembles the lofty march of Milton, and at other times ROBERT POLLOK. 19'; imitates that of Blair and Young. With much of the spirit and the opinions of Cowper, Pollok hicked his taste and refinement: shortcomings which time might have removed, but like Henry Kirke White and David Gray he was destined for an early grave. In less than two months after the appearance of his poem he was licensed for the ministry. The success of the ' ' Course of Time " had excited high hopes in respect to his professional career, wiiich were, however, not destined to be realized. He preached but four times, once for his friend Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh, when the writer's father happened to be present, and was greatly impressed with his power and self-possession. Symptoms of pulmonary disease becoming ap- parent, produced by over-exertion in his studies while preparing for the ministry and in the com- position of his poem, Pollok spent the summer of 1827 under the roof of a clerical friend, where every means were tried for the restora- tion of his health. These proving unsuccessful he was persuaded to try the climate of Italy, his many admirers promptly furnishing the means necessary for the journey. He reached London along with his sister, but by the advice of physicians, who deemed him unable to endure the journey to the Continent, he pro- ceeded to Shirley Common, near Southampton, where he died, September IS, 1827. He was buried with the rites of the Church of England in the neighbouring churchyard of lilillbrook, near the sea-shore, where a granite obelisk, erected by the admirers of his genius, marks his grave. But, as the inscription on it truly says, " His immortal poem is his monument." The same year witnessed Robert Pollok'sadvent as a poet and a preacher and his untimely death. He has been described as tall, well pro- portioned, of a dark complexion "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set eyes, heavy eyebrow.s, and black bushy hair. " A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, which flashed with a meteor brilliancy when- ever he spoke with enthusiasm and energy." After Pollok's death several short poems from his pen, together with a memoir of his life, were published by his brother at Edin- burgh, and in New York a volume appeared entitled " L'fe, Letters, and Literary Remains of Robert Pollok, edited by Rev. James Scott." The sum paid for the " Course of Time," a poem that has passed through eighty editions in Scotland and at least double that number in the United States, amounted to £2500 — a price greatly exceeding that given for the poems of Sir Walter Scott and Thomas Campbell, and nearly as large as was ever paid to any poet in the height of his fame, and when poetry was most in vogue with the public. THE COURSE OF TIME.^ BOOK I. Argument. — Invocation to the Eternal Spirit.— The subject of the Poem announced. — A periocl long after the Last Judgment described. — Two 3'outliful Sons of Paradise, waiting on the battlements of Heaven, obser- vant of the return of holy messengers, or the arrival from distant worlds of spirits made perfect, discover one directing his flight towards Heaven. — The hills of Paradise. — The Mount of God. — Welcome of the faithful servant.— The hill of the Throne of God pointed out to him. — The Sons of Paradise offer to guide him into the presence of the Most High. — The New-arrived, bewildered by the strange sights beheld in his flight, begs for knowledge, and the solution of the mysteries he has seen. — Describes his flight through Chaos, and arrival at the place of Everlasting Pun- ishment—Wall of fieiy adamant — The worm that 1 He 'Pollok) had much to learn in composition; and. Lad he lived, he would have looked almost with humili- neverdies— Eternal Death— Hell— The dreadful sights beheld there.— The youthful Sous of Heaven refer the New-aiTived to an ancient Bard of Adam's race. — They fly towards his dwelling.— Flight through the fields of Heaven.— The Bard of Earth described— His Bower in Paradise.— He is entreated to clear up the wondering doubt of tlie New-arrived, who tells what he has seen and conjectured.— The Bard infonns him the gracious form he beheld in Hell is Virtue— Agi-ees to relate the history of the human race. Eternal Spirit! God of truth! to whrm All things seem as thej-^ are —Thou who of old The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly saw, While heavy sleep fell down on other men. In holy vi.sion tranced, the future pass Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned Burdens that made the Pagan mountains shake, ation on much that is at present eiilogized by his devoted admirers. But the soul of poetiy is there. 198 EGBERT POLLOK. And Zion's cedars bow — inspire my song; My eye unscale; me what is substance teach, And shadow what, while I of things to come, As past, rehearsing, sing the course of Time, The second birth, and final doom of man. The muse that soft and sickly woos the ear Of love, or chanting loud, in windy rhyme. Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale. Not overfraught with sense, I ask not: such A strain befits not argument so high. Me thought and phrase severely sifting out The whole idea, grant, uttering as 'tis The essential truth — Time gone, the righteous saved. The wicked damned, and Providence approved. Hold my right hand. Almighty! and me teach To strike the Ij're, but seldom struck, to notes Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure As those by sainted bards and angels sung. Which wake the echoes of Eternity; That fools may hear and tremble, and the wise, Instructed, listen of ages yet to come. Long was the day, so long expected, past Of the eternal doom, that gave to each Of all the human race his due reward. The sun, earth's sun, and moon, and stars, had ceased To number seasons, days, and months, and years, To mortal man; Hope was forgotten, and Fear; And Time, with all its chance, and change, and smiles. And frequent tears, and deeds of villany Or righteousness, once talked of much as things Of great renown, was now but ill remembered; In dim and shadowy vision of the past Seen far remote, as country which has left The traveller's speedy step, reth-ing back From mom till even; and long Eternity Had rolled his mighty years, and with his years Men had grown old. The saints, all home returned From pilgrimage, and war, and weejiing, long Had rested in the bowers of peace, that skirt though often dimly enveloped, and many passages there are, and long ones too, tliat heave and huny and glow along in a divine enthusiasm. — Professor Wilson. The " Course of Time" is a vei-y extraordinary poem; vast in its conception, vast in its plan, vast in its materials, and vast, if very far from perfect, in its achievement. The wonderful thing is, iiuleed, that it is such as we find it, and not that its imperfections are niimerous. It has notliing at all savouring of the little or conventional in it, for he passed at once from the merely elegant and gracefiil — Dr. D. M. iloir. PoUok's " Course of Time," much overlaudeJ on its first appearance, is the immature work of a man of genius who possessed very imperfect cultivation. It is clumsy ill plan, tediously dissertative, and tastelessly The stream of life; and long — alas! how long To them it seemed! — the wicked who refused To be redeemed, had wandered in the dark Of hell's despau', and drunk the burning cup Then- sins had filled with everlasting woe. Thus far the years had rolled, which none but God Doth number, when two sons, two youthful sons Of Paradise, in conversation sweet — For thus the heavenly muse uistructs me, wooed At midnight hour with offering sincere Of all the heart, poured out in holy jjrayer — High on the hills of immortality. Whence goodliest prospect looks beyond the walls Of heaven, walked, casting off their eye far through The pure serene, observant if returned From errand duly finished any came; Or any, first in virtue now complete. From other worlds arrived, confirmed in good. Thus viewing, one they saw, on hasty wing. Directing towards heaven his course; and now. His flight ascending near the battlements And lofty hills on which they walked, approached. For round and round, in spacious circuit wide. Mountains of tallest stature cii'cumscribe The plains of Paradise, whose tops, arrayed In uncreated radiance, seem so pure. That nought but angel's foot, or saint's elect Of God, may venture there to walk. Here oft The sons of bliss take morn or evening pastime. Delighted to behold ten thousand worlds Around their suns revolving in the vast External space, or listen the harmonies That each to other in its motion sings; And hence, in middle heaven remote, is seen The mount of God in awful glory bright. Within, no orb create of moon, or star. Or sun, gives light; for God's own countenance, Beaming eternally, gives light to all. But farther than these sacred hills. His will Forbids its flow, too bright for eyes beyond. This is the last ascent of virtue; here AU trial ends, and hoi^e; here j)erfect joy, magniloquent; but it has passages of good and genuine poetry. — Professor W. Spalding. The sentiments of the author are strongly Calvinistic, and in this respect, as well as in a certain crude ardour of imagination and devotional enthusiasm, the jioeni reminds us of the style of Milton's early prose treatises. It is often harsh, turgid, and vehement. — Dr. llobeit Cltamhers. This poem is pregnant with spiritual hope, but over- shadowed by gloomy views of merely human objects and pursuits. The style is often turgid, without the epi grammatic vividness of Young. As the production of a youth the "Course of Time" must rank among tlie most wonderful efforts of genius. — Danid Sc.ywgeour. EGBERT POLLOK. 199 With perfect righteousness, which to these heights Alone can rise, begin, above all fall. And now, on wing of holy ardour strong. Hither ascends the stranger, borne upright— For stranger he did seem, with curious eye Of nice inspection round surveying all— And at the feet ahghts of those that stood His coming, who the hand of welcome gave. And the embrace sincere of holy love; And thus, with comely greeting kind, began:— Hail, brother! hail, thou son of happiness! Thou son beloved of God! welcome to heaven. To bliss that never fades ! thy day is past Of trial, and of fear to fall. Well done. Thou good and faithful servant! enter now Into the joy eternal of thy Lord. Come with us, and behold far higher sight Than e'er thy heart desired, or hope conceived. See ! yonder is the glorious hill of God, 'Bove angel's gaze in brightness rising high. Come, join our wing, and we will guide thy flight To mysteries of everlasting bliss— The tree and fount of life, the eternal throne And presence-chamber of the King of kings. But what concern hangs on thy countenance, Unwont within this place ? Perhaps thou deem'st Thyself unworthy to be brought before The always Ancient One? so are we too Unworthy; but our God is all in all, And gives us boldness to approach His throne. Sons of the Highest! citizens of heaven! Began the new-arrived, right have ye judged: Unworthy, most unworthy is your servant To stand in presence of the King, or hold Most distant and most humble place in this Abode of excellent glory unrcvealed. But God Almighty be for ever praised, Who, of His fulness, fills me with all grace And ornament, to make me in His sight Well pleasing, and accepted in His court. But if your leis>u-e waits, short narrative Will tell why strange concern thus overhangs My face, ill seeming here; and haply, too. Your elder knowledge can instruct my youth Of what seems dark and doubtful, unexplained. Our leisure waits thee: speak; and what we can. Delighted most to give delight, we will; Though much of mystery yet to us remains. Virtue, I need not tell, when proved and full Matured, inchnes us up to God and heaven. By law of sweet compulsion strong and sure : As gravitation to the larger orb The less attracts, through matter's whole domain. Virtue in me was ripe. I speak not this In boast; for what I am to God I owe. Entirely owe, and of myself am naught. Equipped and bent for heaven, I left yon world. My native seat, which scarce your eye can reach, RolUng around her central sun, far out. On utmost verge of light: but first to see What lay beyond the visible creation, Strong curiosity my flight impelled. Long was my way and strange. I passed the bounds Which God doth set to light, and life, and love; Where darkness meets with day, where order meets Disorder, dreadful, waste, and wild; and down The dark, eternal, micreated night Ventured alone. Long, long on rapid wing I sailed through empty, nameless regions vast, Where utter Nothing dwells, unformed and void. There neither eye nor ear, nor any sense Of being most acute finds object; there For aught external still you search in vain. Try touch, or sight, or smell; try what you will, You strangely find nought but yourself alone. But why should I in words attempt to tell What that is like, which is and yet is not? This past, my path descending led me still O'er unclaimed continents of desert gloom Immense, where gravitation shifting turns The other way, and to some dread, unknown. Infernal centre downward weighs: and now. Far travelled from the edge of darkness, far^ As from that glorious mount of God to light's Remotest hmb, dire sights I saw, dire sounds I heard; and suddenly before my eye A wall of fiery adamant sprung up. Wall mountainous, tremendous, flaming high Above all flight of hope. I paused and looked; And saw, where'er I looked upon that mound, Sad figures traced in fire, not motionless. But imitating life. One I remarked Attentively; but how shall I describe What nought resembles else my eye hath seen ? Of worm or serpent kind it something looked. But monstrous, with a thousand snaky heads. Eyed each with double orbs of glaring wrath; And with as many tails, that twisted out In horrid revolution, tipped with stings; And all its mouths, that wide and darkly gaped. And breathed most poisonous breath, had each a sting, Forked, and long, and venomous, and sharp; And in its writhings infinite, it grasped Malignantly what seemed a heart, swollen, black. And quivering with torture most intense; And still the heart, with anguish throbbing high. Made effort to escape, but could not; for Howe'er it turned— and oft it vainly turned— These complicated foldings held it fast; And still the monstrous beast with sting of head Or tail transpierced it, bleeding evermore. What this could image, much I searched to know; 200 EGBERT POLLOK. And while I stood, and gazed, and wondered long, A voice, from whence I knew not, for no one I saw, distinctly whispered in my ear These words : ' ' This is the Worm that never dies. " Fast by the side of this unsightly thing, Another was portrayed, more hideous still; Who sees it once shall wish to see't no more. For ever undescribed let it remain ! Only this much I may or can unfold — Far out it thrust a dart that might have made The knees of terror quake, and on it hung. Within the triple barbs, a being pierced Through soul and body both. Of heavenly make Original the being seemed, but fallen. And worn and wasted with enormous woe. And still around the everlasting lance It writhed convulsed, and uttered mimic groans; And tried and wished, and ever tried and wished To die; but could not die. Oh horrid sight! I trembling gazed, and listened, and heard this voice Approach my ear: " This is Eternal Death." Nor these alone. Upon that burning wall, In horrible emblazonry, were limned All shapes, all forms, all modes of wretchedness, And agony, and grief, and desperate woe. And pi'ominent in characters of fire, Where'er the eye could light, these words you read : " Who comes this way, behold, and fear to sin!" Amazed I stood; and thought such imagery Foretokened, within, a dangerous abode. But yet to see the worst a wish arose: For virtue, by the holy seal of God Accredited and stamped, immortal all, And all invulnerable, fears no hurt. As easy as my wish, as rapidly, I through the horrid rampart passed, unscathed And unopposed; and, poised on steady wing, I hovering gazed. Eternal Justice ! Sons Of God ! tell me, if ye can tell, what then I saw, what then I heard. Wide was the place. And deep as wide, and ruinous as deep. Beneath, I saw a lake of burning fire, With tempest tossed perpetually; and still The waves of fiery darkness 'gainst the rocks Of dark damnation broke, and music made Of melancholy sort; and overhead, And all around, wind warred with wind, storm howled To storm, and lightning forked lightning crossed. And thunder answered thunder, muttering sounds Of sullen wrath; and far as sight could pierce, Or down descend in caves of hopeless depth, Through all that dungeon of unfading fire, I saw most miserable beings walk. Burning continually, yet unconsumed; For ever wasting, yet enduring still; Dying perpetually, yet never dead. Some wandered lonely in the desert flames, And some in fell encounter fiercely met. With curses loud, and blasphemies that made The cheek of darkness pale; and as they fought, And cursed and gnashed their teeth, and wished to die. Their hollow eyes did utter streams of woe. And there were groans that ended not, and sighs That always sighed, and tears that ever wept. And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. And Sorrow, and Repentance, and Desjiair Among them walked, and to their thirsty lips Presented frequent cups of burning gall. And as I listened, I heard these beings curse Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse The earth, the resurrection morn; and seek, And ever vainly seek, for utter death. And to their everlasting anguish still. The thunders from above responding spoke These words, which, through the caverns of per- dition Forlornly echoing, fell on every ear — " Ye knew j^our duty, but ye did it not:" And back again recoiled a deeper groan. A deeper gj-oan! oh, what a groan was that! I waited not, but swift on sjjeediest wing, With unaccustomed thoughts conversing, back Retraced my venturous path from dark to light. Then up ascending, long ascending up, I hasted on; though whiles the chiming spheres, By God's own finger touched to harmony, Held me delaying, till I here arrived, Drawn upward by the eternal love of God, Of wonder full and strange astonishment. At what in yonder den of darkness dwells, Which now your higher knowledge will unfold. They answering said : — To ask and to bestow Knowledge, is much of heaven's delight; and r.o.v Most joyfully what thou requir'st we would; For much of new and unaccountable Thou bring'st. Something indeed we heard before. In passing conversation slightly touched. Of such a place; yet rather to be taught Than teaching, answer, what thy marvel asks. We need: for we ourselves, though here, are but Of yesterday, creation's yoimger sons. But there is one, an ancient bard of Earth, Who, by the stream of life, sitting in bliss. Has oft beheld the eternal years complete The mighty circle round the throne of God : Great in all learning, in all wisdom great, And great in song; whose harp in lofty strain Tells frequently of what thy wonder craves; While round him, gathering, stand the youth of heaven. With truth and melody delighted both. To him this path directs, an easy path. And easy flight will bring us to his seat. EOBEKT POLLOK. 201 So sajnng, they, linked hand in hand, spread out Their golden wings, by living breezes fanned, And over heaven's broad champaign sailed serene. O'er hill and valley, clothed with verdure green That never fades; and tree, and herb, and flower. That never fade; and many a river, rich With nectar, winding pleasantly, they passed; And mansion of celestial mould, and work Divine. And oft delicious music, sung By saint and angel bands that walked the vales. Or mountain tops, and harped upon their harps. Their ear inclined, and held by sweet constraint Their wing; not long, for strong desire, awaked, Of knowledge that to holy use might turn. Still press-eci them on to leave what rather seemed Pleasure, due only when all duty's done. And now beneath them lay the wished-for spot, The sacred bower of that renowned bard ; That ancient bard, ancient in days and song; But in immortal ^^gour young, and young In rosy health; to pensive sohtude Eetiring oft, as was his wont on earth. Fit was the place, most fit for holy musing. Upon a little mount that gently rose. He sat, clothed in white robes; and o'er his head A laurel tree, of lustiest, eldest growth, Stately and tall, and shadowing far and wide— Not fruitless, as on earth, but bloomed and rich With frequent clusters, ripe to heavenly taste- Spread its eternal boughs, and in its arms A myrtle of unfading leaf embraced. The "rose and lily, fresh with fragrant dew. And every flower of fairest cheek, around Him smihng flocked; beneath his feet, fast by And round his sacred hill, a streamlet walked. Warbling the holy melodies of heaven. The hallowed zephyrs brought him incense sweet; And out before him opened, in prospect long. The river of life, in many a winding maze Descending from the lofty throne of God, That with excessive glory closed the scene. Of Adam's race he was, and lonely sat, By chance that day, in meditation deep. Reflecting much of Time, and Earth, and Man. And now to pensive, now to cheerful notes, He touched a harp of wondrous melody; A golden harp it was, a precious gift. Which, at the Day of Judgment, with the crown Of life, he had received from God's own hand, Reward due to his service done on earth. He sees their coming, and with greeting kind. And welcome, not of hollow forged smiles. And ceremonious compliment of phrase. But of the heart sincere, into his bower Invites: like greeting they returned. Not bent In low obeisancy, from creature most Unfit to creature, but with manly fonn Upright they entered in; though high his rank, His wisdom high, and mighty his renown. And thus, deferring all apology. The two their new companion introduced. Ancient in knowledge, bard of Adam's race! We bring thee one, of us in(iuu-ing what We need to learn, and with him wish to learn. His asking will direct thy answer best. Most ancient bard! began the new-airived. Few words will set my wonder forth, and guide Thy wisdom's light to what in me is dark. Equipped for heaven, I left my native place: But first beyond the realms of light I bent My course; and there, in utter darkness, far Remote, 1 beings saw forlorn in woe. Burning continually, yet unconsumed. And there were groans that ended not, and sighs That ahvays sighed, and tears that ever wept And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. And still I heard these wretched beings curse Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse The earth, the resurrection mom, and seek, And ever vainly seek, for utter death. And fi-om above the thunders answered still, " Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." And everywhere throughout that horrid den I saw a form of excellence, a form Of beauty without spot, that nought could see And not admire, admire and not adore. And from its own essential beams it gave Light to itself, that made the gloom more dark. And every eye in that infernal pit Beheld it still; and from its face, how fair! 0, how exceeding fair! for ever sought, But ever vainly sought, to turn away. That image, as I guess, was Virtue, for Nought else hath God given countenance so fair. But why in such a place it should abide ? What place it is? what beings there lament? Whence came they ? and for what their endless groan ? Why curse they God ? why seek they utter death? And chief, what means the resurrection morn ? — My youth expects thy reverend age to tell. Thou rightly deem'st,fairyouth,began the bard; The foi-m thou saw'st was Virtue, ever fan-. Virtue, like God, whose excellent majesty, Whose glory vu-tue is, is omnipresent. No being, once created rational. Accountable, endowed with moral sense. With sapience of right and wrong endowed And charged, however fallen, debased, destroyed; However lost, forlorn, and miserable; In guilt's dark shrouding -ivrapped, however thick; However drunk, delirious, and mad. With sin's full cup; and with whatever damned Unnatural diligence it work and toil, Can banish Vu'tue from its sight, or once 202 WILLIAM THOM. Forget that she is fair. Hides it in night, In central night; takes it the Hghtiiing's wing, And flies for ever on, beyond the bounds Of all; drinks it the maddest cup of sin; Dives it beneath the ocean of despair: It dives, it drinks, it flies, it hides in vain. For still the eternal beauty, image fair, Once stamped upon the soul, before the eye All lovely stands, nor will depart; so God Ordains; and lovely to the worst she seems. And ever seems; and as they look, and still Must ever look upon her lovehness. Remembrance dire of what they were, of what They might have been, and bitter sense of what They are, polluted, ruined, hopeless, lost. With most repenting torment rend their hearts. So God ordains — their punishment severe Eternally inflicted by themselves. 'Tis this, this Virtue hovering evermore Before the vision of the damned, and in Upon their monstrous moral nakedness Casting unwelcome light, that makes their woe, That makes the essence of the endless flame. Where this is, there is hell, darker than aught That he, the bard three-visioned, darkest saw. The place thou saw'st was Hell; the groans thou heard 'st The wailings of the damned, of those who would Not be redeemed, and at the Judgment-day, Long past, for unrepented sins were damned. The seven loud thunders which thou heard'st, declare The eternal wrath of the Almighty God. But whence, or why they came to dwell in woe. Why they curse God, what means the glorious morn Of resurrection — these a longer tale Demand, and lead the mournful lyre far back Through memory of sin and mortal man. Yet haply not rewardless we shall trace The dark disastrous years of finished Time: Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy. Nor yet shall all be sad ; for God gave peace, Much peace, on earth, to all who feared his name. But first it needs to say, that other style And other language than thy ear is wont, Thou must expect to hear — the dialect Of man; for each in heaven a relish holds Of former speech, that points to whence he came. But whether I of person speak, or place. Event or action, moral or divine; Or things unknown compare to things unknown; Allude, imply, suggest, apostrophize; Or touch, when wandering tlarough the past, on moods Of mind thou never felt; the meaning still. With easy apprehension, thou shalt take. So perfect here is knowledge, and the strings Of sympathy so tuned, that eveiy word That each t j other speaks, though never heard Before, at once is fully understood. And every feeling uttered, fully felt. So shalt thou find, as from my various song. That backwai-d rolls o'er noiiny a tide of years. Directly or inferred, thy asking, thou. And wondering doubt, slialt learn to answer, while I sketch in brief the history of man. HELEN'S TOMB. At morn a dew-bathed rose I past. All lovely on its native stalk, rnmindful of the noon-day blast, Tliat strew'd it on my evening's walk. So, when the morn of life awoke, My hopes sat bright on fancy's bloom, Forgetful of the death-aimed stroke That laid them in my Helen's tomb. Watch there my hopes! watch Helen sleep, Nor more with sweet-lipped Fancy rave, But with the long grass sigh and weep At dewy eve by Helen's grave. WILLIAM THOM, Born 1799 — Died 1848. WiLLT.VM Thom, the author of " The Mither- less Bairn" and many other touching and pathetic Scottish lyrics, Avas born at Aberdeen in the year 1799. His father died soon after his birth, leaving his mother too poor to give her son much education. When ten years old William was placed in a public factory, where he served an apprenticeship of four years, after which he obtained employment in the weaving establishment of Gordon, Barron, & WILLIAM THOM. 203 Co., Avhere he continued for a period of seven- teen years. About 1830 he left Aberdeen, after entering into matrimony, and went to reside at Dundee. From here he removed to the village of Newtyle, near Cupar- Angus, where he passed several years of hard work, and domestic happiness with his loved Jean. At length, in 1837, heavy failures in the United States silenced in one week six thousand looms in Dundee, and spread dismay through the country. Thorn's earnings had been small, and being thrown out of employment he had great difficulty to maintain his famih'. He purchased a few articles, and accompanied by his wife and children, with only two shillings in his pos- session, began the precarious life of a pedlar. They did not succeed in their attempts to trade, and one evening found themselves with- out means to obtain a night's lodging. Leav- ing his family at the roadside. Thorn applied at several places for shelter, but without suc- cess. Of one of these applications the poet says: "I pleaded the infancy of my family and the lateness of the hour, but ' l^o, no' was the cruel reply. I returned to my family by the wayside. They had crept closer together, and all except the mother were f;ist a>leep. I drew her mantle over the wet and chilled sleepers, and sat down beside them. " At length a passer-by took pity upon them, and though an outhouse was the only accommodation lie could offer, it was gladly accepted; but the morning revealed that their favourite little Jeanie had sunk under the exposure of the previous night. For several months the poet's lot was a grievous one, and he was fain to seek a living by assuming the humbling position of a men- dicant musician. But although this was found more profitable than the packman's trade, he grew sick of what he calls "beggar's work," and on reaching Aberdeen he sat down once more to the loom. Finding more profitable occupation at Inverury, he removed to that village, where, nine months after, he lost his beloved wife — the faithful partner of all his sorrowful wanderings. " She left us," he says, "just as the last cold cloud was passing, ere the outbreak of a brighter day. That cloud passed, but the warmth that followed lost half its value tome, she being no partaker therein." He now occupied a time of slackness in com- posing small poems, one of the best of which, No. 1 of "The Blind Boy's Pranks," he sent to the Aberdeen Herald. The piece was in due time inserted, with the following editorial note: — "These beautiful stanzas are by a corre- spondent who subscribes himself ' A Serf,' and declares that he has to ' weave fourteen hours out of the twenty-four.' We trust his daily toil will soon be abridged, that he may have more leisure to devote to an art in which he shows so much natural genius and cultivated taste." This poem was copied extensively into other journals, and attracted the attention of Mr. Gordon of Knockespock, in the neighbour- hood, who, ascertaining the indigent circum- stances of the poet, sent him five pounds, and undertook to patronize him. Thom had found a real Mecaenas, for soon afterwards, he tells us, he and his daughter were dashing along in a handsome carriage through the streets of London; and under the protection and at the expense of Mr. Gordon they spent upwards of four months in England, visiting and being visited by many of the leading men of the daj'. In 18il he published a volume of poems and songs, with a brief autobiography, under the title of " Ehymes and Eecollections of a Hand- loom "Weaver," which reached a third edition. On his return to London the year following he was entertained at a public dinner, a member of Parliament presiding, and numerous dis- tinguished artists and men of letters being present. The working classes of London or- ganized a meeting for his benefit, which was presided over by Dr. Bowring, and proved a success. Charles Dickens, the Howitts, Eliza Cook, John Forster, and other literary magnates of the metropolis, paid the weaver-poet atten- tions. From the United States he received, chiefly through the eflfbrts of Margaret Fuller, upwards of two thousand dollars; and consider- able sums Avere also sent to him from India and Australia. This was the culminating point of Thom's career. "With the assistance of parasites who hovered around him his money was soon spent, his habits became bad, he could not obtain any literary employment, his great friends grew tired of him, he lost caste, and at last lost heart and hope. Starvation was almost staring him in the face, and he resolved to return to 204 WILLIAM THOM. his humble friends and his loom in Scotland. From this time a change came over him. He walked about, as his brother-poet Gow said, "with his death upon him." The last paper he wrote was entitled "Weeds," for which Douglas Jerrold sent him five pounds. He died in deep poverty at Dundee, Feb. 29, 1848, and his remains were honoured with a public funeral. He had married a second time, and left a widow and three cliildren, for whom a handsome sum Avas afterwards raised by sub- scription. THE BLIND BOY'S PRANKS. No. I. " 111 tell fome ither time, quo' he. How we love an' laugh in the north countrie ' Legsnl. Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, Love kentna whaur to stay, AVi' fient an arrow, bow, or string — AVi' droopin' heart an' drizzled wing, He faught his lanely way. "Is there nae mair, in Garioch fair, Ae spotless hame for me? Hae politics, an' corn, an kye, Hk bosom stappit? Fie, tie! I'll swithe me o'er the sea." He launched a leaf o' jessamine. On whilk he daured to swim. An' pillowed his head on a wee rosebud, Syne laithfu', lanely. Love 'gan send Down Ury's waefu' stream. The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, But dowie when he gaed by; Till lulled wi' the sough o' mony a sang, He sleepit fu' soun' an' sailed alang Xeath heav'n's gowden sky! 'T was just whaur creepin' Ury greets Its mountain-cousin Don, There wandered forth a weel-faur'd dame, Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream. As it flirted an' played wi' a sunny beam That flickered its bosom upon. Love happit his head, I trow, that time. The jessamine bark drew^ nigh, The lassie espied the wee rosebud. An' aj-e her heart gae thud for thud. An' quiet it wadna lie. "0 gin I but had yon wearie wee flower That floats on the Ury sae fairl" She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf. But little wist she o' the pawkie thief Was lurkin' an' laughin' there! Loveglower'd when he saw her bonnie darke'e, An' swore by heaven's grace He ne"er had seen, nor thought to .see. Since e'er he left the Paphian lea, Sae lovely a dwallin' place. Syne, first of a', in her blythe.some breast. He built a bower, I ween; An' what did the waefu', deviliek neist? But kindled a gleam like the rosy east, That sparkled frae baith her een. An' then beneath ilk high e'e-bree He placed a quiver there; His bow? -what but her shinin' brow? An' 0! sic deadly strings he drew Frae out her silken hair. Guid be our guard ! sic deeds waur deen, Roun' a' our countrie then; An' mony a hangin' lug was seen 'Alang formers fat, an' lawyers lean. An' herds o' common men' DREAMIXGS OF THE BEREAVED. The morning breaks bonnie o'er mountain an' stream. An' troubles the hallowed breath o' my dream 1 The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e'e. But, ghost-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer to me. The dull common world then sinks from my sight, An' fairer creations arise to the night; When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my e'e, Then bright are the visions awaken'd to me I ! come, spirit mother, discourse of the hours, My young bosom beat all its beating to yours, When heart-woven wishes in soft counsel fell, On ears — how unheedful prov'd son-ow might tell I That deathless affection — nae trial could break, When a' else forsook me ye wouldna forsake; Then come, 0! my mother, come often to me, An' soon an' for ever I'll come unto thee! An' thou shrouded loveliness! soul-winning Jean, How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen! WILLIAM THOM. 205 'Tvvas kind— for the lowe that your e'e kindled there Will bum— ay, an' burn, till that breast beat nae mair. Our bairnies sleep round mo. 1 bless ye their sleep, Your ain dark-e'ed Willie will wauken an' weep; But, blythe in his weepin', he'll tell me how you, liis heaven- Itamed mammie, was "dautin' his brow." Though dark be our dwallin'— our happin' though bare, An' night closes round us in cauldness an' care; Affection will warm us — an' bright are the beams That halo our hame in yon dear land of dreams. Then weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign, Wi' souls of the dearest I mingle me then; The gowd light of morning is lightless to me, But oh for the night wi' its ghost rcvelrie! JEAXIE'S GKAYE. I saw my true love first on the banks of queenly TaV, Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away; I feasted^ on her deep dark eye, and loved it more and more, For, oh: I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before ! 1 heard my true love sing, and she taught me many a strain, But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again. In all our friendless wanderings, in homeless penury, Her gentle song and jetty eye were all un- changed to me. I saw my true love fade— I heard her latest sigh — I wept no friv'lous Aveeping when I closed her lightless eye; Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave The markless epot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave. Move noiseless, gentle Ury I around my Jeanie's bed, And I'll love thee, gentle Ury'. where'er my footsteps tread ; For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame. By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame: Wha Stan's last an' lanely, an' naebody carin'?— 'Tis the puir doited loonie— the mitherless bairn! The mitherless bairn gangs till his lane bed, Nane covers his cauld Vjack, or haps his bare head ; His wee liackit heelies are hard as the aim, An' Utheless the lair o' the mitherless baiml Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams tremble there, 0' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair! But momin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stem. That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn! Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly-roek'd bed, Now rests in the mools whaur her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens nae the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn! Her spunt, that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth. Still watches his wearisome wand'rings on earth, Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless baira! Oh! speak him nae harshly — he trembles the while — He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile! In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless baira! THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM. Oh ! tempt me not to the drunkard's draught. With its soul-consuming gleam! Oh! hide me from the woes that waft Around the drunkard's dream! When night in holy silence brings The God-willed hour of sleep, Then, then the red-eyed revel swings Its bowl of poison deep! When morning waves its golden hair. And smiles o'er hill and lea. One sick'ning ray is doomed to glare On yon rude revelry ! The rocket's flary moment sped, Sinks black'ning back to earth; Yet darker — deeper sinks his head Who shares the drunkard's mirth! 206 THOMAS K. HERVEY. Know ye the sleep the drunkard know.s? That sleep, oh! ivho may tell? Or who can speak the fiendful throes Of his self-heated hell? The soul all reft of heav'nly mark — Defaced God's image there — • Eolls down and down yon abyss dark, Thy howling home, Despair! Or bedded his head on broken hearts. Where slimy reptiles creep; And the ball-less eye of Death still darts Black fire on the drunkard's sleep! And lo! their coffin'd bosoms rife. That bled in his ruin wild ! The cold, cold lips of his shrouded wife, Press lips of his shrouded child ! So fast — so deep the hold they keep! Hark! that unhallow'd scream: Guard us, oh God ! from the drunkard's sleep- From the drunkard's demon-dream ! THOMAS K. HEEVEY. Born 1799 - Died 1859. Thomas Kibble Hervey was born February 4, 1799, at Paisley, the birthplace of so many poets and men of eminence. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and devoted some years to the study of law, but abandoned it and adopted the more congenial pursuit of literature. In 1824 Hervey published his poem "Australia," which contains many ex- quisite descriptive passages, showing that he possessed the "inspiration and the faculty divine." Five years later he issued The Poetical Sketch-look, including a third edi- tion of "Australia." His next volumes, pub- lished in the order named, were IllustratLons of Modern Scripture, The English Helicon, and The Book of Christmas, every page of which affords a literary feast worthy of the happy season. Mr. Hervey was also the author of a satirical poem entitled " The Devil's Pro- gress," and many popular pieces contributed to the pages of various annuals edited by him. His connection with the London Athenceum, of wiiich at its commencement and for several years afterwards he was sole editor, proves him to have been a man of ability. After Hervey's death, February 17, 1859, a collection of his poems was made by his widow, which, together with a memoir from her practised pen, was published in the United States in 1867. Dr. D. M. Moir says :— " The genius of T. K. Hervey (for he has genius at once pathetic and refined) is not unallied to that of Pringle and Watts, but with a dash of Tom Moore. He writes uniformly with taste and elaboration, polishing the careless and rejecting the crude ; and had he addressed himself more earnestly and more unreserv- edly to the task of composition, I have little doubt, from several specimens he has occasion- ally exhibited, that he might have occupied a higher and more distinguished place in our poetical literature than he can be said to have attained. His 'Australia' and several of his lyrics were juvenile pledges of future excel- lence which maturity can scarcely be said to have fully redeemed." THE CONVICT SHIP. Morn on the waters! and, purple and bright, Bursts on the billows the flushing of light; O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun. See the tall vessel goes gallantly on; Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail. And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale. The winds come around her in murmiu- raid song, And the surges rejoice as they bear her along. THOMAS K. HAEVEY. 207 See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds. Onward she ghdes amid ripple and spray, Over the waters— away and away! Bright as the visions of youth ere they part. Passing away, like a dream of the heart! Who— as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, Music around her and sunshine on high- Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow. Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below! Night on the waves! and the moon is on liigh, Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky. Treading its depths in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Look to the waters! asleep on their breast. Seems not the ship like an island of rest? Bright and alone on the shadowy main. Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain ! Who— as she smiles in the silvery light. Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, Alone on the deep as the moon in the sky, A phantom of beauty— could deem, with a sigh. That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, And that souls that are smitten he bursting within '( Who, as he watches her silently ghding. Remembers that wave after wave is dividing Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever. Hearts that are parted and broken for ever? Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave. The death-bed of hope, or the young spuit's grave ? 'Tis thus with our life while it passes along. Like a vessel at sea amidst sunshine and song! Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world. With streamers afloat and with canvas unfurled, All gladness and glory to wandering eyes. Yet chartered by sorrow and freighted with sighs; Fading and false is the aspect it wears. As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts that the world can- not know. Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er. THE DEAD TRUMPETER. Wake, soldier! wake! thy war-horse waits To bear thee to the battle back; — Thou slumberest at a foeman's gates; — Thy dog would break thy bivouac; — Thy plume is trailing in the dust, And thy red falchion gathering rust! Sleep, soldier! sleep! thy warfare o'er, — Kot thine own bugle's loudest strain Shall ever break thy slumbers more. With summons to the battle-plain; A trumpet note more loud and deep JIust rouse thee from that leaden sleep. Thou need'st nor helm nor cuirass now, Beyond the Grecian hero's boast, — Thou wilt not quail thy naked brow, Nor shrink before a myriad host, — For head and heel alike are sound — A thousand arrows cannot wound. Thy mother is not in thy dreams. With that mild, widowed look she wore The day — how long to her it seems! — She kissed thee at the cottage door, And sicken'd at the sounds of joy That bore away her only boy. Sleep, soldier! let thy mother wait To hear thy bugle on the blast; Thy dog, perhaps, may find the gate; And bid her home to thee at last; — He cannot tell a sadder tale Than did thy clarion, on the gale, When last — and far away— she heard its lin- gering echoes fail! THE GONDOLA GLIDES. The gondola glides. Like a spirit of night, O'er the slumbering tides, In the calm moonlight. The star of the north Shows her golden eye, But a brighter looks forth From yon lattice on high! Her taper is out. And the silver beam Floats the maiden about Like a beautiful dream! And the beat of her heart Makes her tremble all o'er; And she lists with a start To the dash of the oar. But the moments are past. And her fears are at rest. And her lover at last Holds her clasped to his breast; 208 JAMES LAWSON. And the planet above, And the quiet blue .«ea, Are pledged to his love And his constancy. Iler cheek is reclined On the home of his breast; And his fingers are twined 'Mid her ringlets, which rest, In many a fold. O'er his arm that is placed Round the cincture of gold Which encircles her waist. He looks to the stars Which are gemming the blue, And devoutly he swears He will ever be true; Then bends him to hear The low sound of her sigh. And kiss the fond tear From her beautiful eye. And he watches its flashes. Which brightly reveal What the long fringing lashes Would vainly conceal; And reads — while he kneels All his ardour to speak — Her reply, as it steals In a blush o'er her cheek. Till won by the prayers Which so softly reprove, On his bosom, in tears, She half-murmurs her love; And the stifled confession Enraptured he sips, 'Mid the breathings of passion, In dew from her lips. JAMES LAWSON. Jame3 Lawson was born in Glasgow, Nov- ember 9, 1799. He completed his education at the university of his native city, and in 1815 emigrated to the United States, and entered the counting-house of a relative resid- ing in New York. A few years later the failure of the firm of which Lawson was a partner induced him to turn his attention to literature. In company with James G. Brooks and John B. Skilman he established the Mornhui ('ourier, the first number of which appeared in 1827. In 1829 Lawson retired from this concern, and joined Amos Butler in the Mercantile Advertiser, ivith which he was associated till 1833. In 1830 he published a volume entitled Tales and Sketches by a Cos- mopolite. His next work was Giordano: a Trarjedij, an Italian state story of love and conspiracy, which was first performed at the Park Theatre, New York. The prologue was Avritten by William Leggett, and the epilogue by P. M. AVetmore. Mr. Lawson has several times appeared before the public in connection with the stage. He was associated with the American poets Fitz - Greene Halleck and William Cullen Bryant on the committee which secured for Edwin Forrest the prize play of "Metamora" by John A. Stone, and he was also one of a similar committee which selected the prize play of " Nimrod Wildfire, or the Kentuckiau in New York," by James K. Paulding. Since his retirement from the press in 1833 Mr. Lawson has engaged in the business of marine insurance, and is well known among the mercantile men of New York. He has been during the past fifty years a frequent contributor of criticisms, essays, tales, and verse to the periodicals of the day; and in 1857 printed for private circulation an octavo volume entitled Poems: Gleanings from Spare Hours of a, Business Life, with the following dedication: — "To my Children and their Mother, these poems, at their solicitation thus gathered together but not published, are affec- tionately inscribed by the father and husband, James Lawson." This handsome volume was followed in 1859 by Liddesdale, or the Border Chief: a Trarjedy, which was also printed for private circulation. Mr. Lawson has for many years resided at Yonkers, on the Hudson, where he is well known as a public-spirited citizen and the genial entertainer of men of letters. JAMES LAWSON. 209 THE APrROACII OF AGE. Well, let the honest truth be told ! I feel that I am growing old, And, I have guessed for many a day, IMy sable locks are turning gray. At least, by furtive glances, I Some very silvery hairs espy, That thread-like on my temples shine. And fain I would deny are mine: AVhile wrinkles creeping here and there. Some score my years, a few my care. The sports that yielded once delight Have lost all relish to my sight; IJut, in their stead, more serious thought A graver train of joys has brought. Which, while gay fancy is refined. Correct the taste, improve the mind. I meet the friends of former years, Whose smile approving, often cheers: How few are spared ! the poisonous draught The reckless in wild frenzy quaffed, In dissipation's giddy maze, O'erwlielmed them in their brightest days. And one, my playmate when a boy, I see in manhood's pride and joy; He too has felt, through sun and shower. Old Time, thy unrelenting power. We talk of things which well we know Had chanced some forty years ago; Alas! like yesterday they seem. The past is but a gorgeous dream ! But speak of forty coming years. Ah, long indeed that time appears! In nature's course, in forty more. My earthly pilgrimage is o'er; And the green turf on which I tread Will gayly spring above my head. Beside me, on her rocking-chair. My wife her needle plies with care, And in her ever-cheerful smiles A charm abides, that quite beguiles The years that have so swiftly sped. With their unfaltering, noiseless tread: For we, in mingled happiness, Will not the approach of age confess. But when our daughters we espy, I^ounding with laughing cheek and eye, Our bosoms beat with conscious pride, To see them blooming by our side. God spare ye, girls, for many a day. And all our anxious love repay! In your fair growth of form and grace. We see age coming on apace. When o'er our vanished days we glance, Far backward to our young romance. Vol. II.— O And muse upon unnumbered things, That crowding come on memory's wings; Then varied thoughts our bosoms gladden, And some intrude that deeply sadden: Fond hopes in their fruition crushed, Beloved tones for ever hushed. AVe do not grieve that being's day Is fleeting, shadow-like, away ; J?ut thank thee. Heaven, our lengthened life Has passed in love, unmarred by strife; That sickness, sorrow, pain, and care, Have fallen so lightly to our share. We bless thee for our daily bread, In plenty on our table spread; And Thy abundance helps to feed The worthy poor, who pine in need; And thanks, that in our worldly way. We have so seldom stepped astray. But well Ave should in meekness speak. And pardon for transgressions seek, For oft, how strong soe'er the will To follow good, we've chosen ill. The youthful heart unwisely fears The sure approach of coming years; Though cumbered oft with weighty cares, Yet age its burden lightly bears. Though July's scorching heats are done. Yet blandly smiles the slanting sun, And sometimes, in our lovely clime. To dark December's frosty time. Though day's delightful noon is past, Yet mellow twilight comes, to cast A sober joy, a sweet content. Where virtue with repose is blent, Till, calmly on the fading sight. Mingles its latest ray with night. TO A UNTIE FRIGHTENED FROM HER NEST. Wee Untie, stay, an' dinna fear me. It is nae i' my heart to steer ye. Ye needna flee, tho' I am near ye, Frae lounie nest. But i' your thorny shelter hear me, Wi' unscaithed breast. I hae nae come by ill inclined, Keekin' ilk leafy bield behind, As I wad fain wee tremblers find. In hedge or brier; If I bad kent ye here reclined, I'd nae come near. But tired o' Glasgow's wark an' wile, I've wandered mony a weary mile 210 JAMES LAWSON. To see the knowes sae blytliely smile \Vi' weal til o' flower.-^; The burns ami braes my thoughts beguile 0' dreary hours. I've come to muse by Grieto's linn. To liear its pleasing, prattling din, To spy the trout wi' rapid fin Dart 'neath a stane, As frae its green banks I peep in. Amused, ahine. The lark sings to the rising day, The mavis to its latest ray; Trae morn to night on ilka spray Sweet wild notes ring; My heart exults at every lay The warblers sing. An' wee! I lo'e your cheerful sang, The bloomin' whin or broom amang, I've listened aft the morning lang, Wi' raptured ear: Puir thing! I wadna do ye wrang For warlds o' gear. Then wherefore, Untie, lea' your bield ? ]\[air mither-like to stay and shield, Wi' a' the art tiiat ye may wield, Your yaupin' things, Than flee atoure yon stibble-field, Wi' flurried wings. If man possess a selfish heart, Our mithers wadna act thy part. To drive awa' at ilka start Sae heedlessly; They'd save their bairns, or share their smart, Or wi" them dee. Come, lintie, to your cozie nest, An' cuddle 'neatli your downy breast Your unfledged young; their necdfu' rest I've brolce ower lang; I'm gaun awa', but this request — Sing me a sang! WHEN SPRING AERAYED IN FLOWERS. AVhen spring arrayed in flowers, Mary, Danced wi' the leafy trees; When larks sang to the sun, Mary, And hummed the wandering bees; Then first we met and loved, Mary, By Kelburn's loupin' linn. And blither was thy voice, Mary, Than Unties i' the whin. Now autumn winds blaw cauld, Mary, Amang the withered boughs; And a' the bonnie flowers, Mary, Are faded frae the knowes; But still thy love's unchanged, Mary, Nae chilly autumn there; And sweet thy smile, as spring's, Mary, Thy sunny face as fair. Nae mair the early lark, ]\Iaiy, Trills on his soaring Avay; Hushed is the lintie's sang, Mary, Through a' the shortening day; But still thy voice I hear, Mary, Like melody divine; Nae autumn in my heart, Mary, And summer still in thine. CAMPSIE GLEN.i Let us ower to Campsie Glen, bonnie lassie, 0, By the dingle that you ken, bonnie lassie, 0, To the tree where first we woo'd, And cut our names sae rude. Deep in the sauch-tree's wood, bonnie lassie, O. O'er the willow brig we'll wend, bonnie lassie, 0, And the ladders we'll ascend, bonnie lassie, 0, Where the woodroof loves to hide Its scented leaves, beside The streamlets, as they glide, bonnie lassie, O. WHiere the blue bell on the brae, bonnie lassie, O, Wliere the sweetest scented slae, bonnie lassie, O, And the flow'rets ever new, Of nature's painting true, All fragrant bloom for you, bonnie lassie, O. Where the music of the wood, bonnie lassie, 0, And the dashing of the flood, bonnie lassie, 0, O'er the rock and ravine mingle, And glen and mountain dingle, With the merry echoes tingle, bonnie lassie, 0. On the moss-seat we'll recline, bonnie lassie, 0, Wi' a hand in each of thine, bonnie lassie, 0; The bosom's wannest tlirill Beats truer, safter still. As our hearts now glowing fill, bonnie lassie, 0. Then before bright heaven's eye, bonnie lassie, 0, We will dovible love-knots tie, bonnie lassie, 0; Then true affection plighted, We'll love and live united, With hearts and hands united, bonnie lassie, 0. ' Campsie Glen is a beautiful valley near the village of Lennoxtowii. about ten miles north of Glajgow. It is rich in geological and botajiical treasures, and is enlivened by a cascade or waterfall — Ed. JOHN IMLAH. 211 JOHN IMLAH. Born 1799 — Died 1816. JoHX Imlah, Avhose ancestors for many gen- erations had been farmers in the parish of Fyvie, was born in Aberdeen, Xov. 15, 1799. Of seven sons born in succession he was the youngest. He had the advantage of a good English education, after completing which he Avas apprenticed to a pianoforte manufacturer. Having given evidence of possessing a musical ear, his employer initiated him into the mys- teries of tuning. Becoming an expert, Imlah sought service as a piano-tuner in London, and ultimately entered into an engagement with the firm of Broadwood & Co., which continued until he left Great Britain to visit his brother in the AVest Indies. Under this arrangement, from January to June he performed the duties of a regular tuner at a fixed salary, and the rest of the year he Avas allowed to travel in Scotland tuning on his own account, and occa- sionally adding to his income by the sale of a piano. Imlah composed songs from his early boy- hood. In 1827 he published May Flowers, a volume of lyrics chiefly in the Scottish dialect; followed in 1811 by Poems and Sonrjs, contain- ing several spirited, patriotic, and popular pieces. He was also a contributor to the Edhi- bur(jh Literary Journal, and other periodicals of the day. He was cut oflf in the vigour of manhood while on a visit to a brother residing in Jamaica, where after a brief period of en- joyment he fell a victim to the fatal disease of the island, Jan. 9, 1816, having just entered upon his forty -seventh yeai". WHERE GADIE RINS. 0! gin I were where Gadie rins, "Where Gadie rins — Avhere Gadie rins, 0: gin I were Avhere Gadie rins, By the foot o' Bennachie.^ I've roam'd by Tweed — I've roam'd by Tay, By liorder Xith and Highland Spey, But dearer far to me than they The braes o' Bennachie. ■\Vhen blade and blossom sprout in spring, And bid the birdies wag the wing. They blithely bob, and soar, and sing By the foot o' Bennachie. When simmer deeds the varied scene "NVi' licht o' gowd and leaves o' green, I fain wad be where aft I've been, At the foot o' Bennachie. "When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn, .\.nd barn-yards stored wi' stocks o' corn, 'Tis blythe to toom the clyack horn, At the foot o' Bennachie. ' Gadie is the name of a rivulet, and Bennachie of a hill, lx)th iu Aberdeenshire.— Ed. "When Avinter Avinds blaw sharp and shrill. O'er icy burn and sheeted hill, The ingle neuk is gleesome still. At the foot o' Bennachie. Though few to Avelcome me remain. Though a' I loved be dead and gane, I'll back, though I should live alane, To the foot o' Bennachie. 0! gin I Avere where Gadie rins, "Where Gadie rins — Avhere Gadie rins, 1 gin I Avere Avhere Gadie rins. By the foot o' Bennachie. AULD SCOTLVS SAXGS. Auld Scotia's sangs! auld Scotia's sangs— the strains o' youth and yore I — lilt to me, and I will list— will list them o'er and o'er; Though mak' me Avae, or mak' me Avud, — or changfu' as a child. Yet lilt tome, and I Avill list— the "native Avood- notes Avild!" 212 JOHN IMLAH. They mak' me present wi' the past — they bring I up fresh and fair The Bonnie Broom o' Cowden Knowes, the Bush abune Traquair, The Dowie Dens o' Yarrow, or the Birks o' Invermay, Or Catrine's Green and Yellow "Woods in au- tumn's dwining day! They bring me back the holms and howes whar siller burnies shine, The lea-rig whar the gowans glint we pu'd in Auld Langsyne; And, mair than a', the Trystin' Thorn that blossom'd doun the vale, ■\Vhar gloamin' breathed sae sweetly — but far sweeter luve's fond tale! Now melt we o'er the lay that wails for Flod- den's day o' dule, — And now some rant will gar us louplikedaffin' youth at Yule; — • ^Kow o'er young luve's impassion'd strain our conscious heart will yearn, — And, now our blude fires at the call o' Bruce o' Bannockburn! 0! lovely in the licht o' sang the Ettrick and the Tweed, "Whar shepherd swains were wont to blaw auld Scotia's lyric reed; — The Logan and the Lugar too, but, hallow'd meikle mair, The banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, — the Afton and the Ayr! The hind whase hands are on the pleugli — the shepherd wi' his crook — The maiden o'er the milking pail, or by the ingle neuk. Lo'e weel to croon auld Scotia's sangs— may they ever sae ! And it may be a daffin' lilt — may be a dowie lay! Though warldly grief and warldling's guile maun I like ithers dree, Maun thole the sair saigh rive my breist — the bet tear scald my e'e! Bat let me list the melodies o' some o' Scotia's sangs. And I will a' forget my waes— will a" forgi'e my wrangs! ! born o' feeling's warmest depths — o" fancy's wildest dreams. They're twined wi' mony lovely thochts, wi' monic lo'esome themes; They gar the glass o' memorlc glint back wi' brichter shine, On far afF scenes and far aff friends, and auld langsyne! Auld Scotia's sangsl — auld Scotia's sangs! — her "native wood-notes wild!" Her monie artless melodies, that move nie like a child; Sing on — sing on! and I will list — will list them o'er and o'er,^ Auld Scotia's sangs! — auld Scotia's sangsl — the sangs o' youth and yore! THOU'RT SAIR ALTER'D. Thou'rt sair alter'd now. May, Thou'rt sair alter'd now: The rose is wither'd frae thy cheek. The wrinkles on thy brow; And gray hath grown the locks o' jet, Sae shining wont to be, Thou'rt alter'd sair — but, May, thou'rt yet The May o' yore to me. Thy voice is faint and low, May, That aft in former time Hath woke the wild birds envious chant, The echo's amorous chime; Thy e'e hath lost its early light, My star in ither years. That aye hath beam'd sae kindly bright, To me through smiles and tears. For a' the signs that show. May, The gloamin' o' our day, I lo'ed thee young— 1 lo'e thee yet, My ain auld wifie, May. Kae dearer hope hae I than this, Beyond the day we die. Thy charms shall bloom again to bless My halidome on hie! THE GATHERING. 1 Rise, rise ! Lowland and Highlandmen, Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early. Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen, Belt on your broad claymores— tight for Prince CharUe. Down from the mountain steep, Up from the valley deep, 1 This song has been erroneously ascribed to the Ettrick Shepherd.— Ed. WILLIAM KENNEDY 213 Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling, Bugle and battle drum Bid chief and vassal come, Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is peaUng. Men of the mountains— descendants of heroes! Heirs of the fame as the hiUs of your fathers; Say, shall the Southern— the Sassenach fear us \Vhen to the war peal each plaided clan gathers? Too long on the trophied walls Of your ancestral halls, Red mst hath blunted the armour of Albin; Seize then, ye mountain Macs, Buckler and battle-axe. Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin! When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward? When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal ? Up then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart, - Follow your leader— the rightful— the royal! Chief of Clanronald, Donald Macdonald! Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon! Rouse every kilted clan. Rouse every loyal man, Gun on the shoulder, and thigh tho good sword on! THERE LIVES A YOUXG LASSIE. There lives a young lassie Far down yoa lang glen; How I lo"e that lassie There's nae ane can ken! 0! a saint's faith may vary, But faithful I'll be; For weel I lo'e Mary, An' Mary lo'es me. Red, red as the rowan Her smiling wee niou"; An' white as the gowan Her breast and lier brow! Wi' a foot o' a fairy She links o'er the lea; 01 weel I lo'e ilary. An' Mary lo'es me. She sings sweet as onie Wee bird of the air, And she's blithe as she's bonnie, She's guid as she's fair; Like a lammie sae airy And artless is she, 01 weel I lo'e ]\Iary, And Mary lo'es me. Where yon tall forest timmer, An' lowly broom bower, To the sunshine o' simmer Spread verdure an' flower; There, when night clouds the cary. Beside her I'll be; For weel I lo'e ISIary, And Mary lo'es mc. WILLIAM KENNEDY. BORX 1799— Died 1849. William Kennedy, the personal friend and literary partner of William Motherwell, whose biographer calls him an "Iri.sh gentleman," was born near Paisley,^ Dec. 26, 1799. Before he was twenty-five years of age he published an interesting prose story called " My Early Days;" followed in 1827 by a volume of short poems under the name of -Fitful Fancies," iDr R Shelton Mackenzie writes to iis(Feb.l.lS73):— "I frequently met William Kennedy in London about 1847 At that time he was British consul at Galveston, the great commercial capital of Texas, and was home on leave of absence. I have always understood that hs was a Paisley man. . . • He was a tall, slight. which met with unusual success. In 1828-29 he was associated with Motherwell in the man- agement of the Paisley Magazine, pronounced at the time to be the best edited provincial periodical published in Great Britain. Many of Motherwell's and Kennedy's poems first appeared in its columns. The magazine was not, however, a pecuniary su ccess, and was gentlemanly person, of about forty five or fifty years old when I knew him. His hair was of a golden colour, manners very gentle, not much of a talker, and very temperate as to drink, with an unusually small appe- tite. ... I think he died about 1850, but I cannot fiud any record of it among my papere."— Ed. 214 WILLIAM KENNEDY. therefore abandoned. In 1S30 there appeared from the press of a London publisher "The Arrow and the Eose, and other Poems, by "William Kennedy," in a handsome 8vo volume, dedicated to Motherwell. The principal poem is founded on a traditional story of the love of Henry IV. of France, when a youth, for a gar- deners daughter, by name Fleurette, and was pronounced by Christopher North to be "ex- ceedingly graceful, elegant, and pathetic." An extract from "The Arrow and the Hose" ap- pears among the following selections from Kennedy's compositions; but we find more to admire among his minor pieces, which are char- acterized by manly vigour and tenderness. Having taken up his residence in London Kennedy entered upon his career there by edit- ing, in company with Leitch Ilitchie, a maga- zine issued monthly by Hurst & Chance, at the same time contributing numerous articles in prose and verse to other magazines and periodi- cals. "When the Earl of Durham went to Canada Kennedy accompanied him as his pri- vate secretary, and on the return of the earl to England he received the appointment of British consul at Galveston, Texas, where he resided for many years. Before crossing the Atlantic the poet visited Scotland, and spent some happy hours with his family and his attached friend ]\Iotherwell, and wrote the spirited stanzas beginning "I love the land." "When published they called forth another poem en- titled "The Response," from which we take the following lines: — " I love it too, — Ay, and I love it well. Nor, Kennedy, the muse"s minion, thou May not have felt thy bosom higher swell. Than mine has erst, as listless verse may sliow; For Albyn owns no classic lyre can tell Like Kennedy's what tones do echo through The bursting heart— what time the weird-like spell Comes o'er the quiv'riug lips in 'fare thee well !' I love it too." In 1841 Kennedy published in London the Rise, Prorjress, and Profspects of the EepuUic of Texas, in two Svo vols. He returned to England in 1847, and retired on a pension, taking up his residence near London, where he died in 1849. Soon after landing in the Old "World he again visited Scotland, and while there he wrote the beautiful lines in- spired by a visit to ]\Iotherwell's then unmarked grave in the Necropolis of Glasgow. Sheriff Bell of Glasgow wrote to the Editor of this "Work as follows: " I was well ac([uainted with the late William Kennedy. He was a man of considerable genius, and died compara- tively young nearly twenty years ago." Allan Cunningham, in his History of the Literature of the last Fifty Years, says, "AVilliam Ken- nedy has fancy and feeling, nor is he without sudden bursts of manly vigour, but he is un- equal in execution and occasionally overstrained in language." THE ARROW AND THE ROSE. (extract.) Against a pleasant chestnut tree A youth, not yet sixteen, was leaning; A goodly bow he had, though he Inclined not to their archery. But with a look of meaning, A wayward smile, just half subdued. Apart the sylvan pastime viewed. His careless cap, his garments gray, His fingers strong — his clear brown cheek And hair of hapless red, you'd say A mountain lad did speak — A stripling of the Bearnese hills, Eeared hardy among rocks and rills. But his rude garb became him well; His gold locks softly, curling fell; His face with soul was eloquent, His features delicately blent, And freely did his quick glance roam. As one who felt himself at home "Where'er a warrior's weapon gleam'd. Or the glad eye of beauty beam'd. ""What, loitering thus, hope of Gnienne!" Cries Guise's duke, advancing near The boy's retreat— "A wondering man Am I to find you here! Tlie fiery steed brooks not the stall AVhen hound and horn to greenwood call, xVnd bowman bold will chafe to be llestraiu'd from his artillerie. WILLIAM KENNEDY. 215 !My liege impatient is to learn "Where bides tlie merry Prince of Bcarne." ■With solemn tone and brow demure Tlie blossom of Navarre replied, "Trust me, my lord, you may assure My cousin that with pride I'd venture in the morning's sport, Had I been perfected at court In forest lore. The little skill I boast was gleaned on woodland hill, From the wild hunters of our land, AVho Paris modes ill understand. If you will countenance to-day Trial of our provincial way, I'll take my chance among the rest, And, hap what will, I'll do my best." Loud laughed the king, and cried, "Agreed!" Ladies and lords laughed louder still. The buoyant prince, with feathery speed, Unheeding, worked his will. At a tall yeoman's boldest pace He measured o'er the shooting space. Planted an orange on a pole. And, pointing, said, "Behold the goal!" Then stood as practised archers stand AVheu the coy deer invites the hand. Back to his ear the shaft he drew. And gracefully, as he had been Apollo's pupil — twang! it flew Eight to the mark, which, pierced core through. Fell sever'd on the green. High swell'd the plaudits of the crowd; The marksman neither spoke nor bow'd. But braceil him for a second shot, As was the custom of the play, "When Charles, in accents brief and hot, Desired him to give way, And with small show of courtesy Displaced him ere he could reply. His generous cheek flush'd into flame- Trembled from head to heel his frame. Again he had his weapon ready. His eye concentred on the king, With manhood's mettle burning steady, A fearful-looking thing ! A knight the amplest in the field Served the scared monarch for a shield Until his cousin's anger slept. When from his portly screen he stept And idly strove the mark to hit, Passing a spear's length wide of it; Muttering a ban on bow and quiver. He flung them both into the river, And straight departed from the scene. His dignity disturbed by spleen. France's lost laurel to regain, Guise shot and cleft the fruit in twain. Harry liked little to divide The garland with Parisian pride, And failing at the time to find An orange suited to his mind, Begg'd from a blushing country maid A red rose on her bosom laid. Poor girl ! it was not in her power From such a youth to save the flower! The prize was his— triumphantly He fixed it on a neighbouring tree — His bonnet doff"ed and cleared his brow. While beauty whispered "Kote him now." A moment, and the sweet rose shiver'd Beneath the shaft that in it quiver'd. He bore the arrow and its crest, The wounded flower, to the fair. The pressure of whose virgin breast It late seem'd proud to bear. Shrinking, she wished herself away As the young prince, with bearing gay And gallant speech, before her bent. Like victor at a tournament— "Damsel! accept again," he said, "With this steel stalk, thy favourite, dead! Unwept it perished — for there glows On thy soft cheek a lovelier rose I " THE DIRGE OF THE LAST CONQUEROR. The flag of battle on its staff hangs drooping— The thundering artilleiy is still— The wai-horse pines, and, o'er his sabre stooping, His rider grieves for his neglected skill : The chief who swept the ruddy tide of glory, The conqueror! now only lives in story. Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore! Skies, baleful blue— harvests of hateful yellow- Bring sad assurance that he is not here; Where waved his plume the grape forgot to mel- low, He changed the pruning-hook into the spear. But peace and her dull train are fast returning, And so farewell to famine, blood, and burning! Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore I 216 WILLIAM KENNEDY. Hopes of tlio young and strong, they're all de- parted — Dishonour'd manhood tills the ungrateful farm ; Parents! life's balm hath fled — now, broken- hearted, Deplore the fate that bids your sons disarm. heavenly times! when your own gold was paying Your gallant sons for being slain, or slaying ! Moum, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore! Bud of our island's virtue! thou art blighted, Since war's hot breath abroad hath ceased to blow; Instead of clashing swords, soft hearts are plighted. Hands joined, and household goblets made to flow; And for the ocean-roar of hostile meeting, Land wafts to land Concord's ignoble greeting. Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore I The apple-tree is on the rampart growing; On the stern battlement the wall-flower blooms; The stream that roU'd blood-red is faintly glowing With summer's rose, which its green banks perfumes; The helm thr.t girt the brow of the undaunted By peasant hands with garden shrubs is planted. Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more. Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore! Men wax obscurely old — the city sleeper Starts not at horse-tramp or deep bugle-horn; The grenadier consoles no lovely weeper. Above her sullen kindred's bodies borne; The people smile, and regal pride's declining, Since round imperial brows the olive's twining. Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Wlio fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore ! THE riRATE'S SERENADE.^ My boat's by the tower, my bark's in the bay, And both must be gone ere the dawn of the day; The moon's in her shroud, but to guide thee afar. On the deck of the Daring's a love-lighted star; Then wake, lady ! wake ! I am waiting for thee. And this night or never my bride thou shalt be! Forgive my rough mood, unaccustomed to sue, I woo not, iJerchance, as your land lovers woo; My voice has been tuned to the notes of the gun. That startle the deep when the combat's begun; And heavy and hard is the grasp of a hand Whose glove has been ever the guard of a brand. Yet think not of these, but this moment be mine. And the plume of the proudest shall cower to thine; A hundred shall serve thee, the best of the brave. And the chief of a thousand will kneel as thy slave ; Thou shalt rule as a queen, and thy empire shall last Till the red flag, by inches, is torn from the mast. ! islands there are, on the face of the deep, Where the leaves never fade, where the skies never weep; And there, if thou wilt, shall our love bower be. When we quit, for the greenwood, our home on the sea; And there shalt thou sing of the deeds that were done, When we braved the last blast, and the last battle won. Then haste, lady! haste! for the fair breezes blow, As my ocean-bird poises her pinions of snow; Now fast to the lattice these silken ropes twine. They are meet for such feet and such fingers as thine ; The signal, my mates — ho! hurra for the sea! This night and for ever my bride thou shalt be. I LOVE THE LAND. ( WRITTEN ON LEAVING SCOTLAND.) I love the land ! I see its mountains hoary. On which Time vainly lays his iron hand; I see the valleys robed in sylvan glory. And many a lake with lone, romantic strand; And streams and towers, by immortal story Ordained heart-stirring monuments to stand ; Yet tower, stream, lake, or valley could not move me. Nor the star-wooing mountain, thus to love thee, Old, honour'd land ! ' The "Serenade" is everywhere sung throughout the | i love the land . United States, and his "Camii Song" is one of tlie I I hear of distant ages, popular and well-established favourites in Texas.— Ed. I A voice proclaiming that it still was free; JAMES TELFEE. 21'; That from the hills where winter wildest rages Swept forth the rushing winds of Liberty; That blazoned brightly on the noblest pages E'er stamped by Fame its children's deeds shall be. Oh! poor pretender to a poet's feeling Were he who heard such voice in vain appealing: I love the land ! I love the land ! My fathers lived and died there; But not for that the homage of their son; I found the spirit in its native pride there- Unfettered thoughts — right actions boldly done; I also found (the memory shall preside here, Thi-oned in this breast, till life's tide cease to run) Affection tried and tiiie from men high-hearted. Once more, as when from those kind friends I parted, God bless the land ! LmES WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF MY FRIEND WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, NOV. 1S47. Place we a stone at his head and his feet; Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet; Piously hallow the poet's retreat, Ever approvingly. Ever most lovingly. Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet. Harm not the thorn which grows at his head; Odorous honours its blossoms will shed. Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped Hence, not unwillingly — For he felt thrilhngly— To rest his poor heart 'mong the low-lying dead. Dearer to him than the deep minster bell. Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell. Vocal -ivith sorrows he knoweth too well. Who, for the early day, Plaining this roimdelay, Might his own fate from a brother's foretell. Worldly ones treading this ten-ace of graves, Grudge not the minstrel the little he craves. When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves — Tears— which devotedly, Though all unnotcdly. Flow from theu- spring in the soul's silent caves. Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine. Graced with the beauty which lives in his hue; Strew with pale fiow'rets, when pensive moons shine. His grassy covering. Where spirits, hovering. Chant for his requiem music divine. Not as a record he lacketh a stone! Pay a hght debt to the singer we've known— Proof that our love for his name hath not flown With the frame perishing — That we are cherishing FeeUngs akin to the lost poet's own. JAMES TELFEE Born 1800 — Died 1862. James Telfer, for twenty-five years a school- master who was "passing rie-h with forty pounds a year," was boru iu the parish of Southdean, Roxburghshire, Dec. 3, 1800. At first he followed his father's occupation of a shepherd. A very great admirer of the Ettrick Shepherd's "Queen's Wake," he while quite young determined to produce some ballads similar to those contained in that charming work, and in 1821 he published at Jedburgh a volume of Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems, which obtained for him something more than a local reputation. It contained some fine lines, such as the fairy ballad of the "Gloamyne Buchte," which is remarkable for its tenderness. The style and measure of others of his pieces are as wild and graphic as the old specimens of Scottish ballads. The volume was dedicated to James Hogg in a few sweetly modulated lines. In 1835 Telfer published " Barbara Gray," a well written and interesting prose tale. He was also a frequent contributor in prose and verse to the magazines, and like the Ettrick Shep- 218 JAMES TELFEE. herd excelled in weird and wild subjects, fair}' legends, and folk-lore. He contributed several stories to Wilson's Tales of the Borders. A collected edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published in London in 1852, with the title of Tales and Sketches. Telfer had abandoned the crook, and having qualified himself he for a time kept a school at Castleton, Langliolm, and for the last twenty- five years of his life he was the schoolmaster at Saughtrees, Liddesdale, where in his humble but happy home he was freauently visited by the Ettrick Shepherd. His attainments were rewarded with a salary of some forty pounds per annum — a reward not unlike that conferred on Mr. Abraham Adams in Josejih Andrews, Avho being a scholar and a man of virtue was " provided with a handsome income of twenty- three pounds a year, which, however, he could not make a great figure with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and six children." Telfer was a most exemplary man and a vigorous writer. He died January 18,1862, in his sixty-second year. THE GLOAMYNE BUCHTE. The sun was reid as a furnace mouthe, As he sank on the Ettricke hyll; And gloamyn gatherit from the easte, The dowye world to fill. When bonnye Jeanye Roole shemilkit theyowes, r the buchte aboon the lynne; And they were wilde and ill to weare. But the hindmost buchtfu' was inne. milk them weil, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, The wylye shepherd could say, And sing to me " The Keache i' the Creel," To put the tyme away. It's fer owre late at e'en, shepherd, Replyed the maiden fair; The fairies wad hear, quo' bonny Jeanye Roole, And wi' louting my back is sair. lie's ta'en her round the middel sae sma'. While the yowes ran bye between. And out o' the buchte he's layd her down, And all on the dewye green. The star o' love i' the eastern lifte Was the only e'e they saw; — The only tongue that they might hear Was the lynne's deep murmuring fa'. who can tell of youthfu' love! who can sing or say ! It is a theme for minstrel meete, xVnd yet transcends his lay. It is a thraldome, well I wcene, To hold the heart in sylke; It is a draught to craze the braiuc, Yet mylder than the mylke. sing me the sang, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, Now, dearest, sing to mel The angels will listen at yon little holes, And witness my vowes to thee. 1 mayna refuse, quo' bonnye Jeanye Roole, Sae weel ye can me winne: And she satte in his armis, and sweetly she sang. And her voice rang frae the lynne. The liltings o' that sylver voice. Might weel the Avits beguile; They clearer were than shepherd's pipe Heard o'er the hylls a mile. The liltings o' that sylver voice. That rose an' fell so free. They softer were than lover's lute. Heard o'er a sleeping sea. The liltings o' that sylver voice Were melody sae true; They sprang up-through the welkin wide To the heaven's keystane blue. Sing on, sing on, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, Sing on your sang sae sweet; — Now Chryste me save! quo' the bonnye lass, W^hence comes that waesome greete? They turned their gaze to the Jlourning Cleuch, W'here the greeting seemed to be. And there beheld a little greene bairnc Come o'er tiie darksome lea. And aye it raised a waesome greete, Butte and an eiry crye, Untille it came to the buchte fauld ende, Where the wynsome payr did lye. JAMES TELFEE. 219 It lookit around with its snail-cap eyne, That made their hearts to grou ; Than turned upright its grass-green face, And opend its goblyne mou'; Then raised a youle, sae loude and lange — Sae yerlish and sae shrille, As dirled up throwe the twinkling holes The second lifte untille. I tell the tale as tolde to me, I swear so by my faye ; And whether or not of glamourye, In soothe I cannot say. That youling yowte sae yerlish was, Butte and sae lang and loude, The rysing moone like saffron grewe. And holed ahint a cloude. And round the boddome o' the lifte. It rang the worild tlirough, And boomed against the milkye waye, Afore it closed its mou'. Then neiste it raised its note and sang Sae witchinglye and sweete, The moudies, powtelit out o' the yirth, And kyssed the synger's feete. The waizle dunne frae the auld grey cairn, The theiffe foulmart came nighe; The hureheon raxed his scory chafts. And gepit wi' girniug joye. The todde he came frae the Screthy holes. And courit fou cunninglye; The stinkin' brocke wi' his lang lank lyske, Shotte up his gruutle to see. The kidde and martyne ranne a race Amang the dewye feme; The mawkin gogglet i' the synger's face, Th" enchanting notes to learne. The pert little eskis they curlit their tails, And danced a myrthsome reele; The tade held up her auld dunne lufes, She likit the sang sae weele. The herone came frae the witch-pule tree. The houlet frae Deadwood howe; The auld gray corbie hoverit aboone, While tears down his cheeks did flowe. The yowes they lap out-owre the buchte, And skippit up and downe; And bonnye Jeanye Koole i' the shepherd's armis, Fell back out-owre in a swoone. It might be glamourye or not, In sooth I cannot say, It was the witching time of night — The hour o' gloamyne gray, And she that lay in her loveris armis I wis was a weel-faured Maye. Her pulses all were beatinge trewe. Her heart was loupinge lighte, Unto that wondrous melody — That simple song of mighte. THK SONGK. where is tinye He we? O where is little Lenne? And where is bonnye Lu? And Menie o' the glenne ? And Where's the place o' rest? The ever changing hame — Is it the gowan's breast, Or 'neath the bell o' faem? Chorus.— Ay lu Ian, Ian dil y'u, &c. The fairest rose you finde May have a taint withinne; The flower o' womankinde. May ope her breast to sinne. The foxglove cuppe you'll bring. The taile of shootinge sterne. And at the grassy ring, AVe'U pledge the pith o' feme. Chorus. — Ay lu Ian, Ian dil y'u, &c. And when the blushing moone Glides down the western skye. By streamer's wing we soon Upon her top will lye; — Her hichest horn we'll ride, And quaffe her yellowe dewe; And frae her skaddowye side, The burning daye we'll viewe. Chorus.— Ay lu Ian, Ian dil y'u, &c. The straine raise high, the straine fell low, Then fainted fitfullye; And bonnye Jeanye Eoole she lookit up. To see what she might see. She lookit hiche to the bodynge hille, And laighe to the darklynge deane; — She heard the soundis still ringin' i' the lifte, But naethinge could be scene. She held her breathe with anxious care. And thought it all a dreame; — But an eiry nicher she heard i' the linne. And a plitch-platch in the streime. 220 JAMES TELFEE. Js^ever a Avord said bonnye Jeanj^e Roole, Butte, shepherd, lette us gange; And never mair, at a Gloamyne Buchte, AVald she singe another sange. SAINT ULLIN'S PILGRIM. "Remain with us, thou gentle guest, Remain with us, till morning stay: The daylight's dying in the west, And long and lonesome is the way. "My sons to wake the deer are gone In far Glen AfFric's wild-wood glade; Flora and I are left alone, Give us thy company, dear maid. "Think not that covert guile doth lie Disguised in garb of fair good-will. The name of hospitality Is sacred on the Highland hill. "Wert thou the daughter of my foe, As thou'rt the Saxon stranger's child, I would not, could not let thee go To be benighted in the wild. "Flora, my darling, cheer prepare, And bid the maid our welcome prove; Old Kenneth of the snowy hair Is young to see his daughter's love." "Entreat me not, thou good old man," With falt'ring tongue the maid replied, " I must pursue my wayward plan, — I may not, cannot here abide." "Ah! maiden, wayward sure thou art. And if thou must, thou must be gone; Yet was it never Kenneth's part To send the helpless forth alone. "All-blighting Time hath me subdued, Mine eyes are glazed and dim of ken. The way is rugged, waste and rude — Glenelchaig is a dreary glen. "Yet Flora will her father aid. So speaks that bright e.xpressive eye; — Shall we desert the stranger maid, When other aid none else is nigh?" "0 kind old man," the maiden spoke, "All human aid I must forego. My sacred vow must not be broke — The vow the living must not know. "Farewell! entreat not, Ol farewell." So said, she sped away in haste; Deep, deep the gloom of evening fell, And heaven and earth were all a waste. "Abate thy grief, thou white-hair'd man, And, lovely Flora, cease to weep; For Heaven the heart can truly scan, And doth of love remembrance keep. "For He who is our trust and might, And who is with His own alway. As nigh us is in shades of night, As in the brightest beams of day. "His presence shield the maiden's soul ! " — The gloom now dark and darker hung; AVith wild, continuous, fearful iiowl Each glen, each cliff, each cavern rung. Yet held .she on— avaunt, dismay! — O'er sparry ledge and rolling stone; Rude, dark, and toilsome, was the way, And all untrod, yet held she on. Yet held she on, by hill and stream. Thro' tearing brakes and sinking swamps, "While savage eyes around her gleam Like half-extinguished cavern lamps. She heard the Glomah, ever dark. Like wakening thunder deeply moan; And louder heard the howl and bark. With scream, and hiss, and shriek, and groan. She came beneath that fatal rock Where horror lower'd in tenfold wrath— A hamlet here,^ the mountain broke, And life was overwhelmed in death. She deem'd she heard the bursting crash, The agonized and stifled shriek; Her senses reel, her ear-drums dash, Her eyeballs strain well nigh to break. Yet sped she on, her heart beat high. So loud it did itself alarm; She crossed at length the Altondye, Then lighter grew her thoughts of harm. Still sped she on by rock and bush. Her tender limbs much grievance found; She heard the streams of Fahda rush. And hollow tongues were whispering round. 1 Tliere is a pass in Glenelchaig nearly blocked up with detached pieces of rock. Here, says tradition, was once a village, and the rock ahove giving way in the night buried it and all its inhabitants. — Ed. JAMES TELFEK. 221 KiluUin^ met her sight at length — Corpse candles burnt with livid flame — Xow Heaven assist the maiden's strength, 'Tis much to bear for mortal frame. As near'd she to the camp of death, The lights dancei in the yawning blast. And sheeted spectres crossed her path, All gibbering ghastly as they pass"d. Yet high resolve could nothing harm, Sped on the maiden free of scathe; Night's clammy dews fell thick and warm. The sulph'ry air was hot to breathe. She reached at length Saint Ullin's stone, Composed in effort thereon sate; Thou Power that yet hast led her on, Enstrengthen her the end to wait! She knelt her by the slumbering saint. Viper and toad around her crawl; Yet swerv'd she not — her soul grew faint, In prayer her lips did move — 'twas all. A languor chilled the living stream, She sunk upon the mould of death: Say did she sleep as those who dream, Or sleep as those who slept beneath? Her sleep was not that mortal night In which the spirit leaves the clay; 'Twas wak'ning to a vision bright Of light and everlasting day. 'Twas wak'ning in another sphere, A fairer, purer, holier, higher; Where all is eye, where all is ear, Where all is gratified desire. Burst on her sight that world of bliss. Where woe and death may never come; She heard the hymns of Paradise, Where not a tuneful breeze is dumb. She saw Life's river flowing wide. With Love and Mercy on the brim, Compared unto its crystal tide The splendour of our sun was dim. And on that tide were floating isles, With bowers of ever-verdant green, Where sate beneath th' eternal smiles Those who on earth had faithful been. She heard the hallelujahs rise From those who stood before the throne; Kilullin, literally the burying-place of Ullan.— Ed. She turned aside her mortal eyes From what they might not look upon. Her lovely face she strove to hide, It was, as angel's, mild and fair; She felt a tear spontaneous glide. She thought of one she saw not there. A shining seraph to her came. In melody his accents moved, — "Fair virgin of the mortal frame, Thy steadfast faith is well approved. '"Twas seen thy soul devoid of stain — 'Twas seen thy earthly passion pure — Thou deem'st thy love in battle slain — 'Twas seen what virtue can endure. "'Twas seen your souls asunder rent — Each to its better being lost; In pity was a vision sent — You both are proved, and faith shall boast. "Cease not to love while life shall last, And smooth your path shall love divine; And when your mortal time is past. This visioned blissful land is thine." He ceased,— the maiden raised her eye, His radiant form she could not mark; She heard the music fall and die — The vision pass'd, confused and dark. She felt her heart give fitful thrill- She felt the life-stream slowly play — She thought she heard tlie lark sing shrill- She thought she saw the breaking day. She felt impressed a glowing kiss. She heard the well-known accents move — She started round — powers of bliss! 'Tis Allan Samradh — he, her love! Can fleeting visions sense enslave? No, these are past, she doth not sleep; 'Tis he for whom she death could brave, — For whom her eyes in heaven could weep. The sun above the mountains bright Streamed liquid gold o'er land and sea; Earth, ocean, sky, did float in light. And Nature raised her hymns of glee. Our lovers saw not sea nor sun, They heard not Nature's matin hymn ; Their souls were pour'd from one to one- Each other's eyes, all else was dim. 222 LOED KINLOCH. Oil, WILL YE WALK] "Oh, Avill ye Avalk the wood wi' mel Oh, will ye walk the green? Or will ye sit within mine arms, My ain kind Jean?" "It's I'll not walk the wood wi' thee, Nor yet will I the green; And as for sitting in your arms. It's what I dinna mean." "Ohl slighted love is ill to thole. And weel may I compleen; But since that better niayna be, I e'en maun thol't for Jean." "Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh, Ye saw her late yestreen ; YVU find in her a lightsome love Ye winna find in Jean." 'Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh I carena to be seen ; Her lightsome love I'd freely g For half a blink frae Jean." .e "Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds, 1 ken for her ye green; Wi' her yc'll get a purse o' gowd — Ye'U naething get wi' Jean." "For doity Madge o' Miryfaukls I dinna care a preen ; The purse o' gowd I weel could want, If I could hae my Jean." "Oh yes! I'll walk the wood Avi' thee; Oh yes! I'll walk the green; But first ye'll meet me at the kirk. And mak' me aye jour Jean." LOED KINLOCH Born 1801 — Died 1872. William Penney, although not one of the great masters of song, is entitled to a niche in our gallery as the author of numerous meri- torious religious poems. He was the son of ^Ir. William Penney, a respectable Glasgow merchant, and was born in that city Aug. 8, 1801. He was educated at the university there, and selecting the profession of the law, he passed advocate at the age of twenty-three. His talents and industry insured him suc- cess, and in 1858 he was appointed a judge of the Court of Session, taking the title of Lord Kinloch. His first publication, entitled Tlie Circle of Christian Doctrine, appeared in 1861, followed in 1863 by " Time's Treasure, or Devout Thoughts for Every Day in the Year, expressed in verse, by Lord Kinloch." "I offer this volume," he remarks in the pre- face, "as a collection of thoughts rather than poems. My design is simply to present, day by day, a brief exercise of devout reflection, which, actually performed by one Christian, may be fitly repeated by othei-s: expressed in that form of language, which, as it is peculiarly appropriate to the divine praise, is on that account specially fitted to be the vehicle of religious meditation. The object of the volume is not an exhibition of poetic fancy, but an expression of Christian life." Times Treasure has been favourably received, and has passed through four editions. Lord Kinlocli's other works are Faith's Jervels, 2^resent<'d in Verse ; Studies for Sunday Evening; Headings in Holy Writ; and Devoid Moments: a selection from Time's Treastire. He died at Hartrigge, near Jedburgh, Oct. 30, 1872. GIFTS TO GOD. I gathered, Lord, of flowers the fairest, For thee to twine; I hoarded gems, of hue the rarest, To make them thine: But thou mine off'er so preventedst, By gift from thee, beyond my thought. That, whilst I took what thou presentedst, I was ashamed to give thee ought. LOED KINLOCH. 223 My gifts appeared so poor and meagre, Matched with thy boon, I straightway grew to hide them eager; But thou, full soon, Smil'dst, as thou saidst, " Hast nought render Of all thou from my grace hast gained ?" Then all I gave thee; and the tender From thine acceptance worth obtained. to A LOST DAY. Say not thou hast lost a day, If, amidst its weary hours. Gloomy thoughts, and flagging powers. Thou hast found that thou could'st pray. By a single earnest prayer, Thou may'st much of work have done; Much of wealth and progress won, Yielded not by toil and care. To thy dear ones, then embraced. Thou may'st wondrous help have lent; Message full of love have sent ; Given a fortune free from waste. If one thought was upward thrown, 'Twas to eyes in heaven a sign; 'Twas to heavenly treasures coin; 'Twas in house above a stone. In God's book of weal and crime. Many days, in which thou thought' st Thou full well and hardly wrouglit'st, Bear the blot of idle time: Whilst the day, to which may f;ill One short prayer alone for mark, Writ may be, midst bright and dark, As thy gainfullest of all. DYING IN DARKNESS. The Saviour died in darkness; thus he gave A thought from sinking to despair to save. When gloom surrounds the entrance to the grave. The Saviour bowed his head; and meekly went To death, 'midst all its woes and pangs content, To teach thee how to meet its worst event. Thy Saviour felt forsaken, as he died: No marvel, if with such a fear be tried The sinner, who with him is crucified. Yet as a son into his father's hands. The Saviour gave his spirit, 'midst his bands; Do thou the same, when run thy latest sands. As he upon his cross, so, on thy bed. Be thou, amidst the darkness, free from dread; And find "'Tis finished," may at last be said. The earthquake,deemed thy rock to undermine. Serves but to rend the veil, which masks the shrine ; And make the holiest of holies thine. DESIRE OF DEATH. AVhen strongest my desire of death, I least am fit to die; Because the will, which keeps my breath, I then would fain deny. Why would the servant, ere the time, Enter the Master's room. Who may, as for a heedless crime, To longer waiting doom? The angel, who would change his place. For work or watch ordained, God might well exile from his face. As one with folly stained. 'Tis the same course, the saint above. And earthly fellow suits; To serve and sing, to look and love. And bring the Lord his fruits. I must, by longer stay on earth. Better for heaven prepare: I may not go, with such a dearth Of graces needful there. God more of strength for duty give; More patience Christ supply: When longer I am fit to live, I shall be fit to die. THE STAR IN THE EAST. I sought for wisdom in the morning time. When the sun cleared the hills; and strove to climb Where I could further see; but all in vain The efforts made: 'twas but unwearying strain At truth ; nor had of knowledge save the pain. 224 WILLIAM WILSON. There rose a star i' th' cast, before 'twas night, And spoke of God; but only spoke of migiit, And height, and distance; in a gathering mist, I lost the star; I could not but persist To seek, but how to find it nothing wist. I journej'ed long and darkly; but at last Tiie star appeared; and now its beams were cast On a poor stable, where, in swaddling bands, An infant lay in virgin mother's hands; Fixed tiiere it stood, and fixed for me still stands. I found where wisdom dwelt; and, in my joy, Brought forth my gifts; gold, though it held alloy, Which dimmed its worth; incense from forth a breast, Warm witii new love; myrrh, througii all life possessed, Fragrant to make the couch of earth's last rest. LITANY. Lord, when earthly pleasures lure. When the bad our doubts assure. And to sin appears secure, Keep us pure. liOrd, when strife we meet and wrong, Judgments harsh, and angry throng. For that we to Christ belong, Keep us strong. Lord, Avhen in our stores we find Wealth amassed, like idol shrined. And the fortune threats the mind. Keep us kind. Lord, when sickness brings its qualm, Or when sorrow finds not balm. And the prayer supplants the psalm, Keep us calm. Lord, when human praise we seek, AVhen we run beyond the weak, And approach the topmost peak, Keep us meek. Lord, when rusheth whelming ill. When our sins their pledge fulfil. And Ave see in woe thy will. Keep us still. Lord, when nought can more be had, To our life an hour to add. And the parting-time is sad, Make us glad. BREAD ON THE WATERS. Time rolls on; and, in its flow, Thoughts are dropped, which, day by day. Float away. And from reach of memory go. Are they then for ever gone? Or will these, upon thy sea. Eternity, Rise to startle us anon ? Oft are found, on after morn, Themes which random words disperse, Or which verse Hath, like ark of rushes, borne. All at once, on devious way. Juts a corner of the stream. With a gleam, Briglit remembrance to convey. On the waters I have cast Thoughts on which, like hallowed bread, I have fed, 'Midst the scenes of moments past. All may quickly sink from sight; Yet enough in heaven to view One, who grew, Therebj', unto peace or light. WILLIAM WILSON Born 1801 — Died 1860. William Wilson, the youngest but one of a family of eight children boru to John Wilson and his wife Agnes Ross of Inverness, was born at CrieiFon Christmas day, 1801. His family WILLIAM WILSON. 99, TO had settled in Perthshire in the seventeenth century, and the poefs great-grandfather, Allan AVilson, fell fighting gallantly for Prince Charlie at Culloden.^ At an early age young AVilson was imbued with a passionate love of poetry, derived from his mother, who sang with great beauty the old Jacobite songs and ballads of her native land. AVhen five yeai's old he lost his father, and the misfortunes of the family at that time came not singly, but in battalions. The generous merchant's death was preceded by his failure in business through the knavery of those whom he had trusted; and a bachelor brother's fortune in Jamaica was in some way lost to his children, for whom it was intended. His widow, a high-spirited woman, steadily refused pecuniary aid from sympathizing friends, prefei'ring to rely upon her industry and economy for her own and her children's maintenance, so that Wilson's early life, like that of his friend Robert Chambers, was one of honourable poverty, dignified by hard and honest work, which ultimately brought its due reward. Young Wilson composed verses when ten years of age. At twenty-two he became the editor of the Dundee Literary Olio, a large pro- portion of the contents of which, both in prose and verse, was from his pen. In 1826 he was induced by influential friends to remove to Edinburgh, where he established himself in business. "There was," wrote Eobert Cham- bers, "at this time something very engaging in his appearance: a fair open countenance, ruddy with the bloom of health ; manners soft and pleasing." In the same year he lost his young and devoted wife, to whom he had been married in 1819, and he sought relief from his great sorrow in composition. His contribu- tions were welcomed in the Edinburgh Literary Journal^ and other leading periodicals. In 1830 Wilson married for his second wife Miss Sibbald of Borthaugh, a descendant of Sir Andrew Sibbald of Balgonie, and a niece of Dr. 1 The poet's aunt, Jane Wilson, wife of Captain Mun- roe, comniauder of an armed merchant vessel owned in Inverness, received an autograph letter of thanks from Queen Chai'lotte, and a life-i)ension, for her gallantry in fighting her husband's ship after lie was wounded and carried below, capturing tlie enemy's vessel, a French privateer; and Wilson's eldest brother was with Wellington in all his Peninsular battles and in his crowning victory at Waterloo. Three of the poet's sons Vol. II.— P James Sibbald, the literary antiquary and editor of the Chronicle of Scottish Poetry. At this period his charming conversation and manners, and his excellent singing of Scottish songs, made the young poet a welcome guest in the literary circles of Edinburgh. At the house of Mrs. Grant of Laggan he was a frequent visitor, and so great was this gifted lady's attachment to the handsome young Highlander, that she claimed the privilege of giving her husband's name to his eldest son by his second marriage, and of possessing the poet's portrait painted by an eminent artist. AVhen thirty-two years of age AYilson removed to the United States, and settled at Pough- keepsie, on the Hudson, Avhere he engaged in the business of bookselling and publishing, which he continued till his death, August 25, 1860. During his residence in the New AVoi-ld he occasionally contributed in prose and verse — generally anonymouslj' — to various American periodicals, and now and then sent a paper or poem to Blackwood or Chambers' Journal. Selections of his poems appeared in the Cabinet, Whittle Binkie, Book of Scottish Song, the Modern Scotti-vh Minstrel, and other similar publications; but he never issued them in a volume or even collected them, and it was not till the green grass was growing over his grave in the Episcopal burial-ground at Pough- keepsie, where his second wife and four of his children now sleep by his side, that a portion of his poems was published, accompanied by a memoir by Benson J. Lossing. A second edi- tion, with additional poems, appeared in 1875. Many of the poet's musical compositions were much admired. One of his earliest was frequently sung by an eminent songstress at the Edinburgh Theatre; and his latest — an air of great beauty — was composed during the last year of his life for one of Ainslie's sweet songs. The music and the words of many of AVilson's lyrics wei'e written chiefly for the pleasure of hearing them sung in his own house, for he rarely permitted his musical compositions to be published. were in the armies of the North during the American civil war, and one was mortally wounded at the battle of Fredericksburg. — Ed. - To this periodical, conducted by his friend Henry Glassford Bell, late sheriff of Lanarkshire, Wilson con- tributed in the course of thi-ee years thirty-two poems. 226 WILLIAM WILSON. Willis pronounced one of Wilson's pieces " the best modern imitation of the old ballad style that he had ever met with;" and Bryant, another distinguished American poet, said: "The song in which the writer personates Richard the Lion-hearted during his imprison- ment is more spirited than any of the ballads of Ay to un." Hew Ainslie, who still survives his friend, writes to the Editor: " Having summered and wintered it for many long years with your dear father, I ought to know something of the base and bent of his genius, though, as he hated all shams and pretensions, a very slight ac- quaintance with him showed that independence and personal manhood, 'As wha daur meddle wi' me,' were two of his strong features; while humour, deep feeling, and tenderness were prominent in all he said or wrote, and oh ! the pity that he did not give us mora 'Jean Linns' and 'Auld Johnny Grahams' in his native tongue. I loved him as a man, a poet, and a brother, and I had many proofs that my feel- ings were reciprocated." The idea of this AVork originated with William Wilson, but urgent demands upon his time, together with failing health, interfered with its execution. The task devolved upon his son, who has, as an act of filial duty no less than as a labour of love, endeavoured to complete his father's unfulfilled literary pro- ject. TO MY CHILDREN.! Yes, my young darlings, since my task is done. Again I'll mingle in your freaks and fun: Be glad, be gay, be thoughtless, if I can. And merge the busy worldling in the man. Not the stiff pedagogue, with brow severe, Authoritative air, and look austere. But the fond sire with feelings long repress'd, Eager to bless as eager to be bless'd, — Longing, in home's dear sanctuary, to find The smiling lips, the embrace, the kiss so kind, The cloudless brow, the bearing frank and free, The gladdening shout of merriment and glee, And all the luxury which boisterous mirth Scatter'd erewhile around our social hearth. Kemeraber ye, my sweet ones, with what "pomp And circumstance" of glee we used to romp From room to room, o'er tables, stools, and chairs, O'erturning hoiisehold gods — now up the stairs, Now under sofas, now in corners hiding. Now in, now out, now round the garden gliding ? Remember ye^ — when under books and toys The table groan'd, and evening's tranquil joys Soothed your excited spirits to repose — How blithe as larks at peep of daw^l ye rose ? Pleased every moment, mirthful every hour. As bees love sunshine, or as ducks the shower; No ills annoy'd you, pleasures never pall'd, Cares ne'er corroded, nor repinings gall'd, 1 This justly admired composition was written for his friend John Aitken, editor of Conitable's Miscellany and the London Cabinet, to the third series of which work it was prefixed by Mr. Aitken as a dedication to his children.— Ed. But, like blithe birds from clime to clime that fly, Each change brought blossoms and a cloudless sky. " But now papa's grown strange, and will not speak, Nor play at bUnd-raan's buff, or hide-and-seek; Tell no more stories ere we go to bed. Nor kiss us when our evening prayers are said; But stiU, with thoughtful look, and brow of gloom, He stalks in silence to his study-room, Nor ever seeks our evening sports to share; Why, what can dear papa be doing there?'' Such were the thoughts which oft in tears gush'd forth Amid the pauses of your infant mirth, And dimm'd the lustre of your bright blue eyes— As wandering clouds obscure the moonlight skies, Making their misty mellowness even more Soul-soothing than the glorious hght before. 'Mid laurel'd literature's Elysian bowers, I've been a-roaming, culling fadeless flowers, And these collected treasures at your feet I lay, ye beautiful! " sweets to the sweet!" Yet all too soon I dedicate to you Flowers of such rich perfume and varied hue. O'er which the deathless fire of genius breathed; And all too soon this garland I have wreathed, To win me favour in your infant eyes; Though years may come ^^•hen ye will fondly prize Affection's fond memorial, given to prove The doating fondness of a father's love; Love full as ocean's waters, firm as faith, Wide as the universe, and strong as death. WILLIAM WILSON. 22"; SWEET LAMJIA.S MOOIS'. Sweet Lammas moon, thy silvery beam Brings many blissful thoughts to me, Of days when in my first love dream, I blest thy light on Craigie Lea. And well I might— for thy young ray Ne'er shone on fairer love than mine; Xor ever youth met maiden gay Beneath a brighter gleam than thine. And well I might— for Mary's charms Upon my bosom lay reclined, While round her slender waist my arms In fondest love were closely twined. And there and then, in that blest hour, We plighted vows of changeless faith; Tows breathed with passion's warmest power, And broken by the hand of death. Sweet Lammas moon, then thy young ray Shone on my Mary's peerless bloom ; Now waningly, in slow decay, Thou beamest coldly on her tomb. AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM. Dear aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham ? The carle sae pawkie and slee! He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame. And the bodie has ettled at me. Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an' owerlay sae clean. An' ribbon that waved boon his bree, He cam' doun thecleugh at the gloamin' yestreen, An' rappit, an soon speert for me. I bade him come ben whare my minnie sae thrang Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie. An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang Ere he tauld out his errand to me. "Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land, Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie, An', meikle man- gear shall be at yer command, Gin ye will look kindly on me. " Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen, Sax naigies that nibble the lea; The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen, I'segie a', dear Tibby, to thee. "An", lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin', An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e; A mettl'd, but canny young yaud for the yokin' When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me. " I'll hap ye and fend ye, and busk ye and tend ye, And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e; I'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye, As couthy as couthy can be. " I've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn, Ye ran up the knowe to meet me; An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue-bells an' fern, Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee. "An' noo woman growTi, an' mensefu' an' fair. An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be — Will ye tak' an auld carle wha ne'er had a care For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?" Sae, aunty, ye see I'm a' in a swither. What answer the bodie to gie— But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither. And let puir young Tibby abee. A WELCOME TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH.^ Oh, the queer auld man, the dear auld man, The drollest in Christendie— Wha sae aft has beguil'd doure care till he smil'd— He's comin' his kinsfolk to see! He's comin' to daud frae his bonnet a blink. The stoure o' classic ha's — He's hung up his goun i' the guid auld toun, An' brunt his critic's taws. Chorus — He's a dear auld man, he's a queer auld man. He's a free auld man, he's a slee auld man— Frae the Aristook to the Raritan, Ye'll no find the fier o' our spree auld man. But his pike-staff o' aik whilk mony a paik. Has i-ung on timmer crowns — An' his birken crutch ye'll find few such. For soberin' senseless loons; Thae switches strang— the short an' the lang. The pawkie auld carle brings; An' wae to the pate o' the blether-skate On whilk their vengeance rings. He's a bauld auld man, he's a yauld auld man. He's a leal auld man, he's a hale auld man— An' there's no a lady in a' the Ian' Wi' a bly thesomer e'e than our braw auld man. 1 Written as a welcome to Professor Wilson on hear- ing of his intention to visit tlie United States.— Ed. 228 WILLIAM WILSON. But a kindly wit has Scotland's Kit, As kind a heart an' smile — An' the saft words flung- frae his witchin' tongue, The gled frae the lift wad wile; For a' kinds o' lear— his presence be here! An' a' kinds o' knowledge has he, Baith Latin an' Greek he as gUbly can speak, As ye wad the ABC. He's a grave auld man, he's a brave auld man, He's a frank auld man, he's a swank auld man. At fleechin', or preechin', or cloovin' a pan— There's nae peer to our north countree auld man. Sae lads to your shanks, an' thegither in ranks, Let's welcome gude Kit to our shore. In our costUest braws — wi' our loudest hurrahs. Till the wondering welkin roar; For kings are but caff, an' warld's gear draff Engulphed by the tide of time. But the heaven-bom mind, lovin' a' mankind. Till dooms-day shall tower sublime. He's a grand auld man, he's a bland auld man. He's a yare auld man, he's a rare auld man, Tho' the terror o' sumph an' o' charlatan. He's a kind-hearted debonair auld man. JEAN LINN. Oh, hand na yer noddle sae hie, ma doo! Oh, liaud na yer noddle sae hie! The days that hae been may be yet again seen, Sae look na' sae lightly on me, ma doo! Sae look na' sae lightly on me! Oh, geek na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn, Oh, geek na' at hame hodden gray! Yer gutcher and mine wad thocht themsels fine In cleidin' sae bein, bonnie may, bonnie may — In cleidin' sae bein, bonnie may. Ye mind when we won in Whinglee, Jean Linn, Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine. An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn, An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then. Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn! Oh, then ye were a' thing to me! An' the moments scour'd by like birds through the sky. When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn, When tentin' the owsen Avi' thee. I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn, I twined ye a bower by the burn, But dreamt na' that hour, as we sat in that bower. That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn, Tiiat fortune would tak' sic a turn. Ye Ijusk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn! Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw! Yer daddy's a laird, mine's i' tlie kirkyard, An' I'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn, An' I'm your puir ploughman, Jock Law. RICHARD C(EUR DE LION. Brightly, brightly the moonbeam shines On the castle turret-wall; Darkly, darkly the spirit pines. Deep, deep in its dungeon's thrall. He hears the screech-owl whoop reply To the warder's drowsy strain, And thinks of home, and heaves a sigh For his own bleak hills again. Sweetly, sweetly the spring flowers spread. When first he was fettered there; Slowly, slowly the sere leaves fade. Yet breathes he that dungeon's air. All lowly lies his banner bright. That foremost in battle streamed. And dim the sword that in the fight Like midnight meteor gleamed. But place his foot upon the plain, That banner o'er his head. His good lance in his hand again, With Paynim slaughter red. The craven hearts that round him now With coward triumph stand. Would quail before that dauntless brow, And the death-flash of that hand. BRITANNIA.i Old England, warlike England, Thy lion wakes again! His roar through sunny Ind resounds As once it pealed in Spain. 1 Though living under the " Stars and Stripes," Mr. Wilson never ceased to love, never forgot to render due homage to the land of his birth. The above piece, that might almost be ranked with some of Campbell's patri- otic effusions, shows that William Wilson always re- served a warm corner iu his heart wherein to cherish the memories of our " sea-girt isle." — PeojjU's Journal. WILLIAM WILSON. 229 In soul-arousing notes it rings, Through Cathay's distant clime, And a wail On the gale Is blent with battle's hymn, "While the craven herds amaz'd behold Triumph unstained by crime. Old England, dauntless England, Thy conq'ring legions come! The clansmen's gathering pibroch blends With trumpet and with drum. Bold Erin's battle cry bursts forth, As on the dusky bands With a cheer They career, And the traitors bite the sands. Or like the chaff by rushing wind. Are scattered through the lands. Old England, noble England! Thy hand ne'er drew the glaive But from his foes to free the wronged. His fetters from the slave: Yet ever gen'rous in thy strength To spare a fallen foe, No stain Can remain On thy scutcheon's spotless snow, Who strong in might upholds the right, And strikes the spoiler low. Old England, glorious England, On this terrestrial sphere For truth, and worth, and majesty Where yet was found thy peer? Thou treader down of tyranny. Thou tamer of the strong. Land and main Own thy reign. And round thy footstool throng, While wand" ring nations worship thee, Thou queen of sword and song. JEANIE GRAHAM. She whose lang loose unbraided hair Falls on a breast o' purest snaw, Was ance a maid as mild an' fair. As e'er wil'd stripling's heart awa'. But sorrow's shade has dimm'd her e'e. And gathered round her happy hame. Yet wherefore sad ? and where is lie. The plighted love of Jeanie Graham? The happy bridal day was near, And bfythe young joy beam'd on her brow. But he is low she lov'd so dear, And she a virgin widow now. The night was mirk, the stream was high. And deep and darkly down it came; He sunk— and wild his drowning cry Rose in the blast to Jeanie Graham. Bright beams the sun on Garnet-hill, The stream is calm, the sky is clear; But Jeanie's lover's heart is still. Her anguish'd sobs he cannot hear. Oh! make his grave in yonder dell, Where willows wave above the stream. That every passing breeze may M-ail, For broken-hearted Jeanie Graham. SABBATH MORXIXG IN THE WOODS. Oh blessed morn! whose ruddy beam Of gladness mantles fount and stream, And over all created things A golden robe of glory flings. On every tendril, leaf and spra}', A diamond glistens in the ray. And from a thousand throats a shout Of adoration gushes out; A glad but sweet preclusive psalm Which breaks the hallow'd morning's calm. Each wimpling brook, each winding rill That sings and murmurs on at will, Seems vocal with the blest refrain, "The Lord has come to life again! " And from each wild flower on tlie wold. In purple, sapphire, .snow or gold. Pink, amethyst or azure hue. Beauteous of tint and bright with dew. There breathes an incense ofl'ering, borne Upon the wak'ning breeze of morn To the Creator, all divine! Meet sacrifice for such a shrine. Far down those lofty forest aisles, AVhere twilight's solemn hush prevails. The wind its balmy censer swings Like odours from an angel's wings. Who, passing swift to earth, had riven Their fragrance from the bowers of heaven. And through each sylvan tangled hall. Where slanting bars of sunlight fall. Faint sounds of hallelujahs sweet. The tranced ear would seem to greet. 230 THOMAS ATKINSON. As if the holy seraphim Were choiring here their matin hymn. God of all nature! here I feel Thy awful presence, as I kneel In humble heart abasement meet, Thus lowly at thy mercy seat; And while I tremble, I adore; (Like him by Bethel's stone of yore), For this thy vouchsafed presence given, Hath made this place the gate of heaven. WORK IS PRAYER. Lahorare est orare. Oh grant us faith to work, and hope to win. When jocund youthhood's morning sun is shining, 'Tis time the work of warfare to begin. The Christian soldier's warfare wag'd with sin. Lahorare est orare. Oh Father, let our toil seem ever sweet ! WTien duty bids us still the task be plying; The task that brings us daily to thy feet To catch new glimpses of thy mercy-seat. Lahorare est orare. Though stern the harvest toil, the day's work long, With thankful hearts our scanty sheaves we'll gather. And strong in confidence, in trusting strong, Still with our tears wUl mingle bursts of song. Lahorare est orare. We soon must lay our earthly armour down. And in the heavenly land are legions waiting To raise the choral welcome of renown. And crown us with an everlasting crown. WANING LIFE AND AYEARY.i Waning life and weary, Fainting heart and limb, Darkening road and dreary, Flashing eye grow dim; All betokening nightfall near Day is done, and rest is dear. Slowly stealing shadows Westward lengthening still. O'er the dark brown meadows, O'er the sunlit hill. Gleams of golden glory From the opening skj', Gild those temples hoary — Kiss that closing eye: Now drops the curtain on all wrong — Throes of sorrow, grief and song. But saw ye not the dying. Ere life passed away, Faintly smiled while eyeing Yonder setting day ; And, his pale hand signing Man's redemption sign — Cried, with forehead shining, Father, I am thine! And so to rest he quietly hath passed, And sleeps in Christ the Comforter at last. THOMAS ATKINSON Born 1801 — Died 1833. Thomas Atkinson was born at Glasgow, December 30, 1801. He was apprenticed to a bookseller, and subsequently entered into part- nership with David Robertson, a Glasgow book- seller and publisher. Although engrossed with the management of an extensive business, Atkinson found time to cultivate his taste for literature, and made his first appearance as a writer by the publication of Tlce Sextuple Alliance, a series of poems on the subject of Napoleon Bonaparte. In 1826-27 he edited and issued Tlte Ant, a work in two volumes, comprising original and selected matter. His next publication was The Chameleon, a work of the character of the annuals of that day, Avhich commenced in 1831 and extended to three volumes. The contents of this hand- 1 Written in a feeble and faltering hand by the author a few days before his death. — Ed. THOMAS ATKINSON. 231 some work were mostly his own composition, and many of his songs were set to music by himself. Atkinson Avas a keen politician of the Liberal school, and distinguished as a public speaker. Hs was an unsuccessful candidate for parliament at the election held subsequent to the passing of the first reform bill, and the exertions of his political canvass produced an illness which terminated in pulmonary disease. He died October 10, 1833, during a voyage to Barbadoes for the restoration of his health, and was buried at sea. A monument to his memory was erected in the Necropolis of his native city. He left a considerable sum of money to accu- mulate for a time in the hands of the city cor- poration, and then to be aj^plied in the erection of a building in Glasgow for scientific pur- poses, to be called the Atkinsonian Institution. TO THE AURORA BOREALIS. Banner of midnight — vagrant light — Aui'ora of the darken'd pole, Why shouldst thou here, in fitful flight, Why thus unfurl thy portent scroll? Yet, as we gaze on thee, to see The future pictured, as of old, Lo! thou shut'st up our destiny In many a quick and antic fold! Say, comest thou rushing, with wild wing. To warn us of some pending ill? For still belief will fondly cling. When nought remains of prophet skill! Yes! o'er the peaceful front of heaven Methinks the charging squadrons fly! Look! o'er.yon steep battalions driven! Hark to the missiles hurtling by ! 'Tis past! the rustling strife is o'er, But 'thwart the broad expanse of blue, Where madly flickered light before. Now spreads a silent, holy hue. And, folding like the radiant wings Of the adoring cherubim. Thy more than sapphire lustre flings On earth the radiance of a dream. Then let me, as our fathers did. In thee behold the coming time! The future may not all be hid — And oracles have spoke in rhyme! When the brief strife of Might and Right, The last that will be here, is o'er. Then Peace and Truth, like yon calm light. Shall lend to earth one glory more! But thou wilt pale when morning's ray Makes bright yon wide expanse of sky: Shall these, like thee, too, fade away. And all their light and lustre die? They perish not! — Thou melfst in light, While they in bliss but merge away. Exhaled in all that's pure and bright, As thou by yonder coming day ! THE PROUD HEART'S PAIN. There's na ane cares for me now, In a' this warld wide; I'm like a withered tree now, Whar a' are green beside! There's nae heart that can love me Wi' love sae leal's my ain; — Yet why should a' this move me. Or gie my proud heart pain! The hand o' warmest greeting, AVhen placed in mine, grows chill; And if blythe's the hour o' meeting, Fareweel seems blyther still! The lowliest are above me. They've ane they ca' their ain! — Yet why should a' this move me. Or gie my proud heart pain! The mither dear that bore me. In sorrow and in pine; Yet hung in gladness o'er me, — The lad-wean o' langsyne, — Even wi' her leal breast drappin' The bluid, when milk was nane. Now cares na what may happen To gie my proud heart pain. And them on whom I doated, Wi' a mair than brither's heart, IIow^ blythely they've forgot it. An' ne'er heed to take my part! My kith an' kin will listen When my name is lichtly ta'en; An' nae e'e wi' tears will glisten. Though my proud heart be in pain I 232 THOMAS ATKINSON. Oh ! clear, dear love o' Avoman Sae fond but fearfu' too, 0, the ills, bye past or com in', How much I owe to you! Dead now are a' who loved me, — Though the grave may not ha'e ta'cr. ! This — this of a' hath moved me. And gien my jjroud heart pain! The frien's that ancc I trusted, Ha'e left me in my need; They were gaen, before I wist it, Or Avord ripen'd into deed! "He'll maybe rise above me," Said ilka ane that's gane, — But why should a' this move me. Or gie my proud heart pain! I fed on hope and dreamin', Through lang, lang years o' toil, For the licht of fame seemed gleamin' In the distance a' the while! 'Twas the shot-star that beguiled me, And then left me thus alane, 0! tliat fause, fause licht has wiled me, To half my proud heart's pain ! But ae thing yet is left me. Which I will never tine; Though Fate of a' bereft me. This wealth wad still be mine! The leal proud heart that never Hath bowed beneath its pain, But that forgives the giver, And can throb wi' love again! ALAS! I CANNOT LOVE! Sweet lady, there was nought in me to win a heart like thine; No stamp of honour'd ancestry, that spoke a noble line; Nor wealth that could that want repay, had I to lure thine eye, When all, but thee and thine, still pass'd the boy-bard coldly by. Can T forget the blushing hour when by thee led to the dance. And all the proud who on me lowcr'd, with many a haughty glance? A radiant smile there was for me — for them a lofty look, Which graced my very bashfulncss, and gave their s:orn rebuke! Beside thee, in thy father's hall, amid the banquet throng. For me was kept tiie place of pride— for me Avas given tiie song! What had I done— what can I do— my title to approve? Alas! this lay is all my thanks— my heart is dead to love. It is not that my heart is cold, nor yet is vow'd . away; But tiiat, amid the spring of youth, it feels itself decay; The wither'd bloom of early hopes, and darings, hope above, Encrust it now, and dim its shine — Alas! I cannot love! They tell me that my broken lute once Avrouglit on thee its spell; They whisper that my voice, now mute, in speech could please thee well : Pale brow, blue eye, and Saxon locks, they .say, thy heart could move More tlian red cheeks or raven curls— yet, ah! I cannot love! It may be — as I trust it is — that in my willing ear They pour'd the dew of flattery, and that thou, lady, ne'er Hadst thoughts that friendship would not own : for souls like thine can prove How much of kindred warmth may glow with- out a spark of love! One only passion now will cure this pal.sy of the heart: — Ambition's .spell, if aught, will lure; but what- soe'er the part. In after life, I do or dree, the praise shall all be thine, And all I hope, and all I win, be offered at thy shrine! MARY SHEARER. She's aff and awa', like the lang summer day, And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary; The sun-blinks o' June will come back owre the brae, But lang for blithe Mary fu' mouy may weary. For mair hearts thine mine Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer; But nane mair will pine For the sweet Mary Shearer! EGBERT WILSON. 233 She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers, And the bluebell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither; The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours, But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither. Their sweet breath is fled — Her kind looks still endear her; For the heart maun be dead That forgets Mary Shearer. Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung; An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced onalover; Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue, Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover. Oh ! he maun be blessed Wha's allowed to be near her; For the fairest and best 0' her kind's Mary Shearer! But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven, My countiy and kin, — since I've sae lov'd the stranger; \Vhare she's been maun be either a pine or a heaven — Sae across the braid world for a while I'm a ranker: Though I try to forget — In my heart still I'll wear her, — For mine may be yet, — Name and a' — Mary Shearer! THE HOUR IS COME. The hour is some — too soon it came — When you and I, fair girl, must sever; But though as yet be strange thy name. Thy memory will be loved for ever. "We met as pilgi-ims on the way. Thy smiles made bright the gloomiest wealhei', Yet who is there can name the day When we shall meet again together ? Be that as 'twill, if ne'er to meet, At least we've had one day of gladness; And oh! a glimpse of joy's more sweet That it is seen through clouds of sadness. Thus did the sun — half-hid to-day — Seem lovelier in its hour of gleaming. Than had we mark'd its fervid ray Through one uutired day of beaming. EOBEET WILSON. Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, Fifeshire, in 1801. He was edu- cated for the medical profession, and practised for some time at St. Andrews. For many years he has lived in retirement at Aberdour, a watering-place on the coast of Fife celebrated for the beauty of its scenery. Dr. Wilson is the author of Lectures on the Game Laws, The Social Condition of France, and a volume of poems published in 1856 at Boston, Mas- sachusetts. Since that date he has contributed many poetical pieces, ciiiefly lyrical, to the periodicals, which have not yet been repub- lished in a collected form. Dr. Wilson is also the author of several brochures on subjects of a socio-political character. AMERICA. Honour to him on whose prophetic brain First dawned the woodlands of the western main; Wlio realized at last his youthful dreams. And found the New World, with her woods and streams, Where living verdure fringed the circling floods, And red men wandered in primeval woods ! Wlien persecution scourged with iron rod The worshippers of liberty and God; Gave patriot-blood the tyrant's thirst to slake, Fii-e to the fagot, victims to the stake, — Freedom, from warring Europe long exiled. Found a safe refuge in the forests wild. Wlien future martyrs met their trembling flocks To worship God among the woods and rocks. Then many a worshipper, to shun the brand. Left for his father's faith his father-land. And, in the western woodlands far away, Sought fearlessly the house of God to pray; 234 EGBERT WILSON. Once more their pious bosoms proudly swell To list the tinkling of the Sabbath-bell. And thither pilgrims flocked from many a clime, Where love to God or freedom was a crime; And when at last, across the severing wave, A giant-arm was stretched to crush the brave, When Britain strove to impose the tyrant-yoke, 'Twas then the glorious cry for Freedom woke: The stirring memory of want and wrong. Sustained in various lands from whence they sprung. Bound in one resolute devoted band The scattered children of that foster-land: The patriot-ranks the stalwart woodmen own, Beneath whose arm majestic forests groan. The peasant, lingering round his home, surveys His log-built cabin 'midst the flowering maize; Then leaves his sobbing spouse and sportive child. To wrestle for his treasures in the wild. The aged sire, whose now-reposing arm The waste transmuted to the cultured farm. In hopes to spend his age among his race. Fights for the sweet spot in the desert place. To such a glorious band, 'mong whom was none Who could not call some spot of earth his own, What are the tools that tyi-ants cast away, When at their game of lives they chance to play ? Freedom prevailed, and left this truth sublime To her fond worshippers of future time, — All have the power who wish but to be free; A truth we owe, America! to thee. Long has the venturous, woe-worn exile-band Proclaimed thy woody shore the poor man's land. Where all may boast some little spot of earth. Where waves their grain, and glows the social hearth. That sunny spot becomes a guiding star To suffering kindred in their homes afar, To lure the victims sad of want and power To happier shores in Fortune's troubled hour. Where work the peasant and mechanic's hand Changes more rapid than enchanter's wand. Where late the jaguar shvmned the noonday heat. The laden wain rolls up the crowded street; And whei-e the youth has marked the wild deer shake Their forked antlers by the crystal lake, And, never daunted by the woodman's axe. O'er the smooth water hold their arched necks. Ere the few gladsome years of youth have flown. Has marked the commerce of a busy town; And in the lately silent creek has seen The havened barks amid the foliage green. Where the cold ague's treacherous poison sleeps. And o'er its bed the noxious serpent creeps. Soon shall the homesteads with their cornfields shine, Beside the smooth canal's long silvery line, Adown whoso glittering steps the ships shall go To the broad waters of the lake below. And where the Indian maid, with barbarous rite. Mourns for her lover slain in savage fight, And, with the bow and quiver in his hand. Equips her warrior for the Spirit's Land, — There human relics shall in peace be laid. And o'er the sad ruin mournful honours paid. Blended with faith that Christ will come again To raise and beautify the prostrate fane. HUMBIE WOOD, ABERDOUE. At sultry noon or close of day Alike I love the woodland way. In Hillside's shady walks to stroll, Or thread the path by hedge or rill That leads to Humbie's wooded hill, Conspicuous for its beauty still, Though trees crown every knoll. Thei'e visions charm the inward sight; And waking dreams tiiat please to-night Will yield again their bliss to-inorrow; When on the leafy copse I look, Or soaring tree, or flowery nook, Or list the scarce-seen bickering brook That runs the forest thorcfugh. Or mark the chestnut's floral crown, And ancient pine of solemn brown That knows the cushat's indraw crush; Or watch, to waving boughs sublime, The graceful squirrels nimbly climb, While the plumed minstrels' mingled chime Is heard from brake and bush. But not these woodland sounds alone To the rapt dreamer's ear is known; But oft in opening glade it meets Familiar sounds we love to hear. From him who stoops the plough to steer; Or oxen low on hillocks near. Or gamesome lambkin bleats. Our piney wood and mountain thyme The gorgeous flower of southern clime In spicy fragrance far exceed; Nor Araby a perfume knows More rich than sweetbriar or the rose, Or where the bean or hawthorn blows, Or hay-cock scents the mead. Awhile my tardy steps are stayed Beside a beech prolix of shade, Delicious in the summer noon; Where in tlie cool sequestered bower EOBEET WILSON. 235 The speedwell grows, my fav'rite flower. Or dandelion, that tells the hour, The herdboy's clock in June. Or o'er the ground the trees between. The ivy spreads its matted green; And honeysuckle climbs the tree — Its odours sweet the insects note, AVhich through the sylvan allej'S float, And lure from mossy haunts remote The blossom -loving bee. For where the honeysuckle climbs, And ample spread the luscious limes. The toilsome bees their nectar sip; There too the nuts and berries grow. Whose ripening time the schoolboys know- The berry blue, and purple sloe. The hazel and the hip. Emerging from the forest glade. Scenes fair as mortal e'er surveyed Burst sudden on the raptured view: For now the gleams of parting day Tint rock and ruin, inch and bay. And softly tip with slanting ray The wavy Pentlands blue. The boatman hoists his slender sail To catch the new-born coming gale, AVhile sidelong lies the idle oar — And sweetly musing feels the power Of summer gloaming's witching hour. When gazing on fair Aberdour And its enchanting shore. Or from the blue unruffled bay Goes the Avheeled bark no calms delay. Or winds deter, these coasts between; And from its deck the gazer sees Wood-fringed shores that ever please. Or the high Hewes' majestic trees. And rocks with ivy green. Northward, to woodland wanderers dear, Cullalo hills their barrier rear. Their summits with rich forest clad ; While downward severing clumps are seen. And slender lines of hedgerow green. With sloping sheltered fields between. For coming harvest glad. But now around the welkin's brim Gather the shades of evening dim, That soon familiar sights confuse; Far-parted forests Seem to meet, AVhere swains in glade with hawthorn sweet, As here, the tale of love repeat, And fameless poets muse. The milkmaid opes the paddock gate, AVhere kine distended meekly wait That stated fill her shining pail. No more the rustics drudge and moil. Untrodden lies the fallowed soil, And all the sounds of ruder toil Are hushed within the vale. The daisy knows the dewy hour. And careful folds tlie tender flower Which opens to the morning sun; The star of eve appears to view; Thin wreaths of smoke, so faintly blue. From hut and hamlet rise anew — And the long day is done. LINES COMPOSED IX THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF ABERDOUR. The stately Norman church that shows Its arches to the open sky, The chancel where tall seedling grows. And vault where nobles lie; The nameless grave, the lettered stone. To me are more congenial themes On whiclx to muse an hour alone Than all ambition's dreams. Here father, mother, children own Some little spot of common earth, And cluster round the pillared stone As round the parent hearth. While some beneath those hillocks pressed Together share the dreamless sleep, Whose kindred take their lasting rest By distant shore and deep. Some sleep on India's sultry shore, One where the ocean waves o'erwhelm. Some 'neath this antique sycamore, And immemorial elm. Yon tablet in the churchyard wall, Eeared by a sister's tender care, Records the fate that haps to all — The household's names are there. And stones around are thickly strewed. Which still tlie fond survivor rears, Where homely rhymes and sculpture rude Speak to our hopes and fears; And holy text and humble lay Foretell the Christian's endless bliss. While star and sun still point the way To brighter worlds than this. 236 EOBEET MACNISH. And see, all eloquent of death, Are skull and cross-bones side by side; The shuttle quaintly carved beneath Tells how the moments glide. The rose's stony petals there Speak of a transient breath and bloom, Fit emblems of the loved and fair Who find an early tomb. And spindles rudely carved disclose How fine the thread of life is spun; This sandglass to the gazer shows How soon his race is run. The muse in artless numbei's sings Her tribute to the good and just, AVhile cherubim with outstretched wings Protects the honoured dust. The worn and Aveary here at last Eepose upon their lowly bed, And text and arrow tell how fast Death's fatal weapon sped ; And how for them fond eyes were dim. And tender hearts were torn; While sculptured crowns still speak of Him Who wore the crown of thorn. Beyond the sycamores I mark Th' inconstant ocean ebb and flow, O'er which the full-sailed barge and bark, Like wandering pilgrims go; While in the sheltered haven nigli, Meet images of perfect rest, Some safe from storms together lie, In peaceful pennons dressed. Below, the water of the Dour, Like mortal being, glides away ; Aloft, the weather-wasted tower Looks down in proud decay : The ash-tree's verdant branches wave Above the heaving, hallowed mould, That soon shall shed o'er tomb and grave Their leaves of paly gold. Though here no more the anthems swell, And holy men no longer preach, Stream, tower, and tree of frailty tell; While texts and verses teach. Inscribed above the mortal dust Which gathers round the house of praj'cr, That all who place in God their trust Immortal bliss shall share. EGBERT MACNISH Born 1802 — Died 1837. TIosERT JIacnish, M.D., author of the Anatomy of Drunkenness, the Pliilosophy of Sleep, and various contributions to Blackwood's Magazine, was born at Glasgow, February 15, 1802. After receiving the elements of educa- tion in his native city he was placed under the charge of the Rev. Alexander Easton of Hamil- ton, at that time at the head of a flourishing academy. The acquirement of the French language principally engaged the period be- tween his leaving this school and his entering upon the study of medicine with his grand- father and father, who were then associated in practice in Glasgow. Having at the age of eighteen passed an examination before the College of Surgeons, he obtained from the University of Glasgow the degree of Magister Chlrurgke. After eighteen montlis of country practice in Caithness, where his health failed, he went abroad and spent a year in Paris. With the medical prelections of Broussais and the surgical ones of Dupuytren he was much delighted; he met Cuvier, and formed an acquaintanceship with Gall. On his return to Scotland he settled in Glasgow, which con- tinued to be his place of residence until his death. In 1826 Dr. Macnish became a contributor of prose and verse to the most celebrated magazine of the day — Blackwood. His elabo- rate treatises, more especially the Anatomy of Drunkenness and the Philosophy of Sleep, gained for him great reputation at home, and carried his name to the United States, from whence the degree of Doctor of Laws was sent to him. They were also translated into the French and German languages. Di-. IMacnish died Jan. 16, 1837; and so perished in the prime of life, and in the bloom of his fame as well as of his professional usefulness, a man whom EOBEET MACNISH. £37 Scotland may well number among her gifted children. A critic said of him — "There was always a spring of life about him that vivified his pages and animated and delighted his readers." A few years after Macnish's death two volumes of his essays, poems, and sketches, with a memoir of his life written by his friend Dr. D. M. Moir, the author of many beautiful poetical productions, was published in London. To this work we are indebted for the subjoined poems, as well as for the facts contained in this brief sketch. TO THE EHINE. Majestic stream! whose hundred fountains Have birth among the heathy mountains, Where .she who chains my soul doth dwell, I love thee more than words can tell. 'Tis not thy track o'erhung with towers Of antique mould — and clustering bowers- 'Tis not thy waves, romantic Rhine, Eolling away 'mong hills of pine — 'Tis not the matchless beauty given To thine o'erarching woods — as heaven Sighs o'er them with her airy spell- That bids thee in my memory dwell. Far other ties, majestic river. Have bound thee to this heart for ever. The mountains whence thy streams arise Are gladden'd over by her ej'es — Her starry eyes whose glance divine Was oft in rapture tum'd on mine. In vision like a radiant gleam, I see her mirror'd on thy stream, I hear her voice of silvery tone Arising from thy waters lone: I hear her lute's bland echo come With voice so soft— so all but dumb- That sound hath well-nigh striven in vain To mould the melancholy strain. Which empty silence fain would quell For ever in his voiceless cell. River of rivers! unto me Thy lucid breast shall ever be A shrine with thousand gifts o'erflowing — A spirit known, though all unknowing. Wlien by thy wizard banks I stray, Unnumber'd thoughts bestrew my way- Thoughts rising, like thy gushing fountains, Far off, from those romantic mountains Where she doth dwell who rules my heart— A soUtary star apart — A wild flower in her native glen. Far from the busy strife of men. What wonder then— 0! lordly stream- Since like an everlasting dream Her pictured memory dwells with thee, That thou art all in all to me ? Sweet is thy course, and even the call Of thunder — when thy waterfall Grindeth his rebel waves to spray, And shadoweth with mist the day. I love thee in thy gentle path — I love thee in thy moods of wrath — I love thee when thou ghdest under The boughs unheard— or roll'st in thunder. Yes, lordly stream, whose hundred fountains Have birth among the heathy mountains. Where she who chains my heart doth dwell, I love thee more than words can tell. THE LOVER'S SECRET. Thou walk'st in tender hght, by thine own beauty made. And all thou passest by are hidden in the shade; Foi-ms fair to other eyes appear not so to me, So fully glows my heart with thoughts alone of thee. I dream of thee by night— I think of thee by day— Thy form, where'er I go, o'ertakes me on my way; It haunts my waking thoughts— it fills mine hom-s of sleep, And yet it glads me not, but only makes me weep: — It only makes me weep— for though my spirit's shrine Is fill'd with thee, I know that thou can'st ne'er be mine: "Unconquerable bars," raised up by Fate's decree. Stand, and will ever stand, between my soul and thee! Hope long hath passed away, and nothing now remains For me but bootless love— its sorrows, and its pains; And to increase each pang, I dare not breathe thy name. Or, in thy gentle ear, confess my secret flame. Hope long hath passed away, and still thou art enshrined A spirit fair— within the temple of my mind: 238 EOBEET CHAMBEES. If I had loved thee less, the secret thou hadst known "';Vliich strong affection binds, and binds to me alone. The secret thou hadst known — but terror, lest thy heart In feelings such as mine should bear no kindred part, Enchains my soul, and locks within its silent urn Love which, perchance, from thee durst meet with no return. TO A CHILD. Thy memory, as a spell Of love, comes o'er my mind- As dew upon the purple bell — As perfume on the wind — As music on the sea — As sunshine on the river — So liatJi it always been to me, So shall it be for ever. I hear thy voice in dreams Upon me softly call, Like echo of the mountain streams In sportive waterfall. I see thy form as Avhen Thou wert a living thing, And blossom'd in the eyes of men Like any flower of spring. Thy soul to heaven hath fled. From earthly thraldom free; Yet, 'tis not as the dead That thou appear' st to me. In slumber I behold Thy form, as when on earth — Thy locks of waving gold — Thy sapphire eye of mirth. I hear, in solitude. The prattle kind and free Thou utteredst in joyful mood AVhile seated on my knee. So strong each vision seems. My spirit that doth fill, I think not they are dreams. But that thou livest still. EOBEET CHAMBEES Born 1802 — Died 1871. It may be doubted whether in recent years the name of any literary man in Scotland has been more widely known than that of the late Dr. Robert Chambers. His career was a kind of which his native land can exhibit perhaps more e.xamples in proportion than any other country, and of all her writers and poets of the nineteenth century, not even excepting Sir Walter Scott or Professor Wilson, he was the most thoroughly Scotch in his mind, feelings, and character. With his passion for reading, and his indomitable industry, he united an intense admiration for the land of his birth, and an unconquerable determination from his boyhood to celebrate in some way the glories of Auld Scotia — "Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power\ A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast; That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or book could make. Or sing a sang at least." If the devoted lover of his native land did not live to sing such stanzas as Burns and Scott sang, he yet lived to write "Young Kandal" and many other sweet songs which entitle him to a place in our gallery, and to pi'oduce upwards of seventy volumes, exclusive of de- tached papers, all illustrative of the history and progress of Scotland — its literature, social life, and antiquities. He wandered over and described all its classic scenes; he collected and garnered up the fast-fading traditions and national peculiarities of bygone days; and recorded, as no other writer has done, the story of the rash and romantic military enter- prise of '•■ Bonnie Prince Charlie," which ter- minated in the ruin of the Stuart family. Eobert Chambers was born July 10, 1802, in the ancient town of Peebles, lying in the EOBEET CHAMBERS. 239 lovely pastoral vale of Tweed, and the scene of the celebrated old poem " Peblis to the Play." He and his elder brother William were educated at the schools of their native town. Family misfortunes took their father to Edinburgh, and compelled Robert, Mho was intended for the Church, to make choice of a different career, and to forego the advantages of a university education. At the age of fifteen he opened a small book-shop in Leith Walk, Edinburgh, his stock consisting entirely of the wreck of the family library. He managed his little business with so much industry that in 1822 he was enabled to remove to a better locality, and soon after issued his first work, en- titled Illustrations of the Author of Waverley. Two years later he published his Traditions of Edinburgh, certainly in the writer's judgment the most amusing book of local antiquities to be met with. Eobert Chambers' next work, issued in 1826, was the Popidar Ehymes of Scotland, and in the year following his Pictures of Scotland appeared. The latter was a success- ful effort to elevate topographical and archaeolo- gical details into the region of belles-lettres, and it was for many years the best companion for travellers in Scotland. Enlisted in the corps of writers for Constables Miscellany, he wrote successively five volumes embodying the histories of the Scottish rebellions, of which that concerning the affair of 1745, while true as to facts, partakes of the charm of a romance. Then followed two volumes q{ a. Life of James I. ; three volumes of Scottish Songs and Ballads; and four volumes of the Biographical Diction- ary of Eminent Scotsmen. In addition to writing these various works, and giving attention to his business, he acted for a time as editor of the Edinburgh Advertiser, a well-established journal belonging to Donaldson, the founder of the hospital in the Scottish capital which bears his name. In 1832, amid much political distraction, there was a universal upheaving in favour of popular education in Great Britain. At this critical juncture the elder brother projected Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, the first num- ber of which appeared Feb. 4, 1832, six weeks before the appearance of the Penny Magazine. It was a marvel in the literary world, and at once met with surprising success, which, after a period of over forty years, it continues to enjoy. From the first Robert was an efficient contri- butor to the Journal, his delightful essays, pathetic and humorous, fixing the publication firmly in popular esteem. Animated by the same spirit, the brothers now joined in part- nership, and it is unnecessary to particularize the various enterprises in which they were unitedly concerned; suffice it to say that their publishing house has become widely knoAvn throughout both Great Britain and America. "You are aware," wrote Chambers in 1850 to William Wilson of Poughkeepsie, his life-long friend and correspondent, "that my brother and I conduct what you may call a great literary factory. We are not publishers in the ordinary sense of the word, but rather authors and editors working out our literary plans through the medium of a printing and pub- lishing concern in the hands of a set of subordi- nates. Thus the literary man takes in our case his naturally due place as the superior of the mere tradesman publishei-. It is a curious pro- blem in literary affairs that we are solving, and probably something may be heard of it twenty years hence. The printing of the books written and edited by us gives occasion for ten printing presses, the working of which is one of the sights of Edinburgh — a curious contrast with the infancy of my concern in Leith Walk, where you used to look in upon me!" Robert Chambers' next important work was his Cyclopedia of English Literature, a pub- lication of higher rank than any previous com- pilation of a similar character. It was followed by his Life and Letters of Robert Burns, including his poems. The profits of one edi- tion, amounting to £200, were presented to the daughters of Burns' surviving sister, who had herself previously received many kind- nesses from her brother's editor and admirer. "A dear and faithful friend has Mr. Chambers been to me," said the venerable lady to the writer when he visited her in her cottage of Bridgehouse, near Ayr, in the summer of 1855. Writing to the Editor from St. Andrews a short time before his death, Sir. Chambers said: "It is only last week, after an interval of three years, that I have got once more settled in a home of my own. My health, after being out of order for an equal space of time, is now completely restored. I am setting up a house- hold with one young daughter and three grand- 240 EOBEET CHAMBERS. children, hoping to have a few pleasant lei- surely jears at the close of a life which has perhaps been too active and laborious." In 1868 the University of St. Andrews con- ferred on Eobert Cliambers the honorary degree of LL.D. In his well-known hospitable home at St. Andrews the doctor dispensed a gen- erous hospitality, and liis dinners and even- ing parties here had something in them of the smack of old times. The pen was now taken up only occasionally as an amusement in the preparation of a L^fe of Smollett, his last literary work. The memoir when pub- lished bore strongly, like the archbishop's homily in Gil Bias, "the marks of mortal disease," though still a not unpleasing gossipy narrative. The remaining span of his life was happily accompanied by little if any phy- sical suffering, and he passed peacefully away March 17, 1871. In the last letter the Editor received from Dr. Cliambers he wrote: " I feel greatly interested, my dear general, in your proposed selections from the Scottish poets. You honour me much by introducing me into the Work. I think the selection of my pieces as good as could be made. In answer to your query, the 10th of July, 1802, is the date of my birth. There are no portraits of Barbour, Wyntoun, and Lyndsay, nor of any before Drummond, excepting the kings, and perhaps Buchanan." In 1872 a memoir of Robert Chambers, containing some of liis poems, with autobiographic reminiscences of William Cham- bers, Avas issued at Edinburgh, and immedi- ately republished in New York, both editions meeting with a wide circulation. THE PEERLESS ONE. Hast thou ne'er marked, in festal hall, Amidst the lights that shone, Some one who beamed more bright than all- Some gay — some glorious one ! Some one who, in her fairy lightness, As through the hall she went and came, And lier intensity of brightness, As ever her eyes sent out their flame. Was almost foreign to the scene; Gay as it was, with beauty beaming, Through which she moved : — a gemless queen, A creature of a different seeming From others of a mortal birth — An angel sent to walk the earth! Oh, stranger, if thou e'er hast seen And singled such a one. And if thou hast enraptured been — And felt thyself undone; If thou hast sigh'd for such a one. Till thou wert sad with fears; If thou hast gazed on such a one Till thou wert bUnd with tears; If thou hast sat obscure, remote. In comer of the hall, Looking from out thy shroud of thought Upon the festival; Thine eye through all the misty throng Drawn by that peerless light, As traveller's steps are led along By wild-fire through the night: Then, stranger, haply dost thou know The joy, the rapture, and the woe, Which in alternate tides of feeling, Now thickening quick — now gently stealing Throughout this lone and hermit breast, That festal night, my soul possess'd. ! she was fairest of the fair. And brightest of the bright; And there was many a fair one there, That joyous festal night. A hundred eyes on her were bent, A hundred hearts beat high; It was a thing of ravishment, God ! to meet her eye ! But 'midst the many who look'd on. And thought she was divine, 0, need I say that there were none W^ho gazed with gaze like mine ! The rest were like the crowd who look All idly up to heaven. And who can see no wonder there At either morn or even; But I was like the wretch embound Deep in a dungeon under ground, Who only sees, through grating high, One small blue fi-agment of the sky. Which ever, both at noon and night. Shows but one starlet shining bright, Down on the darkness of his place. With cheering and unblenching grace; The very darkness of my woe Made her to me more brightly show. At length the dancing scene was changed To one of calmer tone, EGBERT CHAMBERS. 241 And she her loveliness arranged Upon fair Music's throne. Soft silence fell on all around, Like dew on summer flowers; Bright eyes were cast upon the ground, Like daisies bent with showers. And o'er that drooping stilly scene A voice rose gentle and serene, A voice as soft and slow As might proceed from angel's tongue. If angel's heart were sorrow-wrung. And wish'd to speak its woo. The song was one of those old lays Of mingled gloom and gladness, Which first the tides of joy can raise, Then still them down to sadness; A strain in which pure joy doth borrow The very air and gait of sorrow. And sorrow takes as much alloy From the rich sparkling ore of joy. Its notes, like hieroglyphic thing, Spoke more than they seem'd meant to sing. I could have lain my life's whole round Entranced upon that billowy sound, Nought touching, tasting, seeing, hearing. And, knowing nothing, nothing fearing. Like Indian dreaming in his boat, As he down waveless stream doth float. But pleasure's tide ebbs always fast. And tliese were joys too loved to last. There was but one long final swell. Of full melodious tone, And all into a cadence fell, And was in breathing gone. And she too went: and thus have gone All — all I ever loved; At first too fondly doted on. But soon — too soon removed. Thus early from each pleasant scene There ever has been reft The summer glow — the pride of greon, And but brown autumn left. And oh, what is this cherished term. This tenancy of clay, When that which gave it all its charm Has smil'd — and pass'd away ? A chaplet whence the flowers are fall'n, A shrine from which the god is stolen ! SCOTLAND. Scotland! the land of all I love, The land of all that love me; Land, whose green sod my youth has trod, Whose sod sliall lie above me. Hail, country of the brave and good ; Hail, land of song and storv; Vol. II.— Q Land of the uncorrupted heart, Of ancient faith and glory ! Like mother's bosom o'er her child. The sky is glowing o'er me; Like mother's ever-smiling face. The land lies bright before me. Land of my home, my father's land; Land where my soul was nourish'd; Land of anticipated joy. And all by memory cherish'd! Oh Scotland, through thy wide domain AVhat hill, or vale, or river, But in this fond enthusiast heart Has found a place for ever? Xay, hast thou but a glen or shaw. To shelter farm or shelling, That is not fondly garner'd up Within its depths of feeling? Adown thy hills run countless rills, With noisy, ceaseless motion; Their waters join the rivers broad, Those rivers join the ocean; And many a sunny, flowery brae. Where childliood plays and ponders, Is freshen'd by the liglitsonie flood, As wimpling on it wanders. Within thy long-descending vales, And on the lonely mountain. How many wild spontaneous flowers Hang o'er each flood and fountain! The glowing furze, the " bonnie broom,' The thistle and the heather; The bluebell and the gowan fair. Which childliood likes to gather. Oh for that pipe of silver sound. On wliich the shepherd lover. In ancient days, breathed out his .soul, Beneath the mountain's cover! Oh for that Great Lost Power of Song, So soft and melancholy. To make thy every hill and dale Poetically holy! ,\nd not alone each hill and dale, Fair as they are by nature. But every town and tower of thine, And every lesser feature; For where is there the spot of earth Within my contemplation. But from some noble deed or tiling Has taken consecration! Scotland! the land of all I love, The land of all that love me; 242 ROBERT CHAMBERS. Land, whose green sod my 3-outli has trod, Whose sod shall lie above me. Ilail, country of the brave and good; Hail, land of song and story; Land of the uncorrupted heart. Of ancient faith and glory ! THE TRISOXER OFSPEDLINS. To Edinburgh, to Edinburgh, The Jardine he maun ride; He locks the gates behind him. For lang he means to bide. And he, nor any of his train, While minding thus to flit, Thinks of the weary prisoner, Deep in the castle pit. They were not gane a day, a day, A day but barely four, AV^hen neighbours spake of dismal cries Were heard frae Spedlins Tower. They mingled wi' the sigh of trees. And the thud-thud o' the lin; But nae ane tliocht 'twas a deein' man Tiiat made that eldrich din. At last they mind the gipsy loon, In dungeon lay unfed; But ere the castle key was got, The gipsy loon was dead. They found the wretch stretch'd out at length Upon the cold, cold stone. With starting eyes and hollow cheek, And arms peeled to the bone! Now Spedlins is an eerie house. For oft at mirk midnight The wail of Porteous' starving cry Fills a' that house wi' fright. " 0, let me out, let me out. Sharp hunger cuts me sore; If ye suffer me to perish so, I'll haunt you evermore!" sad, sad was the Jardine then. His heart was sorely smit; Till he could wish himself had been Left in that deadly pit. But " Cheer ye," cried his lady fair, " 'Tis purpose makes the sin; And where the heart has had no part, God holds his creature clean." Then Jardine sought a holy man To lay that vexing sprite; And for a week that holy man Was praying day and night. And all that time in Spedlins house Was held a solemn fast. Till the cries waxed low, and the boglcbo In the deep lied Sea was cast. There lies a Bible in Spedlins ha', And while it there shall lie, Nae Jardine can tormented be With Porteous' starving cr\-. But Applegarth's an altered man — He is no longer gay; The thought o' Porteous clings to him Unto his dying day. YOUNG EANDAL. Young Fiandal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', 'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa. That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa. It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie, To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie, That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee, And monie mae friends in tlie North Countrie. He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha', His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa. And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa', And mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'. " Oh, whan will ye be back?" sae kindly did she speir, "Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?" "Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear. To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear." Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa' — Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa', THOMAS AIRD. 243 And in his bonnie e'e a spark glintit high, Like the merrie, raerrie look in the morning sky. Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hanie — A sair altert man was he whan he came hame; Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name — And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame. He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring. And down came a ladye to see him come in, And after the ladye came bairns f eif teen ; " Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?" " Wliatna stoure carle is this,'' quo' the dame, " Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame ? " " Oh, tell me, fair madame, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?" " In troth," quo' the ladye, " sweet su-, the very same." He turn'd him about wi' a waefu' e'e. And a heart as sair as sair could be; He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee. And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee. Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie. And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie, And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be; For they've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie. LAMENT FOR THE OLD HIGHLAND WARRIORS. Oh, where are the pretty men of yore? Oh, where are the brave men gone ? Oh, where are the heroes of the north? Each under his owai gray stone. Oh, where now the broad bright claymore ? Oh, where are the trews and plaid ? Oh, where now the merry Highland heart? In silence for ever laid. Och on a rie, och on a rie, Och on a rie, all are gone; Och on a rie, the heroes of yore. Each under his own gray stone. The chiefs that were foremost of old, Macdonald and brave Lochiel, The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham, With their clansmen true as steel; Who foUow'd and fought with Montrose, Glencairn, and bold Dundee; Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all, And would aye rather fa' than flee. Och on a rie, &c. Tlie hills that our brave fathers trod Are now to the stranger a store; The voice of the pipe and the bard Shall awaken never more. Such things it is sad to think on — They come like the mist by day — And I wish I had less in this world to leave, And be with them that are away. Och on a rie, &c. THE LADYE THAT I LOVE. Were I a doughty cavalier On fire for high-born dame, Witli sword and lance I would not fear To win a warrior's fame. But since no more stern deeds of blood Tiie gentle f;iir may move, I'll woo in softer, better mood The ladye that I love. For helmet bright with steel and gold, And plumes that flout the sky, I'll wear a soul of hardier mould, And thoughts that sweep as high. For scarf athwart my corselet cast, With iier fair name y-wove, I'll have her pictur'd in my breast. The ladye that I love. No crested steed through battle throng Shall bear me bravely on. But pride shall make my spirit strong, Wliere honours may be won. Amidst the great of mind and heart, My prowess I will prove, And thus I'll win, by gentler art, The ladye tliat 1 love. THOMAS AIED. Born 1802 — Died 1876. Thomas Aird, who early distinguished him- self as a poet, was born at Bowden, Ro.xburgh- shire, August 28, 1802. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, where he formed 244 THOMAS AIRD. the acquaintance of Professor Wilson, Dr. Moir, and otlicr literary men. He studied originally for the ministry of the Church of Scotland, but, clianging his purpose, he embraced the freedom of a literary life, and became a frequent contri- butor in prose and verse to Blackwood' s Maf, an industrious and pro- lific writer, was born at Edinburgh, December 10, 1805. After being educated in his native city he became clerk to a Leith merchant, but he afterwards gave up this situation and entered the office of a writer in Edinburgh, with the intention of making the law his profession. In 1830 he published a volume entitled Poeti- cal Aspirations. In the year following he proceeded to London, where he formed the acquaintance of Allan Cunningham and other men of letters. For some years after this he resided in Abei'deen, employed on the Journal and Advertise)- newspapers of that city; and in 1836 he returned to London, where he contri- buted extensively to the magazines. In 1839 his Landscape Lyrics appeared in a handsome quarto volume, and in 1842 he published a valuable work, The Popular Scottish Bio- fjraphy. Mr. Anderson was also the editor of a 270 AVILLIAM ANDEESON. series of fire volumes, Treasury of History and Bio'jraph]/, Treasury of Nature, Science, and Art, &c. ; an edition of Lord Byron's works with a memoir and notes; and various other publications. He was connected for some time with the Witness newspaper, and in 1845 re- moved to Glasgow to assist in establishing the Daily Mail, the first daily newspaper issued in Scotland. In 1853 he began an important and extensive work, entitled The Scottish Na- tion; or the Surnames, Families, Literature, Honours, and Biographical History of the People of Scotland. This work, published by Fullarton & Co. in three large volumes, engaged its author for nearly twelve years, and is likely to prove his most enduring literary monument. In 1855 he published the "Young Voyager," a poem descriptive of the search after Sir John Franklin, and intended for juvenile readers. Mr. Anderson ended a life of much literary activity August 2, 1866, aged sixty-one years. The following pieces are selected from a col- lected edition of his poems published in 1845, and from which the author omitted many of his earlier compositions, not deeming them "worthy of further reprint." TO A WILD FLOWER. In what delightful land. Sweet-scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth ? Thou art no offspring of the common earth. By common breezes fanned! Full oft my gladdened eye, In pleasant glade, on rivei-'s marge has traced (As if there planted by the hand of Taste), Sweet flowers of every dye; But never did I see. In mead or mountain, or domestic bower, 'Mong many a lovely and delicious flower. One half so fair as thee! Thy beauty makes rejoice My inmost heart. — I know not how 'tis so, — Quick-coming fancies thou dost make me know, For fragrance is thy voice: And still it comes to me, In quiet night, and turmoil of the day. Like memory of friends gone far away. Or, haply, ceased to be. Together we'll commune. As lovers do, when, standing all apart, No one o'erhears the whispers of their heart. Save the all-silent moon. Thy thoughts I can divine, Although not uttered in vernac'lar words; Thou me remind'st of songs of forest birds; Of venerable wine; Of earth's fresh shrubs and roots; Of summer days, when men their thirsting slake In the cool fountain, or the cooler lake. While eating wood-grown fruits: Thy leaves my memory tell Of .sights, and scents, and sounds, that come again. Like ocean's murmurs, when the balmy strain Is echoed in its shell. The meadows in their green. Smooth-running waters in the far-off ways. The deep-voiced forest where the hermit prays, In thy fair face are seen. Thy home is in the wild, 'Mong .sylvan .shades, near music-haunted springs. Where peace dwells all apart from earthly things, Like some secluded child. The beauty of the sky. The music of the woods, the love that stii's Wherever nature charms her worshippers, Are all by thee brought nigh. I shall not soon forget What thou hast taught me in my solitude; My feeUngs have acquired a taste of good, Sweet flower! since first we met. Thou bring'st unto the soul A blessing and a peace, inspiring thought! And dost the goodness and the power denote Of Him who formed the whole. AT E'ENING AVHAN THE KYE. At e'ening whan the kye war in, An' lasses milking thrang, A neebour laird cam' ben the byre, The busy maids amang; He stood ahint the routin' kye An' round him glowered a wee. Then stole to Avhar young Peggy sat, The milk pail at her knee. WILLIA^I ANDERSON. 271 "Sweet Peggy, lass," thus spoke the lainl, "Wilt listen to iny tale?" "Stan" out the gate, laird," Peggy cried, "Or you will coup the pail; Mind, Hawkie here's a timorous beast. An' no acquent wi' you." "Ne'er fash," quo' he, "the milking time's The sweetest time to woo. " Ye ken, I've aften tauld ye that I've thretty kye and mair, An' ye'd be better owning them Than sittin' milkin' there. My house is bein, and stocket weel In hadden and in ha', An' ye've but just to say the word Tae leddy be o' a'." "AVheesht, laird," quo' Peggy, "diuna mak' Yersel' a fule an' me, I thank ye, for your offer kind. But sae it canna be. Jilaybe yer weel stocked house and farm. An' thretty lowing kine, May win some ither lassie's heart. They hae nae charms for mine; "For in the kirk I hae been cried, My troth is pledged and sworn, An' tae the man I like mysel' I'll married be the morn." The laird, dumfoundered at her words. Had nae mair will to try'r; But turned, and gaed far faster out, Than he'd come in the byre. I conld gi-eet whan I think hoo my siller dccreast, In the feasting o' those who came only to feast. The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie I thought a' the time was intended for me. But whancver the end o' my money they saw, Their friendsliip, like it, also flickered awa'. My ad^-ice ance was sought for by folk far and near, Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear, I'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that's trae. But I may jist baud my wheesht, for I'm naebody noo. I'M NAEBODY NOO. I'm naebody noo, though in days that are gane, Whan I'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain, There war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise, And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days! Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang, Wha laughed at my joke, and applauded my sang, Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee; But of coorse they war' grand when comin' frae me ! WTaan I'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack, There war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak' ; But whanever the water grew scant at the well, I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'. Whan I'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer. And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer; DRYBL'RGH ABBEY. By Tweed's fair stream, in a secluded spot, Rises an ivy-crowned monastic pile; Beneath its shadow sleeps the Wizard Scott; A ruin is his resting-place— no vile Unconsecrated graveyard is the soil; — Few moulder there, but these the loved, the good, The honoured, and the famed; and sweet flowers smile Around the precincts of the Abbeyhood, While cedar, oak, and yew adorn that solitude. Hail, Dry burgh ! to thy sylvan shades all hail I— As to a shrine, from places far away, With awe-struck spirit, to thy classic vale Shall pilgrims come, to muse, perchance to pray; More hallowed now than in thy elder day, For sacred is the earth wherein is laid The Poet's dust; and still his mind, his lay. And iiis renown, shall flourish undecayed. Like his loved country's fame, that is not doomed to fade. THPvOUGH THE 'WOOD. Through the wood, through the wood. Warbles the merle! Through the wood, through the wood, Gallops the earl ! Y'et he heeds not its song As it sinks on his ear. For he lists to a voice Than its music more dear. Through the wood, through the wood, Once and away. The castle is gained. And the lady is gay; 272 HENEY G. BELL. When her smile waxes sad, And her eyes become dim, Iler bosom is glad, If she gazes on him! Through tlie wood, through tlie wood, Over the wold. Rides onward a band Of true warriors bold; They stop not for forest, Tliey lialt not for water; Their chieftain in sorrow Js seeking his daughter. Through the wood, through the wood. Warbles the merle; Through the wood, through the wood. Prances the earl; And on a gay palfrey Comes pacing his bride: While an old man sits smiling, In joy, by her side. HENEY G. BELL EoRN 1805 — DiKD 1874. IIexry Glassford Bell, the son of James Bell, advocate, was born in Glasgow in 1805. His early life was spent chiefly in Edinburgh, to which city his father removed in 1811. Educated at the University of Edinburgh, he early exhibited a predilection for literature, and at the close of his college curriculum he wrote for Constable's Miscellany a " ilemoir of jMary Queen of Scots," in two volumes, which was so popular as to pass through several editions and to be translated into sevei-al modern languages. In 1829 he established the Edtnliuryh Literary Journal, which he con- ducted with marked ability for three years. As the editor of this periodical he formed an intimacy with many of the most distinguished literary men who lived in Edinburgh at the beginning of the second quarter of the present century. He was the friend and frequent companion of Professor Wilson, who speaks of Bell with respect and aflPection in his Noctes, where he appears under the name of Tallboys. In 1832 Mr. Bell was admitted to practise as an advocate, when his literary and artistic tastes became in some measure subordinated to the weightier business of his profession. In 1839 he was appointed a sheriff-substitute of Lanarkshire, a position in which his thorough knowledge of law and his sound judgment gave such satisfaction, that in 1867, on the death of Sir Archibald Alison, sheriff of Lan- arkshire, he received the vacant sheriffdom, and he continued to fulfil the duties of this important and honourable office with distinc- tion until his death, January 7, 1874. In 1831 jMr. Bell published a volume of poems entitled Summer and Winter Hours, followed the year after by J/// Old Portfolio, a collection of miscellaneous pieces in prose and verse. From time to time, at intervals snatched from the discharge of his professional duties, he gave to the world several volumes and poetical brochures, the latest of which appeared in 1865 with the title of Romances and other Minor Poems. This volume fairly entitles its author to a place in our Collection, containing as it does the fruits of mature thought, with which much of the poetic fervour of youthful feeling is beautifully blended. Mr. Bell was also an acknowledged connois.seur in art, and did inestimable service to the people of Scotland as well ^s to professional artists by his labours in establishing in 1833 the Pioyal Association for the Promotion of the Fine Arts in Scotland. He frequently appeared on the public platform as an eloquent speaker on subjects relating to art, literature, and social science; and was for many years one of the best-known men in the western capital. One of the journals of his native city said of Sheriff Bell : ' " There are two kinds of eminence, and among the men who have concentrated their lives on a single pursuit or a single problem Mr. Bell will not take a foremost rank. But rarely in the long list of our great lawvers has there been found one who has HENEY G. BELL. 273 combined a technical reputation so indisput- ably high with accomplishments and sym- pathies so varied and so acute. From the time when, amid the regrets of his friends the Ettrick Shepherd and others of the admiring circle which gathered round the brilliant young- Edinburgh advocate, he left the gardens of the Muses for the courts of Themis, he devoted himself with an unsurpassed and unsurpassable assiduity to the duties of his profession. But, as lias been the case with our greatest lawyers, his literary powers and tastes ever went hand in hand with his keen logical perceptions; and those who knew him best can recall no pleas- anter hours of intellectual interest than those spent in his discussions of the speculative and practical points at issue in the cases on which he was engaged. Mr. Bell was a great lawyer and a great deal more. He was one of the first of our few good dramatic censors; among patrons of art a Mrecenas; of Scotch critics of poetry among the best that our century has produced, and himself no mean poet. Many of his writings in prose and verse will bear a favourable comparison with the most deserv- edly popular volumes of recent times. But — and in this respect also he is associated with several of the most conspicuous of his country- men — though his works were good and his work was excellent, the man was more excel- lent. As with Irving and Chalmers, and his old friend John AVilson, what he has left behind can give no adequate impression of the space he filled in the minds and hearts of those Avho were privileged to enjoy his companion- ship. Henry Glassford Bell was in some respects the last of a race — ultimns Eomanorum — of the men who could think, and live, and talk, and revolve great problems in their minds, and yet keep a cheerful face before all the world. With that world he was always on good terms, but without surrendering an inch of his independence. He had almost the innocence of a child with the fortitude of a sage. If he had a fault, it was extreme good nature. His own inner convictions might have taken a more vivid and trenchant form had he been less chary of letting others into the secrets known only to those nearest to him." MARY QUEEX OF SCOTS. EUe f tait de ce monde ou les plus belles choses Ont le pile destiu.— Malhkbbe. I looked far back into the past, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls; And o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping sha- dow crept. And, all around, the noonday light m drowsy radiance slept. No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please; And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers, Vol. II.— S That Scotland knew no prouder names— held none moi-e dear than theirs; And Httle even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine, Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart line; Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And, as they flew, they left behind a long con- tinuing light. The scene was changed. — It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon, Whei-e, 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thou- sand courtiers throng; And proudly kindles Henry's eye, well pleased, I ween, to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace r.nd chivalry; — Gray Montmorencj', o'er whose head has pass'd a storm of years. Strong in himself and children, stands, the first among his peers; 274 HENRY G. BELL. Next him the Guises, who so well fame's steepest heights assail'd, And walk'd ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have fail'd, — And higher yet their path shall be, and stronger wax their might, For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light; There too the Prince of Cond^ wears his all unconquer'd sword. With great Coiigni by his side, — each name a household word ! And there walks she of Medici, that proud Italian line, The mother of a race of kings, the haughty Catherine! The forms that follow in her train a glorious sun- shine make, A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glit- tering wake: But fairer far than all the crowd, who bask on fortune's tide. Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new- made bride! The homage of a thousand hearts —the fond deep love of one — The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun. They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek. They sparkle on her open brow, and high-soul'd joy bespeak. Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours. She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers ? The scene was changed. — It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tear- ful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise. No marvel that the lady wept, — there was no land on earth She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth: It was her mother's land; the land of childhood and of friends; It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends; The land where her dead husband slept; the land where she had known The tranquil convent's hush'd repose, and the splendours of a throne : No marvel that the lady wept, — it was the land of France, The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance ! The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark; The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark! — • One gaze again— one long last gaze; "Adieu, fair France, to thee!" The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the un- conscious sea. The scene was changed. — It was an eve of raw and surly mood. And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds. That seem' d to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek, her smile was sadder now ; The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her brow; And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field; The Stuart sceptic well she sway'd, but the sirord she could not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes, the dreams of youth's brief day, And summon'd Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play The songs she loved in other years, the songs of gay Navarre, The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar: They half beguiled her of her cares, thej' soothed her into smiles, They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils. But hark! the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' battle-crj' ! They come, they come ! and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollovv eye ! Stern swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, her words, her prayers are vain. The ruffian steel is in his heart — the faithful Rizzio's slain ! Then Mary Stuart brush'd aside the tears that trickling fell; "Now for my father's arm," she said, "my woman's heart, farewell !" The scene was changed. — It was a lake, with one small lonely isle. And there, within the prison walls of its baronial pile. Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign The traitorous scroll that snatch'd the crown f i-om her ancestral line : " My lords, my lords!" the cajitive cried, "were I but once more free. With ten good knights on yonder shore to aid my cause and me. HENRY G. BELL. 275 That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows, And once more reign, a Stuart queen o'er my remorseless foes ! " A red spot burn'd upon her cheek, stream'd her rich tresses down; She wrote the words — she stood erect, a queen without a crown ! The scene was changed. — A royal host a royal banner bore; The faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen once more: She staid her steed upon a hill, she saw them marching by, She heard their shouts, she read success in every flashing eye: The tumult of the strife begins— it roars — it dies away. And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — where are they ? Scatter'd, and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone — God ! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won; Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no lag- gard's part; Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart. The scene was changed. — Beside the block a sullen headsman stood. And gleam'd the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood. With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall. And breathless silence chain'd the lips, and touch'd the hearts of all; Rich were the sable robes she wore, her white veil round her fell, And from her neck there hung the cross — that cross she loved so well ! 1 knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom, I saw that grief had deck'd it out — an offering for the tomb! I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone; I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every tone; I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold ; I knew that bounding grace of step, that sym- metry of mould. Even now I see her far away, in that calm con- vent aisle, I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile, — Even now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal morn. A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born! Alas, the change! she placed her foot upon a triple throne. And on the scaffold now she stands, besids the block, alone! The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd Who sunn'd themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bow'd ! Her neck is bar'd — the blow is struck — the soul has pass'd away! The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay! A solemn text ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone. Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne ! THE KINGS DAUGHTER. It was a lord and a gentle maid Sat in a greenwood bower, And thus the brave Sir Alfred said To the greenwood's fairest flower: — " I have loved thee well, sweet Rosalie, — With thee I could live and die; But thou art a maid of low degree, And of princely race am I. "I have loved thee well, sweet Rosalie, I have loved a year and a day; But a different fate is in store for me, And I must no longer stay. " Thou art a cottage maiden, love. And know not thy own pedigree; And I must marry the king's daughter. For she is betrothed to me." There was a smile on Rosalie's lip. But a tear in her blue eye shone; The smile was all for her lover's fate. The tear perchance for her own. And down fell her ringlets of chestnut hair, Down in a shoMer of gold; And she hid her face in her lover's arms, AVith feelings best left untold. Then slowly rose she in her bower, With something of pride and scorn. And she look'd like a tall and dewy flow'r That lifts up its head to the morn. She flung her golden ringlets aside, And a deep blush crimsou'd her cheek, — 276 HENEY G. BELL. "Heaven bless thee, Alfred, and th}- young bride. Heaven give you the joy you seek! " Thou wert not born for a cottage, love. Nor yet for a maiden of low degree; Thou wilt find thy mate in the king's daughter — Forget and forgive thy Itosalie. " Sir Alfred has flung him upon his steed. But he rides at a iaggaril pace; Of the road he is travelling he takes no heed, And a deadly paleness is on his face. Sir Alfred has come to tlie king's palace, And slowly Sir Alfred lias lighted down; He sigh'd when he thought of the king's daughter — He sigh'd when he thought of her father's crown. "0! that my home were the greenwood bower, Under the shelter of the greenwood tree! 01 tiiat my strength had been all my dower. All my possessions Kosalie! " Sir Alfred has entered the royal liall 'Midst a thousand nobles in rich array; But he who was once more gay than all, Has never, I ween, one word to say. The king sat high on his royal throne, Tliough his hairs were gray, his arm was strong; "Good cousin," he said, in a jocund tone, "Is it thou or thy steed that has stay'd so long? " But it boots not now — Bring forth the bride! Thou hast never yet my daugliter seen; A woeful fate it is thine to bide. For her hair is red and her eyes are green!" The bride came forth in a costly veil. And nought of her face could Alfred see; But his cheek grew yet more deadly pale. And he fell down faltering upon Jiis knee: "Pardon! pardon! my liege, my kino;! And let me speak while I yet am free; But were she fair as the flowers of spring. To your daugiiter I never can husband be." Lightning flash'd from the king's fierce eye, And tliunder spoke in his angry tone, — " Then the death of a traitor thou slialt die. And thy marriage peal shall be torture's moan!" "I never feared to die. Sir King, But my plighted faith I fear to break; I never fear'd the grave's deep rest, But the pangs of conscience I fear to wake." Out then spoke the king's daughter. And haughtily spoke she, — " If Sir Alfred is vow'd to another love. He shall never be claim'd by me; — " If Sir Alfred is vow'd to another love, AVhy, let the knight go free: Let him give his hand to his other love, There are hundreds as good as he!" AVith a careless touch she threw back her veil, As if it by chance might be; And who do you think was the king's daughter? His own — his long-loved Rosalie! First he stood like a marble stone. And she like a lily sweet, Then a sunny smile o'er his features shone. And then he was at her feet. BLOSSOMS. It is a lesson sad and true. Of human life to me, To mark the swelling fruit push olF The blossoms from the tree, — The silver blossoms, ruby strcak'd. That scent the summer air. That gleam among the dark green leaves. And make a sunshine there; The dew-drop's fragrant dwelling-place Through all the gentle night; The latticed window's fairy screen From morning's flush of light, No wonder that the young bird sits Among the boughs and sings; He finds companionship in them, — Soft-breathing lovely things! No wonder that the fair child wreathes Their riches round her brow; The}' are themselves an emblem meet Of what that child is now. Alas! like childhood's thoughts they die- They drop — they fade away; A week — a little week — and then. The blossoms — where are thev ? HENRY G. BELL. You tell me tlie\' make room for fruit, A more substantial store; But often stolen ere 'tis ripe, Oft rotten at the core. I do not love the worthless gifts, That bend our childhood down, And give us for our chaplet wreath Ambition's leaden crown; I do not love the fruits that push Our flowery hopes away, — The silver blossoms, ruby-strcak'd, Ahl dearer far are they ! Bo welcomed as the love for which my soul doth long? No, lady! love ne'er sprang out of deceit and wrong. I LOVED TIIEE. I loved thee till I knew That thou had'st loved before, Then love to coldness grew, And passion's reign was o'er; What care I for the lip, Ruby although it be. If another once might sip Those sweets now given to me ? What care I for the glance of soft affection full. If for another once it beamed as beautiful ? That ringlet of dark hair — 'Twas worth a misei-'s store; It was a spell 'gainst care That next my heart I wore; But if another once Could boast as fair a prize. My ringlet I renounce, — 'Tis worthless in my eyes: I envy not the smiles in which a score may bask, I value not the gift which all may have who ask. A maiden heart give me, That lock'd and sacred lay, Though tried by many a key That ne'er could find the way. Till I, by gentler art, Touch'd the long-hidden spring. And found that maiden heart In beauty gUttcring; — Amidst its herbage buried like a flower. Or like a bii-d that sings deep in its leafy bower. No more shall sigh of mine Bo heaved for what is past; Take back that gift of thine, It was the first— the last;— Thou, mayst not love him now So fondly as thou didst. But shall a broken vow Be prized because thou bid'st— MY YIS-A-YIS. That olden lady !— can it be? Well, Avell, how seasons .slip away! Do let me hand her cup of tea That I may gently to her say — "Dear madam, thirty years ago, When both our hearts were full of glee. In many a dance and courtly show I had you for my vis-a-vis. '•• That pale blue robe, those chestnut curls. That Eastern jewel on your wrist, That neck-encircling string of pearls ■Whence hung a cross of amethyst, — I see them all,— I see the tulle Looped up with roses at the knee. Good Lord! how fresh and beautiful Was then your cheek, my vis-a-vis! " I hear the whispered praises yet, The buzz of pleasure when you camo, The rushing eagerness to get Like moths within the fatal flame: As April blossoms, fiiint and sweet. As apples when you shake the tree, So hearts fell showering at your feet In those glad days, my vio-a-vis. "And as for me, my breast was filled With silvery light in every cell: My blood was some rich juice distilled From amaranth and asphodel : Jly thoughts were airier than the lark That carols o'er the flowe/y lea; They well might breathlessly remark: ' By Jove! that is a vis-avis!' "0 time and change, what is't you mean? Ye gods! can I believe my ears? Has that bald portly person been Your husband, ma'am, for twenty years? That six-foot officer your son, Who looks o'er his m.oustache at me! Why did not Joshua stop our sun When I was first your vis a-vis? " Forgive me, if I've been too bold, Permit me to return your cup; ]Mv heart was beating as of old, One drop of youth still bubbled up." 278 HENRY G. BELL. So spoke I: then, like cold December, Only these brief words said she: ■ I do not in the least remember I ever was vour vis-a-vis." THE EXD. I know at length the trutli, my fiiend, — Some ten or fifteen seasons more, And then for me there comes tiie end — My joys and sorrows will be o'er. Kor deem I the remaining years, Which soon most come and soon must go. Which wake no hopes, excite no fears. Will teach me more than now I know. They'll bring the same unfrnitful round, The nightly rest, the daily toil, The smiles that soothe, the slights that wound. The little gain, the feverish moil. As manhood's fire burns less and less, The languid heart grows cold and dull. Alike indifferent to success, And careless of the beautiful. Nought but the past awakes a throb, And even the past begins to die, — The burning tear, the anguished sob. Give place to listless apathy. And when at last death turns the key. And throws the earth and green turf on, Whate'er it was that made up me. Is it, my friend, for ever gone? Dear friend, is all we see a dream? Does this brief glimpse of tim.e and space Exhaust the aims, fulfil the scheme Intended for the human race? Sliall even the star-exploring mind, AVhich thrills with spiritual desire, Be, like a breath of summer wind. Absorbed in sunshine and expire! Or will what men call death restore The living myriads of the past? Is dying but to go before The myriads who will come at last? If not, whence sprung the thought? and whence Perception of a power divine, "Who syml)ols forth omnipotence In flowers that bloom, in suns that shine? 'Tis not these fleshly limbs that think, 'Tis not these filmy eyes that see; Tho' mind and matter break the link, Mind does not therefore cease to be. Such end is but an end in part. Such death is but the body's goal; Blood makes the pulses of the heart. But not the emotions of the soul. WHY 10 MY SPIRIT SAD? Why is my spirit sad? Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year, With something that it used to hold more dear Than aught that now remains; Because the past, like a receding sail, Flits into dimness, and the lonely gale O'er vacant waters reigns. Why is my spirit sad? Because no more within my soul there dwell Thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the moun- tain dell AVitli innocent delight; Because I am aweary of the strife That with hot fever taints the springs of life, Making the day seem night. Why is my spirit sad? Alas! ye did not know the lost — the dead, Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread — The paths of young romance; Ye never stood with us 'ncath summer skies. Nor saw the rich light of their tender eyes — The Eden of their glance. Why is my spirit sad? Have not the beautiful been ta'en away, — Are not the noble-hearted turned to clay — Wither'd in root and stem? I see that others, in whose looks are lit The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,— But not — but not like them! I would not be less sad! J.Iy days of mirth are past. Droops o'er my brow The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now, — The present is around me; Would that the future were both come and gone, And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone, Crush'd feelings could not wound me! GEOEGE ALLAN. 279 GEOEGE ALLAN Born 1806 — Died 1835. Georgk Allan Avas the youngest son of a farmer at Paradjkes, near Edinburgh, Avhere he was born February 2, 1806. In his thirteenth year he lost both his parents, lie became an apprentice to a writer to the signet, and in course of time a member of the profes- sion, but soon abandoned legal pursuits and proceeded to London to begin the career of an author. Here he formed the acquaintance of Allan Cunningham and Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, who recognized his talents and encour- aged his literary aspirations. But his health did not correspond with his litei'ary enthusiasm, and in 1829 he accepted an appointment in Jamaica. The climate of the "West Indies not suiting him, he resigned his appointment and returned home in 1830. Soon after he ob- tained the editorship of the Dumfries Journal, a Conservative newspaper, and this situation he held for three years with great popularity and success. His next connection was as literary assistant to the Messrs. Chambers of Edinburgh. Whilst here he contributed many excellent articles to the Edinburgh Journal and wrote extensively for the Scotsman news- paper. He was also the author of a Life of Sir Walter Scott, which enjoyed for years a wide popularity; and he assisted Mr. Peter JIacleod in preparing the Original National Melodies of Scotland, to which he furnished several con- tributions. In 1831 Mr. Allan married Mrs. Mary Hill, a widow, the eldest daughter of Mr. Wm. Pagan of Curriestanes and niece of Allan Cunning- ham. In 1834 he obtained a situation in the stamp office, which insured him a moderate competence without depriving him of oppor- tunity to prosecute his literary occupations. But soon after this promising point was reached his career was suddenly terminated. His in- tellectual and poetical ardour had been too much for the frame it tenanted; the delicate nervous organization, which had both animated and enfeebled him, sank under the too close application of his mind, and he died suddenly at Jauefield, near Leith, August 15, 1835, in the thirtieth year of his age, leaving behind him a name both as a prose writer and a poet Avhich few so young are fortunate to establish. A large amount of unpublished manuscript, left behind by Mr. Allan, is now in the posses- sion of his family. IS YOUR WAE-PIPE ASLEEP] CLANSMAN. Is your war-pipe asleep, and foi- ever, M 'Crimman? Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever? Shall the pibroch that welcom'd the foe to Benaer, Be hushed when we seek the dark wolf in his lair, To give back our wrongs to the giver ? To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone, Like the course of the fire-flaught their clan.smen passed on, With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have bound them. And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them. Then raise your wild slogan-cry — on to the foray! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen. Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again! m'crimman. Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom. As the bodings which light up thy bold spii'it now ; But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom, And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his bi"ow. Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer, And be clasped to the hearts of thy best beloved there ; But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never — Never! Never! Never! 280 GEORGE ALLAN. CLANSMAN. Wilt tlioii shrink from the doom tliou canst shun not, M'Crimman? Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not? If thy course must lie brief, let the i^roud Saxon know That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe Bared his blade in the land he had won not! Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind, And the red heatlicr-l)loom gives its sweets to the wind, There our broad pennon (lies, and the keen steeds are prancing, 'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing, Then raise your wild slogan-ciy — on to the forayl Sous of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen; Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again! OLD SCOTLAND. The breeze blows fresh, my gallant mates. Our vessel cleaves her way, Down ocean's depths, o'er heaven's heights, Through darkness and through spray. No loving moon shines out for us, No star our course to tell — And must we leave old Scotland thus? My native land, farev/ell! Then fast spread out the flowing sheet, Give welcome to the wind! Is there a gale we'd shrink to meet When treachery's behind ? The foaming deep our couch will be, The storm our vesper bell, The low'ring heaven our canopy. My native land, farewell! Away, away across the main. We'll seek some happier clime, Where daring is not deemed a stain, Nor loyalty a crime. Our hearts are wrung, our minds are toss'd, Wild as the ocean's swell; A kingdom and a birthright lost! Old Scotland, fare thee well! Wlien o'er the heart come tiioughts o" wae, Like shadows on Glenfillan's tower. Is tliis the weird that I maun dree. And a' around sae glad and gay. Oh hon an righ, oh lion an rigii, Young Donald frac his love's away. The winter snaw nac mair docs fa', The rose blooms in our mountain bower, The wild flowers on the castle wa' Are glintin' in the summer shower. But wliat are summer's smiles to me, AVhen he nae langer here could stay; Oh lion an righ, oh hon an righ, Young Donald frae his love's away. For Scotland's crown, and Charlie's right, The flre-cross o'er our hills did flee. And loyal swords were glancin' bright, And Scotia's bluid was warm and free. And though nae gleam of hope I see, My prayer is for a brighter day: Oh hon an rigli, oh hon an righ, Young Donald frae liis love's awav. YOUNG DONALD. An eiry night, a cheerless day, A lanely hame at gloamin' hour, I WILL THINK OF THEE YET. I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be. In the land of the stranger, deserte