^ n '§. '-m\ lit iHHHHimRnmii m\ i!l'.l' ill |:«^' i! liiiiiii Si'.l li'.i: .^i-' 1 liiii »;:';''-;•• l!!!' iiiiiuiil ii ii i li'liSj: il iy I 1,1 iiifS ;:i iiltiliiii; :; ■ Ti ip: '''"iiitl '^^ If;;;;. '(!:<{;./■:) I .( -'' <:.■ I. ! * M ^ \ V ^0 ^ '%4 .\^ '■'->- .^' ./ '^^ <^^ c- f ^t.. '. .«°< C^ o- -S c> -A o V ^^ . ^'S' %^"-s-. -? ^ .<^' "oo^ "^A V^ jj \ "o eV- ^/^' ¥ !>{][£ [PHASEFQI [H]AK!aE = -vwrprui ^^ I LLU STR.ATED >> t:J^p. ■--^^.._ »vin0 iicniai ^nua''.&^g«'^:M ^e&imm ) through thy wide domain, What hill or vale or river, But in this fond enthusiast heart Has found a place forever? R. Chambers. Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Scott. Land of my fathers ! though no mangrove here O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear ; Nor scaly palm her flnger'd scions shoot ; Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit; Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree; — Land of dark heath and mountain, thou art free ! Leydkn. I may, perhaps, (each generous purpose crossed,) Forget the higher aims for which I've strain'd, Calmly resign the hopes I priz'd the most. And Iparn cold cautions I have long disdained; Bu1^.my*heart must be calmer— colder yel — Ere thee, my native land I I can forget. Pringle. Yes, I -ma:y Ibve the music of strange tongues! And mould my heart anew to take the stamp Of foreign friendships in a foreign land ; But to my parched mouth's roof cleave this tongue. My fancy fade into the yellow leaf. And this oft-pausing heart forget to throb, If, Scotland! thee and thine I e'er forget. Grahame. ^': 'A V''!]® ^^ 1^, H E F A C E HE poets of England and America, and even those of Ger- many, Italy, and France, have been grouped together in many a graceful and fragrant wreath, while those of Scotland hith- erto remain ungathered. The stirring history of Scotland, her struggles for liberty, both civil and religious — her magnificent scen- ery — the simple manners of her people — their strength of domestic affection, and kindly social feeling — all afford ample themes for poetry. Hence her poets have always excelled in lyric composition, and no other country can show so large, so varied, or so charming a literature of song. vi PREFACE . To the Editor the preparation of this volume has been altogether a labor of love. As he wandered through the gardens of the Scottish bards, gathering a rose here and a lily there, with an occasional mountain daisy or violet, wherewith to form this wreath, every sense has been charmed and delighted. He has been called upon to sympathize with the aspirations of rising genius, and been touched by the pathetic story of many an earnest soul struggling with the breakers of life's stormy sea. Not to speak of the three great poems, '' The Grave," '' The Sabbath," and the " Course of Time," compositions which posterity will not will- ingly let die, he has revelled in the glowing descrip- tions of nature's beauty with Thomson and Beattie, Leyden and Wilson, and luxuriated in the highest strains of sacred poetry with Montgomery, Logan, and Knox — sympathized in the struggles with poverty and misfortune of a Bruce, a Nicoll, or a Bethune, while he enjoyed the splendid triumphs of the m^ighty min- strel of Abbotsford — wandered with Hislop and Mon- teath to the days of the covenant, and with Pringle to the desert sands of Africa — ^listened to the delineations of the simple habits of the peasantry of his native land by Burns and Ramsay, and to the favorite songs of that same loved isle by Hogg, Tannahill, and Gilfillan — been melted by the touching strains of Delta and PREFACE VU Thorn, and the pensive sadness of Motherwell, as well as warmed by the martial strains of Ossian, Campbell, and Aytoun. Scotsmen are proverbial for a love of country, which neither time nor distance suffices to abate. " High- landers, shoulder to shoulder!" has been more than once the battle cry. No matter how far removed — whether in China or California — in the jungles of Ben- gal, or on the frozen heights of Labrador, their hearts yet fondly turn to the land of the Thistle and the Heather. They still glory in the achievements of a Wallace and a Bruce — a Knox and a Melville — and in the heroic sufferings of that long array of martyrs, who testified to the truth with their blood. They are proud to be citizens of a land that has produced Reid, and Stewart, and Brown — Boston, Erskine, and Chalmers — Burns, Campbell, and Scott — James Watt, James Mackintosh, and Francis Jeffrev. And though they are justly proud of their country's history in the past, and of the great men that have adorned her annals, they have no occasion to blush at her present position, or to mourn that her living sons are unworthy of their departed sires. They can point to Archibald Alison, the historian of Europe, to James McCosh, the philosopher, and Hugh Miller, the Geolo- gist — to John Brown, Thomas Guthrie, and James Viii PREFACE Hamilton, of the pulpit and the press — to David Brew- ster, John Wilson, and Thomas Carlyle. While we pen these lines, the skilful statesmanship of one of her sons, amid circumstances of peculiar diffi- culty and danger, guides the helm of that mighty em- pire on which the sun never sets — an empire whose citizens enjoy a freedom unknown to the other nations of the old world, and whose power and glory instead of growing old and feeble by accumulated ages of pos- session and exercise, is yearly assuming a brighter and a more enduring lustre. Another, on the banks of his native Clyde, builds the commercial Steam Marine of Britain, that is so justly her pride — while a third is the architect, or perhaps we ought rather to say the inventor of the Crystal Palace, which, for originality, beauty, and utility, exceeds the proudest structures of Babylon or Nineveh, of Greece or Rome. This love of country has induced the preparation of the following work, and the Editor's desire is that the perusal of the volume may re-enkindle the same de- lightful passion in many a heart where it now lies dor- mant. In the general term British, the great men of Scotland in every department are too often engulphed, and it is to give honor to whom honor is due, and to rescue the poets at least, from this mighty maelstrom, that this volume is now sent forth. PREFACE ix It will be perceived at a glance that this work lays no claim to being a complete collection of the Scottish poets. It has been the desire of the Editor to give a selection — in most cases complete poems — from each of the best, or most noted poets. The selections have been most copious from the minor poets — those least known in this country; among them will be found some of the most exquisite productions of genius. How far he has succeeded in representing each poet fairly, he must leave others to determine. The work of compilation was undertaken, not from any particular fitness for the task, but simply in the love of it. He has no expectation that it will be pronounced perfect — poems are no doubt omitted which some will think ought to have found place, while others have been inserted that the same judges may conceive to possess inferior merit, yet he is not without hope that the vol- ume as a whole will gratify many a lover of Scotland and the Scottish bards. After pursuing the work for some time, he found the material expanding so rapidly on his hands, that he was obliged to discard much which he would gladly have admitted had the size of the volume allowed. In preparing the sketches of the different poets there has been no effort at originality. Most of them have been condensed from Chambers' valuable work on PREFACE English literature and Scrimgeour's " Poets and Poetry of Britain," and in all cases where it was possible the very language of these writers has been adopted. To both these works the Editor acknowledges himself largely indebted. Neither pains nor expense have been spared to render the illustrations worthy of the subject. The frontispiece, by Ritchie, is one of the most successful efforts of that artist. In touching simplicity of design, and beauty of execution, it reflects credit alike upon the genius of the painter, and the skill of the engraver. The illustrations on wood — many of them fine speci- mens of the art — have been executed by various artists, from drawings by H. W. Herrick, and others. No apology is necessary for embodying in this work so many pieces in the national dialect, as this, to a large number of readers, will be a great recommenda- tion. On this subject, the eloquent language of Lord Jeffrey is appropriate. " The Scotch is not to be considered as a provincial dialect — the vehicle only of rustic vulgarity, and rude local humor. It is the language of a whole country, long an independent kingdom, and still separate in laws, char- acter, and manners. It is by no means peculiar to the vulgar, but is the common speech of the whole nation in early life, and, with many of its most exalted and PREFACE. Xi accomplished individuals, throughout their whole exist- ence ; and though it be true that in later times it has been in some measure laid aside by the more ambitious and aspiring of the present generation, it is still recol- lected, even by them, as the familiar language of their childhood, and of those who were the earliest objects of their love and veneration. It is connected in their imagination not only with that olden time which is uni- formly more pure, lofty, and simple than the present, but also with all the soft and bright colors of remem- bered childhood and domestic affection. All its phrases conjure up images of school-day innocence and sports, and friendships which have no pattern in suc- ceeding years. Add to all this, that it is the language of a great body of poetry, with which almost all Scotch- men are familiar, and in particular, of a great multitude of songs, written with more tenderness, nature, and feeling, than any other lyric compositions that are ex- tant — and we may perhaps be allowed to say, that the Scotch is, in reality, a highly poetical language ; and that it is an ignorant, as well as an illiberal prejudice, which would seek to confound it with the barbarous dialects of Yorkshire or Devon." €unhntB. PAGE James Thomson 1 Winter 3 Hymn of the Seasons 5 Allan Ramsay 11 Patie and Roger 13 Parting 19 Rev. Robert Blair 21 The Grave 28 William Falconer 53 The Sliipwreck 55 Dr. James Beattie 57 The Hermit 59 Morning Landscape 61 James Macpherson (Ossian j 63 Oina-Morul 65 Address to the Sun 69 Hector Macnetll 71 Will and Jean 73 xiv CONTENTS. PAOK MiciiAKL Bruce 10:^ Sir James the Rose ] 05 Ode to the Cuckoo 115 Elegy written in Spring 117 The Husbandman 122 .Jons LoGAX 12o The Braes of Yarrow 125 The Prayer of Jacob 127 Jesus Christ 128 Reign of Messiah 129 The Dying Christian 1 T, 1 On the Death of Christian Friends 182 The Complaint of Nature 13o God i;-iG Heavenly Wisdom .' 1 38 Robert Burns 139 Cottar's Saturday Night 141 Highland Mary 149 Verses left at a Friend's house in the room where the Author slept. 151 To Mary in Heaven 152 Farewell to Ayrshire 154 Rev. Jaaiks Graham 155 The Sabbath 157 Sir Walter Scott , 193 Fitz James and Rhoderick Dhu 195 Loch Katrine 199 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 201 The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill 203 My Native Land 204 James Hogg '. 205 The Skylark 207 Address to Jehovah 2ri8 Culloden or Lochiel's Farewell . . 2n9 Covenanter's Scaffold Song 211 Robert Tanxahill 213 The Braes of Gleniffer 215 Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane 216 Gloomy Winter 218 The Lamt^nt of Walhxce 219 'i'he Maniac's Souj; 220 C X T E N T S . XV PAGE John Leyden '221 The Mermaid 2-2'4 Ode to the Evening Star 235 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 236 William Knox 239 Opening of the Songs of Israel 241 Dirge of Rachel 242 The Field of Gilboa 243 To-MorroAV 245 Mortality , . 246 Thomas CAMrsELL 249 The Soldier's Dream , 251 To the Rainbow 253 The Last Man 256 Lines on Visiting a Scene in Argvleshire % 259 Allax Cunningham 261 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 263 The Sun rises bright in France 264 A Fragment 266 Thomas Prixgle 26*7 The Bechuaua Boy 269 Afar in the Desert , . 275 Song of the Wild Bushman 280 The Lion and Giraffe 281 The Hottentot 283 Farewell to Teviotdale 284 The Nameless Stream 286 Robert Pollok 287 The Invitation 289 The Dying Mother 293 Simplicity 296 William Motherwell 297 When I beneath the cold red Earth am Sleeping 299 The Midnight Wind 301 The Wooing Song of Jarl Egill Skallagrim 302 Life 306 The Water ! The Water 807 Jeannie Morrison 311 Robert Gilfillan 815 The Happy Days o' Youth 817 Oh ! Why Left I my Hame ? 318 O! What is this World 820 ! This were a Bright World 821 Xvi CONTENTS PAGE Tlie Autumn Winds are Blawing 323 Our Ain Burn Side 324 To the Memory of Scott 326 Alexander Bethune 32*7 Musiiii>-s of Convalescence 329 A Mother's Love 332 On his Brother's Death 334 Robert Nicoll 335 The Morning Star 337 A Dirge 340 The People's Anthem 34 1 The Linnet 342 Life's Pilgrimage 345 Death 349 Milton : 352 David Macbeth Moir 353 Rural Scenery 355 Casa Wappy 356 Moonlight Churchyard 362 Rev. Thomas Ross (Ossian) 363 Carric-Thura 364 Carraig Thura 370 James Montgomery 371 The Common Lot 373 Love of Country 375 John Wilson 377 A Lay of Fairy Land 379 Address to a Wild Deer 390 Hymn to Spring 398 The Evening Cloud 406 A Churchyard Scene , 407 Lines Written at a Little Well by the Road Side, Langdale 410 The Past 414 To a Sleeping Child 415 William Edmondstone Aytoun 417 Edinburgh after Flodden 419 William Thom 435 Jeanie's Grave 437 The Mitherless Bairn 438 Lines on hearing of a Mother and Child being found Dead 439 Dreamings of the Bereaved 440 To J. Robertson, E-q 442 C \ TEXTS. xvn PAGK Robert CiiAMiSKRo 445 Scotland 447 To a Little Boy 450 Charles Mackay, LL.D 451 Clear the Way 453 The Light in the Window 455 Little at First, but Great at Last 458 Alexander Smith 461 Love 463 The Sea 466 The Moon 468 The Stars 470 NuRSRRT Rhymes 47 1 The Wonderfu' Wean 473 Willie Winkie 475 The Sleepy Laddie 476 Rosy Cheekit Apples 478 Ye Maunna Scaith the Feckless 479 Brothers Quai^-elling 480 Mother's Pet 485 Learn your Lesson 4S6 A Mother's Cares and Toils 4C7 The Green Pastures 48f The Shadows 490 An Evening Prayer 49'2 Miscellaneous Pieces 493 The Land o' the Leal Anon. 495 The Peacefu' Hame Anon. 496 Woman James Wilson 498 The Fire at Sea Gcorqe ^ume 499 Mary's Dream Alexander Lowe 501 There 's Nae Luck about the House W. J. Mickle 503 The Flowers of the Forest Jane Elliott 506 Lucy's Flittin W. Laidlaxo 508 Leven Water.. ,. Smollett 510 Tlie Fa' o' the Year T. Smibert 511 To a Cliild Joanna Baillie 513 The Emigrant Anon. 515 Ode to Peace _ W. Tennant 51 8 Hope MissAird 519 Miuistr}'- of Angels " 522 On a Sun-dial Hugh Miller 523 Jehovah-Jireh Dr. Huie 526 Xviii CONTEXTS. PAGE Jehoviih-Tsiidkenu Rev. R. 21. McCheyne 528 I am Debtor " " 529 Gideon's War Song David Vedder 532 Tnipovtauce of Early I'iet}' Dr.Blncklock 533 Tlie House of Mouininj^ Rev. W. Cameron 584 Smoking Spiritualized 535 Lines Sir Robert Grant 538 The Martyrs of Scotland Rev. H. Bonar 540 Heaven " 541 Jesus is Mine Mrs. Bonar 543 The Early Dawn George Hume 545 The Queen's Anthem Alex. Rodgers 546 Cameronian Dream James Hidop 548 Lines by an Unfortunate Female Anon. 551 The Child of James Melville Mrs. Menteath 552 Hurra for the Highland .' And. Park 555 The Emigrant's Wish Anon. 556 S C T I A'S BARDS " The throce and sceptre of EDgland will crumble into dust like those of Scotland; and Windsor Castle and Westminster Ahhey "K-ill lie in ruins as poor and desolate as those of Scone and lona, hefore the lords of Scottish song will cease to reign in the hearts of men." Edward Everett, "How prolific this sterile land In great deeds and illustrious na«n ! O, mountain-crested Scotland, I marvel not thou art Dear as a sainted mother Unto thy children's heart,- I marvel not they love thee, Thou land of rock and glen, Of strath, and lake and mountain, And more — of gifted men." Mary Howitt JAMES THOMSON. Thomson was born at Ednam, near Kelso, in Koxburghshire, of Avhich parish his father was minister. A poet from his boyhood, he abandoned the ecclesiastical profession, to which he had been des- tined, and in 1725 went to London to seek a sphere for his more congenial pursuit. The publication of his ""Winter" raised him to the greatest celebrity, and acquired him the friendship of Pope and other distinguished literary men. But his celebrity did not enricli him, and he was only rescued from severe embarrassment by being employed to travel with the son of Chancellor Talbot, who rewarded him with a sinecure office, which his indolence lost at his patron's death. The sentiments of some of his pieces, and his connection with the opposition party, particularly with Mr. (afterwards Lord) Lyttleton,* excluded him from prospects of court patronage. Lyt- tleton procured for him, however, a pension from the Prince of Wales, the patron of the opposition against Walpole's ministry. On the fall of that statesman, Thomson's friend, now in power, con- ferred on the poet a situation which, while it yielded him a com])e- tent revenue, he could execute by proxy, so that the conchidin-!; years of his life were spent in luxurious ease in a comfortable cot- tage in the neighborhood of London. He died in 1748 of a fever contracted by a cold. Few have been more lamented by friendship than James Thomson. His benevolent nature, and his numberless * He is to be distinguished from his infamous son. 2 THOMSON. admirable qualities, independent of his shining genius, endeared him to all. Besides the " Seasons," he left a long and somewhat tedious poem, "Liberty;" some tragedies, the most successful of which was "•Tan- cred and Sigismunda ;" several elegies and smaller pieces; and the " Castle of Indolence," a composition replete with beauty of imagery and melody of verse. iDRfJiii 'Tis done ! dread winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd Year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! How dumb the tuneful! horror wide extends His desolate domain. Behold, fond man : See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years. Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength. Thy sober autamn fading into age. And pale concluding Winter comes at last. And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes [ THOMSON Of happiness ? those longings after fame ? Those restless cares? those bnsj bustling days? Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life? All now are vanish'd ! Virtue sole survives, Immortal never-failing friend of Man, His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 'Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth Of heaven and earth ! awakening nature hears The new-creating word, and starts to life, In every heightened form, from pain and death Forever free. The great eternal scheme. Involving all, and in a perfect whole Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads. To reason's eye refined clears up apace. Ye vainly wise ! ye blind presumptuous ! now, Confounded in the dust, adore that Power And Wisdom oft arraign' d : see now the cause, Why unassuming Worth in secret lived, And died, neglected: why the good man's share In life was gall and bitterness of soul; Why the lone widow and her orphans pined In starving solitude; while Luxury, In palaces, lay straining her low thought, To form unreal wants; why heaven-born truth And Moderation fair wore the red marks Of Superstition's scourge: why licensed Pain, That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe. HYMN. Embitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distress'd! Ye noble few! wbo here unbending stand Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile, And what your bounded view, which only saw A little part, deem'd evil is no more: The storms of Wintry Time will quickly pass, And one unbounded Spring encircle all. These, as they change. Almighty Father, these Are but the varied GrOD. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the summer months. With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks: And oft at dawn, deep moon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconflned, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awfal Thou! with clouds and storms T H x\I S N . Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, Hiding sublime. Thou bidst the world adore. And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art. Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole: That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres; Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring: Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves. With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend! join, every living soul. Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. In adoration join; and, ardent, raise One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales. Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms! Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a relisfious awe. H Y M IS . And ye, whose bolder note is lieard afar, Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to heaven Th^ impetnoTis song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound: Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roaring fail. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to Him; whose sun exalts. Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to Him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As hjme he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creatoe, ever pouring wide. From world to world the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam His praise. The Thunder rolls: he hush'd the prostrate world; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills: ye mossy rocks. 8 THOMSON. Ketain the sound: the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep. Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles. At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all. Crown the great hymn ; in swarming cities vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; And as each mingling flame increases each. In one united ardor rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove: There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay. The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll! For me, when I forget the darling theme. Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams. Or winter rises in the blackening east; Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more. And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! Should fate command me to the farthest verge HYMN. Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Elvers unknown to song; where first the sun Grilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles; 'tis naught to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital breathes there must be joy. When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey; there,"^with new powers, Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles aroUnd, Sustaining all your orbs, and all their suns; From seeming Evil still educing Grood, And better thence again, and better still. In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! Come then, expressive Silence muse his praise. "It was not by vile loitering in ease That Greece obtain'd the brighter palm of art. That soft ye ardent Athens learnt to please, To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, 10 THOMSON In all supreme! complete in everj^ part! It was not thence majestic Eome arose, And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart: For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows; Renown is not the child of indolent repose. "Had unambitious mortals minded nought, But in loose joy their time to wear away ; Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought, Pleas'd on her pillow their dull heads to lay. Rude Nature's state had been our state to-day; No cities e'er their towery fronts had rais'd, No arts had made us opulent and gay; With brother-brutes the human race had graz'd ; None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honor'd been, none prais'd. ALLAN RAMSAY. Allax Ramsay was born in tlie village of Leadhills, Lanarkshire, where his father held the situation of manager of Lord Hopeton's- niines. At fifteen he was put apprentice to a wig-maker in Edin- burgh. In 1712 he married and commenced the more congenial business of book-selling. In 1725 appeared his pastoral drama of the GentU Shepherd. It was received with universal approbation, and was republished both in London and Dublin. It is by far the best of Ramsay's works, and perhaps the finest pastoral drama m the world. It is a genuine picture of Scottish life, but of life passed in simple, rural employments, apart from the guilt and fever of large towns, and reflecting only the pure and unsophisticated emo- tions of our nature. mils. Kis w&i^. (from the gentle shepherd.) Beneath the south side of a craigy heild, Where crystal springs their halesome ^v/aters yield, T-^a youthfu' Shepherds on the gowans lay, Tenting their flocks ae honny morn of May. Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring; But hlyther Patie likes to laugh an' sing. Patie. This sunnj morning, Eoger, cheers my blood, And puts all nature in a jovial mood. How heartsome it's to see the rising plants! To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants I How halesome it's to snuff the cauler air, And a' the sweets it bears, when void o' care! What ails ye, Eoger, then? what gars ye grane? Tell me the cause o' thy ill-season'd pain. Roger. I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate! I'm born to strive wi' hardships sad and great. Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood, Corbies an' tods to grien for lambkin's blood; But I, opprest wi' never-ending grief, Maun ay despair o' lighting on relief. 14 RAMSAY Patie. The bees shall loathe the flow'r, and quit the hive, The saughs on boggy ground shall cease to thrive, Ere scornfu' queens, or loss o' warldly gear, Shall spoil my rest, or ever force a tear. Roger. Sae might I say ; but it's no easy done By ane whase saul's sae sadly out o' tune. You have sae saft a voice, an' slid a tongue, You are the darling o' baith auld and young. If I but ettle at a sang, or speak, They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek, And jeer me hameward frae the lone or bught, While I'm confus'd wi' mony a vexing thought. Yet I am tall, and as weel built as thee, Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye, For ilka sheep ye hae, I'll number ten, An' should, as ane may think, come farer ben. Patie. But aiblins, neibour, ye have not a heart, And downa eithly wi' your cunzie part. If that be, what signifies your gear? A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care. Roger. My byar tumbl'd, nine braw nowt were smoored, Three elf-shot were; yet I these ills endur'd: In winter last my cares were very sma', Tho' scores o' wathers perish'd in the snaw. Patie. Were your bein rooms as thinly stock'd as mine. Less ye wad lose, and less ye wad repine. He that has just enough can soundly sleep; The o'ercome only fashes fouk to keep. PATIE AND ROGER. 15 Boger. May plenty flow upon tliee for a cross, That tliou may'st thole the pangs of mony a loss! may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wench, That ne'er will lout thy lowan drowth to quench, Till, bris'd beneath the burden, thou cry dool, And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool! Patie. Sax good fat lambs, I said them ilka clute At the West-port, and bought a winsome flute, 0' plum-tree made, with ivory virles round; A dainty whistle, with, a pleasant sound; I'll be mair scanty wi't, and ne'er cry dool, Than you, wi' a' your cash, ye dowie fool ! Roger. Ka, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast: Some other thing Hes heavier at my breast; 1 dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night, That gars my flesh a' creep yet wi' the fiight. Patie. Now, to a friend, how silly's this pretence, To ane wha you and a' your secrets kens; Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide Your weel-seen love, an' dorty Jenny's pride: Tak courage, Eoger, me your sorrows tell, And safely think nane kens them but yoursel. Roger. Indeed, now, Patie, ye hae guess'd owre true, And there is naething I'll keep up frae you. Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint. To speak but till her I daur hardly mint; In ilka place she jeers me air and late. And gars me look bombaz'd, and unco blate. 16 RAMSAY But yesterday I met her yont a knowe, She fled, as frae a shelly-coated cow: She Bauldy loes, Bauldy that drives the car, But geeks at me, and says I smell o' tar. Patie. But Bauldy loes not her, right weel I wat, He sighs for Neps — sae that may stand for that. Roger. I wish I cou'dna loe her — ^but, in vain, I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain. My Bawty is a cur I dearly like. Even while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumb tyke; If I had fiU'd a nook within her breast, She wad hae shawn mair kindness to my beast. When I begin to tune my stock and horn, Wi' a' her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn. Last night I play'd, (ye never heard sic spite I) Oer Bogie was the spring, and her delyte ; Yet, tauntingly, she at her cousin speer'd, Grif she cou'd tell what tune I play'd, and sneer'd. Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care, I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair. Patie. E'en do sae, Koger, wha can help misluck, Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck? Yonder's a craig, sin' ye hae tint a' houp, Gae till't your ways, and tak the lover's loup. Roger. I needna mak sic speed my blood to spill, I'll warrant death come soon eneugh a-will. Patie. Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way Seem careless, there's my hand ye'll win the day. Hear how I serv'd mj lass I looe as weei, As ye do Jenny, and wi' heart as leal. Last morning I was gay and early out, Upon a dyke I lean'd, glowring about; I saw my Meg come linking o'er the lee; I saw my Meg, but Maggy saw nae me ; For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist. And she was close upon me e'er she wist; Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean. As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green: Blythesome, I cry'd, "My bonny Meg, come here, I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer ; 18 RAMSAY. But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew:" * She scour'd awa, an' said, "What's that to you?" "Then fare je weel, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like," I careless cry'd, and lap in o'er the dyke; I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, She cam with a right thieveless errand back; Misca'd me first, then bade me hound my dog, To wear up three waff ewes stray'd on the bog. Dear Eoger, when your joe puts on her gloom, Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb. Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood; Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wud. . Roger. Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart, Ye're ay sae cadgy, and hae sic an art To hearten ane: for now, as clean's a leek, Ye've cherish'd me since ye began to speak. Sae, for your pains, I'll mak you a propine, (My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine;) A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo. Scarlet an' green the sets, the borders blue: Wi' spraings like gowd an' siller, cross'd wi' black; I never had it yet upon my back. Weel are ye wordy o't, wha hae sae kind Eedd up my ravel'd doubts, and clear'd my mind. Patie. Weel, baud ye there — and since ye've frankly made To me a present o' your bran new plaid. PARTING. 19 My flutes be yours, and she too that's sae nice, Shall come a-will, gif je'll tak my advice, Eoger. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't; But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't. Now tak it out, and gies a bonny spring — • For I'm in tift to hear ye play and sing. Patie. But first we'll tak a turn up to the height. And see gif a' our flocks be feeding right: By that time bannocks, and a shave o' cheese Will make a breakfast that a laird might please; Might please the daintiest gabs, were they sae wise To season meat wi' health instead of spice. When we hae taen the grace-drink at the well, I'll whistle syne, and sing t'ye like mysell. Speak on, speak thus, and still my grief. Hand up a heart that's sinking under These fears, that soon will want relief, When Pate maun frae his Peggy sunder A gentler face, and silk attire, A lady rich, in beauty's blossom, Alake, poor me! will now conspire To steal thee frae thy Peggy's bosom. 20 RAMSAY. Nae mair the shepherd, to excell The rest, whase wit made them to wonder, Shall now his Peggy's praises tell: Ah! I can die, but never sunder. Ye meadows where we aften strayed, Ye banks where we were wont to wander, Sweet-scented rucks round which we play'd, You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder. Again, ah! shall I never creep Around the knowe wi' silent duty, Xindly to watch thee while asleep, And wonder at thy manly beauty? Hear, Heaven, while solemnly I vow, Tho' thou shou'dst prove a wandering lover, 'Thro' life to thee I shall prove true, Nor be a wife to any other. REV. ROBERT BLAIR The life of a Scottish country clergymaii seldom presents materials for biography beyond the record of his active virtues. Blair was minister of Athelstaneford in Haddingtonshire, and was an accom- plished gentleman as well as an amiable man. His poem The Grave has been one of the most popular in the English language, at least amoQg the people of Scotland. Its stern tone of reflection, its vig- orous and hard-featured diction, so different iu its unforced simplicity fi-om the strained grandeur of Young; and its sepulchral and terrible imagery, — rank it among the most impressive of religious poems. The House appointed for all living.— Job Whilst some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the citj, some the hermitage; Their aims are various as the roads they take 24 BLAIR In journeying through life ; — ^the task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all These travellers meet. — Thy succors I implore, Eternal King! whose potent arm sustains The keys of hell and death. — The Grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature, appall'd, Shakes off her wonted firmness. — Ah ! how dark Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes! Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Dark as was Chaos, ere the infant Sun Was rolled together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound. — The sickly taper, By glimm'ring through thy low-brow'd misty vaults, Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime. Lets fall a supernumerary horror. And only serves to make thy night more irksome. Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell 'Midst skulls and cof&ns, epitaphs and worms; Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades, Beneath the wan cold Moon (as fame reports) Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree, is thine. See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were; There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. THE GRAVE 20 The wind is up: liark! ho^Y it liowls! Methinks Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary: Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, Eook'd in the spire, screams loud; the gloomy aisles, Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons. And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound. Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults. The mansions of the dead. — Roused from their slumbers, In grim array the grisly spectres rise. Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen. Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill. Quite round the pile, a row of rev'rend elms, (Coeval near with that,) all ragged show. Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half down Their branchless trunks: others so thin a top. That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. Strange things, the neighbors say, have happen'd here: Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs; Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has roU'd, unrung, untouch'd. (Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossiping, When it draws near to witching time of night.) Oft, in the lone church-yard at night I've seen. By glimpse of moonshine, chequering thro' the trees, The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand. Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, 26 BLAIR. And ligbtlj tripping o'er the long flat stones, (With, nettles skirted, and Avith moss o'ergrown,) That tell in homely phrase who lie below. Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, The sonnd of something purring at his heels; Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him. Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly. That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and, strange to tell! Evanishes at crowing of the cock. The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spied, Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead: Listless, she crawls along in doleful black. While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye, Fast-falling down her now untasted cheek. Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man She drops; whilst busy meddling memory, In barbarous succession, musters up The past endearments of their softer hours. Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks She sees him, and, indulging the fond thought, Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf, Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way. Invidious Grave! how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one! A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. THEGIfAVE. 27 Friendsliip ! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweetner of life, and solder of society! I owe thee much, Thou hast deserved from me, Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I proved the labors of thy love, And the warm effort of the gentle heart, Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood, Sweet murmuring; methought, the shrill-tongued thrush Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note; The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flow'r Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury Of dress. — Oh! then, the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste ; still the full heart Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, ISTot to return, how painful the remembrance! Dull Grave! thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood, Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, And ev'ry smirking feature from the face; Branding our laughter with the name of madness. Where are the jesters now? The men of health 28 BLAIR. Complexionallj pleasant? Where the droll, Whose ey'ry look and gesture was a joke To clapping theatres and shouting crowds, And made ev'n thick-lipp'd musing melancholy To gather up her face into a smile Before she was aware? Ah! sullen now, And dumb as the green turf that covers them. Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war? The Eoman Caesars, and the Grecian chiefs, The boast of story? Where the hot-brained youth, Who the tiara at his pleasure tore From kings of all the then discover'd globe; And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hamper'd, And had not room enough to do its work? Alas! how slim, dishonorably slim! And cramm'd into a space we blush to name. Proud royalty! how alter'd in thy looks! How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue ! Son of the morning! whither art thou gone? Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, And the majestic menace of thine eyes. Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now, Like new-born infant wound up in its swathes, Or victim tumbled flat upon his back, That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife: Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues. And coward insults of the base-born crowd. That grudge a privilege thou never hadst. THE GRAVE. 29 But only hoped for in the peaceM grave, Of being unmolested and alone. Arabia's gums, and odoriferous drugs, And honors by the heralds duly paid In mode and form, ev'n to a very scruple;, cruel irony ! these come too late ; And only mock whom they meant to honor. Surely, there's not a dungeon-slave that's buried In the highway, unshrouded and uncoffin'd, But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he, Sorry pre-eminence of high descent. Above the baser born, to rot in state! But see! the well-plumed hearse comes nodding on, Stately and slow; and properly attended By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch 30 BLAIR. The sick man's door, and live upon the dead, By letting out their persons by the hour To mimic sorrow when the heart's not sad ! How rich the trappings, now they're all "anfurl'd And glitt'ring in the sun ! Triumphant entries Of conquerors, and coronation pomps. In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people Retard th' unwieldy show; whilst from the casements, And houses tops, ranks behind ranks, close wedged. Hang bellying o'er. But tell us; why this waste? Why this ado in earthing up a carcase That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril Smells horrible? — Ye undertakers, tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit. Why is the principal conceal'd, for which You make 'this mighty stir. — 'Tis wisely done: What would offend the eye in a good picture. The painter casts discreetly into shades. Proud lineage, now how little thou appear'st! Below the envy of the private man! Honor, that meddlesome of&cious ill. Pursues thee e'en to death, nor there stops short. Strange persecution! when the grave itself Is no protection from rude sufferance. Absurd! to think to overreach the Grave, And from the wreck of names to rescue ours! The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame, Die fast away: only themselves die faster. THE GRAVE. 31 The far-famed sculptor, and the laurel'd bard, Those bold insurances of deathless fame, Supply their little feeble aids in vain. The tap'ring pyramid, th' Egyptian's pride, And wonder of the world, whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud, and long out-liv'd The angry shaking of the winter's storm; Yet spent at last by th' injuries of heaven, Shatter'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with years. The mystic cone with hieroglyphics crusted, Gives way. lamentable sight! At once The labor of whole ages lumbers down, A hideous and misshapen length of ruins. Sepulchral columns wrestle, but in vain. With all-subduing Time; her cank'ring hand. With calm deliberate malice, wasteth them : Worn on the edge of days, the brass consumes, The busto moulders, and the deep-cut marble, Unsteady to the steel, gives up its charge. Ambition, half-convicted of her folly. Hangs down the head, and reddens at the tale. Here all the mighty troublers of the earth, Who swam to sov'reign rule through seas of blood; Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains. Who ravaged kingdoms, and laid empires waste, And, in a cruel wantonness of power, Thiiln'd states of half their people, and gave up To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent. 32 BLAIR. Lie husli'd, and meanly sneak behind thy covert. Vain thought! to hide them from the gen'ral scorn, That haunts and dogs them, hke an injur'd ghost Implacable. Here too, the petty tyrant, Whose scant domains geographer ne'er noticed. And, well for neighb'ring grounds, of arm as short, Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor. And gripp'd them like some lordly beast of prey. Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger, And piteous plaintive voice of raisery; (As if a slave was not a shred of nature. Of the same common nature as his lord) ; Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipp'd, Shakes hands with dust, and. calls the worm his kinsman ; ISTor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground Precedency's a jest ; vassal and lord. Grossly familiar, side by side consume. When self-esteem, or others' adulation. Would cunningly persuade us we were something Above the common level of our kind ; The grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd flatt'ry, And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are. Beauty! thou pretty plaything, dear deceit, That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart. And gives it a new pulse unknown before, The grave discredits thee: thy charms expunged. Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd. What hast thou more to boast of? Will thv lovers THE GRAVE. 33 Flock round tHee now, to gaze and do tliee liomage? MetMnks I see tliee with ihj head low laid, Whilst, surfeited upon the damask cheek, The high-fed worm, in lazj volumes roU'd, Eiots unscared. For this, was all thj caution? For this thy painful labors at thy glass? T' improve those charms, and keep them in repair, For which the spoiler thanks thee not. Foul feeder! Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well. And leave as keen a relish on the sense. Look how the fair one weeps! the conscious tears Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers: Honest effusion ! the swollen heart in vain Works hard to put a gloss on its distress. Strength, too — thou surly, and less gentle boast Of those that laugh loud at the village ring! A fit of common sickness pulls thee down, With greater ease than e'er thou didst the stripling That rashly dared thee to th' unequal fight. What groan was that I heard? deep gToan indeed! With anguish heavy laden; let me trace it; From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man, By stronger arm belabor'd, gasps for breath Like a hard-hunted beast. How his gTcat heart Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant To give the lungs full play! what now avail The strong-built sinewy limbs, and well-spread shoulders? See how he tugs for life, and lays about him, 34 BLAIR. Mad with his pain! Eager he catches hold Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard, Jnst like a creature drowning! hideous sight! Oh ! how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly, Whilst the distemper's rank and deadly venom Shoots like a burning arrow cross his bowels. And drinks his marrow up. Heard you that groan? It was his last. See how the great Goliath, Just like a child that brawl'd itself to rest. Lies still. — ^What! mean'st thou then, mighty boaster! To vaunt of nerves of thine? What! means the bull. Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward, And flee before a feeble thing like man; That, knowing well the slackness of his arm. Trusts only in the well-invented knife? With study pale, and midnight vigils spent. The star-surveying sage, close to his eye Applies the sight-invigorating tube ; And travelling thro' the boundless length of space, Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs, That roll with regular confusion there. In ecstasy of thought. But ah! proud man. Great heights are hazardous to the weak head; Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails; And down thou dropp'st into that darksome place, Where nor device nor knowledge ever came. Here the tongue- warrior lies, disabled now, Disarm'd, dishonor'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd, THE GRAVE. 35 And cannot tell Ms ails to passers bj. Great man of language, whence this mighty change? This dumb despair, and drooping of the head? Though strong persuasion hung upon thy lip. And sly insinuation's softer arts In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue: Alas! how chop-fall'n now! Thick mists and silence Eest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast Unceasing. — Ah! where is the lifted arm. The strength of action, and the force of words, The well-turn'd period, and the well-tuned voice, With all the lesser ornaments of phrase? Ah ! fled forever, as they ne'er had been ! Eazed from the book of fame; or, more provoking, Perchance some hackney, hunger-bitten scribbler, Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes, With heavy halting pace that drawl along; Enough to rouse a dead man into rage, And warm with red resentment the wan cheek. Here the great masters of the healing art, These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb ! Spite of their juleps and catholicons, Eesign to fate. Proud JEsculapius' son ! Where are thy boasted implements of art. And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health? Nor hill, nor vale, as far as ship could go, Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook, 36 BLAIR. Escaped tlij rifling hand: from stubborn sTirubs Tliou wrung'st their shy retiring virtues out, And vex'd them in the fire; — nor fly, nor insect, Kor writhy snake, escaped thy deep research. But why this apparatus? why this cost? Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave! Where are thy recipes and cordials now. With the long list of vouchers for thy cures? Alas! thou speak' st not. — The bold impostor Looks not more silly when the cheat's found out. Here, the lank-sided miser, worst of felons! Who meanly stole, (discreditable shift!) From back and belly too, their proper cheer ; Eased of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged; By clam'rous appetites no longer teased, ISTor tedious bills of charges and repairs. But, ah ! where are his rents, his comings in ? Ay! now you've made the rich man poor indeed: Eobb'd of his goods, what has he left behind? cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake The fool throws up his int'rest in both worlds? First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come. How shocking must thy summons be, Death ! To him that is at ease in his possessions; Who, counting on long years of pleasure here. Is quite unfarnish'd for that world to come ! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul T H E G R A V E . 37 Eaves round the walls of her clay tenement, Enns to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer hers! A little longer, yet a little longer. Oh! might she stay to wash away her stains. And fit her for her passage? — Mournful sight! Her very eyes weep blood; — and every groan She heaves is big with horror. But the foe, Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close through every lane of life, Kor misses once the track, but presses on; Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge. At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. Sure 'tis a serious thing to die ! my soul ! What a strange moment must it be, when near Thy journey's end thou hast the gulf in ^dew ! That awful gTilf no mortal e'er repass'd To tell what's doing on the other side. Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight, And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting: For part they must: bod}^ and soul must part; Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair. This wings its way to its Almighty Source, The witness of its actions, now its judge : That drops into the dark and noisome grave, Like a disabled pitcher of no use. If death were nothing, and nought after death ; 38 BLAIR. If, when men died, at once they ceased to be, Eeturning to the barren womb of nothing, Whence first thej sprung; then might the debauchee Untrembhng mouth the heavens ; then might the drunkard Keel over his full bowl, and when 'tis drain'd Fill up another to the brim, and laugh At the poor bugbear Death; then might the wretch That's weary of the world, and tired of life, At once give each inquietude the slip. By stealing out of being when he pleased, And by what way; whether by hemp or steel; Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force The ill-pleased guest to sit ou.t his full time, Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well That helps himself as timely as he can. When able. But if there's an hereafter, And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced, And suffer'd to speak out, tells ev'ry man, Then must it be an awful thing to die; More horrid yet to die by one's own hand. Self-murder! name it not; our island's shame, That makes her the reproach of neighb'ring States. Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate. Self-preservation, fall by her own act? Forbid it, heav'n! Let not, upon disgust, The shameless hand be foully crimson'd o'er With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt! Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage. THE GRAVE. 39 To rush into the presence of our Judge; As if we challenged him to do his worst, And matter'd not his wrath! Unheard-of tortures Must be reserved for such: these herd together; The common damn'd shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul. Our time is fix'd, and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not: this we know. Duty requires we calmly wait the summons. Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission; Like sentries that must keep their destined stand, And wait th' appointed hour, till they're relieved. Those only are the brave that keep their ground. And keep it to the last. To run away Is but a coward's trick: to run away From this world's ills, that at the very worst Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves By boldly vent'ring on a world unknown. And plunging headlong in the dark; 'tis mad: No frenzy half so desperate as this. Tell us, ye dead; will none of you, in pity To those you left behind, disclose the secret? Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out; What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be. I've heard, that souls departed have sometimes Forewarn'd men of their death: 'twas kindly done To knock and give the alarm. But what means 40 BLAIR. This stinted charity? — 'Tis but lame kindness Tliat does its work by halves. Why might yon not Tell us what 'tis to die? Do the strict laws Of your society forbid you speaking Upon a point so nice? I'll ask no more; Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shrine Enlightens but yourselves: "Well — 'tis no matter; A very little time will clear up all, And make us learn'd as you are, and as close. Death's shafts fly thick: — Here falls the village swam, And there his pamper'd lord. — The cup goes round, And who so artful as to put it by? 'Tis long since death had the majority; Yet, strange! the living lay it not to heart. See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle! Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand. Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors. — Scarce a skull's cast up. But well he knew its owner; and can tell Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand. The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years ; And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder, Or clubs a smuttier tale: — When drunkards meet. None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup. Poor wretch ! he minds not. THEGRAVE. 41 That some trusty brotlier of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands. On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegen'rate days Could scarce have leisure for. — Fools that we ait^, Never to think of death and of ourselves At the same time; as if to learn to die Were no concern of ours. O more than sottisli! For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood, To frolic on eternity's dread brink. Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know. The very first swollen surge shall sweep us in. Think we, or think we not, time hurries on With a resistless, unremitting stream; Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight thief, That slides his hand under the miser's pillow. And carries off his prize. What is this world? What but a spacious burial-field unwall'd, Strewed with death's spoils, the spoils of animals, Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones. The very turf on which we tread once lived; And we that live must lend our carcasses To cover our own offspring; in their turns They too must cover theirs. 'Tis here all meet, The shivering Icelander, and sun -burnt Moor; 42 B L A I E . Men of all climes, that never met before ; And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian. Here the proud prince, and favorite yet prouder. His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge, Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abash'd The great negotiators of the earth, And celebrated masters of the balance, Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts. Now vain their treaty-skill; Death scorns to treat. Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burthen From his gall'd shoulders; and, when the stern tyrant^ With all his guards and tools of pow'r about him, Is meditating new unheard-of hardships. Mocks his short arm, and, quick as thought, escapcb Where tyrants vex, not and the weary rest. Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade. The tell-tale echo, and the bubbling stream, (Time out of mind the fav'rite seats of love,) Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down, Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and foes Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds. The lawn-robed prelate, and plain presb3'ter, Ere while that stood aloof, as shy to meet, Familiar mingle here, like sister-streams That some rude interposing rock has split. Here is the large-limb'd peasant; here the child Of a span long, that never saw the sun. T H E G R A V E . 43 ISTor press'd tlie nipple, strangled in life's porch. Here is tlie mother, with her sons and daughters; The barren wife, and long demurring maid, Whose lonely imappropriated sweets Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff, [N'ot to be come at by the willing hand. Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette. The sober widow, and the young green virgin, Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown. Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here! Here garrulous old age winds up his tale; And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart, Whose every day was made of melody. Hears not the voice of mirth. — The shrill-tongued shrew, Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave; The just, the good, the worthless, the profane ; The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred; The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean ; The supple statesman, and the patriot stern ; The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time. With all the lumber of six thousand years. Poor man! how happy once in thy first state, When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand, He stamp'd thee with his image, and, well pleased. Smiled on his last fair work. — Then all was well: Sound was the body, and the soul serene; q,4: BLAIR. Like two sweet instruments ne'er out of tune, That play their several parts. ISTor head, nor heart, Offer'd to ache; nor was there cause they should; For all was pure within: no fell remorse, Nor anxious castings up of what may be. Alarmed his peaceful bosom. Summer seas Show not more smooth, when kissed by southern winds, Just ready to expire. Scarce importuned, The generous soil, with a luxuriant hand, Offer'd the various produce of ihe year, And everything most perfect in its kind. Blessed, thrice blessed days! but, ah! how short! Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men. But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone. slippery state of things! What sudden turns! What strange vicissitudes, in the first leaf Of man's sad history ! To-day most happy. And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject. How scant the space between these vast extremes! Thus fared it with our Sire: Not long he enjoy 'd His paradise: — Scarce had the happy tenant Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone, Ne'er to return again. — And must he go? Can nought compound for the first dire offence Of erring man? Like one that is condemn'd. Fain would he trifle time with idle talk. THEGRAVE. j.5 And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vsdn. Not all the lavish odors of the place, Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon, Or mitigate his doom, A mighty angel. With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay ; And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take One last and farewell round. At once he lost His glory and his God. If mortal now, And sorely maim'd, no wonder ! Man has sinn'( I ; Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures, Evil he would needs try; nor tried in vain. (Dreadful experiment! Destructive measure! Where the worst thing could happen, is success.) Alas! too well he sped; the good he scorn'd Stalk' d off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, Not to return; or, if it did, its visits. Like those of angels, short and far between : Whilst the black demon, with his hell-scap'd train Admitted once into its better room, Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone; Lording it o'er the man; who now, too late. Saw the rash error which he could not mend: An error fatal not to him alone. But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs Inglorious bondage! Human nature groans Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel, And its vast body bleeds through every vein. 46 BLAIR. What havoc hast thou made, foul monster, sin! Greatest and first of ills! The fruitful parent Of woes of all dimensions! But for thee, Sorrow had never been. All-noxious thing. Of vilest nature! Other sorts of evils, Are kindlj circumscribed, and have their bounds. The fierce volcano, from its bu.rning entrails, That belches molten stone and globes of fire. Involved in pitchy clouds of smoke and stench, Mars the adjacent fields, for some leagues round. And there it stops. The big-swollen inundation, Of mischief more difiusive, raving loud. Buries whole tracts of country, threat'ning more; But that too has its shore it cannot pass. More dreadful far than these! sin has laid waste, Not here and there a country, but a world; Dispatching, at a wide-extended blow. Entire mankind; and, for their sakes, defacing A whole creation's beauty with rude hands; Blasting the foodful grain, the loaded branches, And marking all along its way with ruin. Accursed thing! Oh! where shall fancy find A proper name to call thee by, expressive Of all thy horrors? Pregnant womb of ills! Of temper so transcendently malign, That toads and serpents of most deadly kind. Compared to thee, are harmless. Sicknesses THEGRAVE 47 Of every size and symptom, racking pains, And bluest plagues, are thine! See how tlie fiend Profusely scatters the contagion round! Whilst deep-mouth'd slaughter, bellowing at her heels, Wades deep in blood new spilt; yet for to-morrow, Shapes out new work of great uncommon daring, And inly pines till the dread blow is struck. But, hold, I've gone too far; too much discover'd My father's nakedness and nature's shame. Here let me pause — and drop an honest tear, One burst of filial duty and condolence. O'er all those ample deserts Death hath spread, This chaos of mankind. great man-eater! Whose ev'ry day is carnival, not sated yet! Unheard-of epicure, without a fellow! The veriest gluttons do not always cram; Some intervals of abstinence are sought To edge the appetite: Thou seekest none. Methinks the countless swarms thou hast devour'd, And thousands that each hour thou gobblest up. This, less than this, might gorge thee to the full. But, ah! rapacious still, thou gap'st for more; Like one, whole days defrauded of his meals. On whom lank hunger lays her skinny hand, And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings. As if diseases, massacres, and poison. Famine, and war, were not thy caterers. 48 BLAIR. But know, that thou must render up the dead, And with high interest too. — They are not thine; But only in thy keeping for a season, Till the great promised day of restitution; When loud diffusive sound from brazen trump Of strong-lung'd cherub, shall alarm thy captiyes, And rouse the long, long sleepers into life. Day-light and hberty. — — Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal The mines that lay long forming under ground, In their dark cells immured ; but now full ripe, And pure as silver from the crucible, That tWce has stood the torture of the fire. And inquisition of the forge. We know The Illustrious Deliverer of mankind, The Son of God, thee foil'cl. Him in thy power Thou couldst not hold; self-^dgorous he rose. And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook Those spoils his voluntary yielding lent: (Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall!) Twice twenty days he sojourn'd here on earth, And show'cl himself alive to chosen A^itnesses, By proofs so strong, that the most slow assenting Had not a scruple left. This having done. He mounted up to heaven. Methinks I see him Climb the aerial heights, and glide along Athwart the severing clouds; but the faint eye, THE GRAVE. 49 Flung backwards in the chase, soon drops its hold; Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing. Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in ; Nor are his friends shut out: As a great prince Kot for himself alone procures admission. But for his train. — It was his royal will, That where he is, there should his followers be. Death only lies between. — A gloomy path ! Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears; But not untrod, nor tedious; the fatigue Will soon go oflP. Besides, there's no by-road To bliss. Then, why, like ill-conditioned children, Start we at transient hardships in the way That leads to purer air and softer skies. And a ne'er setting sun? Fools that we are! We wish to be where sweets unwith'ring bloom. But strait our wish revoke, and will not go. So have I seen, upon a summer's even, Fast by the riv'let's brink, a youngster play : How wishfully he looks to stem the tide! This moment resolute, next unresolved: At last he dips his foot; but as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away From th' inoffensive stream, unmindful now Of all the flowers that paint the further bank. And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome death! That, after many a painful bleeding step, 4 50 BLAIR. Conducts us to our home; and lands us safe On the long-wish'd-for shore. Prodigious change! Our bane turn'd to a blessing! Death, disarm'd, Loses it fellness quite. All thanks to Him Who scourg'd the venom out. Sure the last end Of the good man is peace! How calm his exit! Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, ISTor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him in the evening tide of life, A life well spent, whose earh^ care' it was His riper years should not upbraid his green ; By unperceived degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting! (High in his faith and hope,) look how he reaches After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away; Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest. Then, then ! Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of nought. Oh! how he longs To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd ! 'Tis done, and now he's happy! The glad soul Has not a wish uncrown'd. Ev'n the lag flesh Rests too in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more. Nor shall it hope in vain: — The time draws on. THE GRAVE. 51 When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land, or in the spacious sea. But must give back its long-committed dust. Inviolate; and faithfully shall these Make up the full account; not the least atom Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd; And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane ! Ask not, how this can be? Sure the same pow'r That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts. And put them as they were. Almighty God Has done much more ; nor is his arm impair'd Thro' length of days, and what he can, he will; His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb'ring du5t, Qsot unattentive to the call,) shall wake ; And ev'ry joint possess its proper place. With a new elegance of form, unknown To its first state. Kor shall the conscious soul Mistake its partner; but, amidst the crowd. Singling its other half, into its arms Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man That's new come home, and, having long been absent, With haste runs over every different room. In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meetiug! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more. 52 BLAIR 'Tis but a niglit, a long and moonless niglit; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the Avide air, and in some lonely brake Cow'rs down, and dozes till the dawn of day ; Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away, mS^-^^m' WILLIAM FALCONER. noo— me). William Falconee, a Scotch sailor, bom of humble parents in Ed- inburgh, published in 1762 . his Shipwreck, — a poem which depicted an actual disaster, and introduced into literature the technicalities of seamanship. The Shipwreck is a composition of singular merit from a man with Falconer's opportunities. The scene of the disaster is Cape Colonna (the ancient Sunium) in Greece, and the poet alludes with power and beauty to the classic objects of these shores. The characters are di*awn with vigor and graphicness of lineament. The technical terms of a ship's management are interwoven with great skill into a har- monious versification; and, in his description of the storm and of the catastrophe, the poet rises into sublimity, while the whole scene is mellowed by the most amiable and tender affections of humanity. Falconer perished on board an East India merchantman, which was supposed to have foundered in the Indian Ocean. I&£ Stfl£iiii^i6ti [from canto III.) But now Athenian mountains they descry, And o'er tlie surge Colonna frowns on liigli ; Beside tlie Cape's projecting verge are placed A range of columns long by time defac'd; First planted by Devotion to sustain, In elder times, Tritonia's sacred fane. Foams the wild beach below with madd'ning rage, Where waves and rocks a dreadful combat wage. The sickly heaven, fermenting with its freight, Still vomits o'er the main the feverish weight. 56 FALCONER. The vessel, wMle the dread event draws nigh, Seems more impatient o'er the waves to fly : Fate spurs her on : — ^thus issuing from afar, Advances to the sun some blazing star; And, as it feels th' attraction's kindling force. Springs onward with accelerated course. * * -jf * -jt -j;- In vain the cords and axes were prepar'd, For now th' audacious seas insult the yard; High o'er the ship they throw ,a horrid shade, And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies. Her shatter'd top half-buried in the skies. Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground, Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound! Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels. And quivering with the wound, in torment reels; So reels, convuls'd with agonizing throes. The bleeding bull beneath the murd'rer's blows ; — Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock: Down on the vale of Death, with dismal cries. The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes In Avild despair; while yet another stroke. With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak: Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell The lurking demons of destruction dwell. At length asunder torn, her frame divides. And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides. DR. JAMES BEATTIE. James Beattie was of hunible origin, being the son of a small farmer in the parish of Laurencekirk in Forfarshire, but he wrought himself up more by the sterling Christian qualities of his character, than by any attributes of the highest genius, to a most estimable posi- tion in the literary ranks of his country. " About the age of twenty- six he obtained the professorship of moral philosophy in Marischal College, Aberdeen." His early poetry did not give promise of very great eminence in the art, and he himself subsequently burned every copy of the edition on which he could lay his hands. His "Min- strel," exhibiting the development of the poetical faculty in the mind of a youthful genius, is a poem of great gracefulness and elegance, and is read Avith delight from the scholar-like beauty and correctness of its construction, though it does not reach the higher circle of the poetical idea. The poet and philosopher, after a life of exemplary Christian usefulness, died broken-hearted under the severe pressure of domestic afflictions, in the loss of his favorite children, and the incurable insanity of his wife. J&£ ifil^lll At the close of da}^, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove';: 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung sjmphonious, a hermit began:; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.. QO BEATTIE. "All! why, tlius abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall! For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; 0, sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickl}^ they pass, but they never return. "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky. The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displaj^s: But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again, But man's faded glory, what change shall renew! Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! "'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfamed with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; Kind nature the embryo blossom will save. But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! ! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ! "'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind: MORNING LANDSCAPE Ql My thoiiglits wont to roam, from sliade onward to sliadc, Destruction before me and sorrow behind. ' pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, ' Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee ; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness thou only can'st free.' "And darkness and doubt are now flying away; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn: So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray. The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." (from the "minstrel.") Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the scenes of morn. Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow. Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne. But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook bubbling down the mountain side; Q2 BEATTIE. The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of earlj shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. * The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling plowman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough, slope the ponderous wagon rings; Through the rustling corn the hare astonished springs; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whizzing wings, Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. JAMES MACPHEKSON. James Macpheeson was born in Kingussie, a village in Inverness- shire, in 1738. He was intended for the church, and received the necessary education at Aberdeen. For a short time he taught the school of Kuthven, but subsequently became tutor in the family of Mr. Graham, of Balgowan. "While in this position, he published a little volume of sixty pages, entitled Fragments of Ancient Poetry^ translated from the Gaelic or Erse language, which attracted much attention. A subscription was at once organized to enable him to make a tour in the Highlands to collect other pieces. In 1762 he presented the world with Fingal^ an ancient epic poem in six books ; and in 1763 Temora^ another epic poem in eight books. The sale of these works was immense. The possibility that, in the third or fourth century, among the wild rural mountains of Scotland, there existed a people exhibiting all the high and Christian feelings of refined valor, generosity, magnanimity and virtue, was eminently calculated to excite astonishment, while the idea that these poems had been handed down by tradition through so many centuries among rude and barbarous tribes, was no less astounding. Many doubted, others disbelieved, but a still greater number indulged the pleasing supposition that "Fingal fought and Ossian sung." In 1779 the poet purchased an estate in his native town, where he died on the 17th February, 1796, leaving a handsome fortune, which is still enjoyed by his family. The fierce controversy that raged for some time as to the authen- ticity of the poems of Ossian, the incredulity of Johnson, and the 54 MACPHERSON. obstinate silence of Macpherson, are well known. There seems to be no doubt, that a great body of traditional poetry was floating over the Highlands, which Macpherson collected and wrought up into regular poems. How much of the published work is ancient, and how much fabricated, cannot now be ascertained. There is not a single line among the papers left by Macpherson that throws any light on the controversy. Since the foregoing vvas Avritten, the Editor of this volume has had such evidence placed before him as leave him no longer room to doubt that Ossian was a veritable person, and that Macpherson was, what he pretended to be, only a translator of the Gaelic poems of that remark- able poet. The Kev. John Thomson, of ISTew York, has copies of many of these poems in the original Gaelic, which were taken down from the lips of those who had received them from their ancestors. Mr. Thomson has kindly furnished for this volume, at the request of the Editor, a sketch of his father-in-law. Dr. Ross, who made a translation in blank verse of many of the poems of Ossian, and also a specimen nf this translation. For further information on this curious snl)ject, the re uler is referred to the sketch of Dr. Ross, on page 363. Ql%^~WQ%m. Argument. — After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuiirfed, an ishmd of Scandinavia. Wal-orchol, king of Fuiirfed, being hard pressed in war by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronto (who had demanded in vain the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage), Fingal sent Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle with Ton-th-ormod, and took him prisoner. Mal- orchol offers his daughter Oina-morul to Ossian ; but he, discovering her passion for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation between the two kings. As flies the inconstant sun over Larmon's grassy liill, so pass tlie tales of old along my soul by niglit! When bards are removed to their place, when harps are hung in Selma's hall, then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul 1 It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before me with all their deeds! I seize the tales as they pass, and pour them forth in song. Kor a troubled 5 go OS SI AN stream is tlie song of the king, it is like the rising of music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp! Light of the shadowy thoughts that fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song? We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin* on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the isle of Fuarfed, woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to the aid of Mal- orchol, king of Fuarfed wild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met at the feast. In Col-coiled I bound my sails. I sent my sword to Mal-orchol of shells. He knew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, and seized my hand in grief. "Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and loved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought. I de- nied the maid, for our fathers had been foes. He came with battle to Fuarfed ; my people are rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a fallen king?" ^ "I come not," I said, "to look, like a boy, on the* strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves the warrior descended on thy woody isle : • Con-cathlin, "mild beam of the wave." What star was so called of old is not easily ascertained. Some now distinguish the pole-star by that name. OINA-MORUL. g7 thou wen no cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with songs. For this my sword shall rise, and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in their dan- ger, though distant is our land." " Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of Cruth-Loda, when he speaks from his parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feast ; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the winds, but no white sails were seen! but steel resounds in my hall, and not the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race of heroes ! dark- skirted night is near. Hear the voice of songs from the maid of Fuarfed wild." We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina- morul. She waked her own sad tale from every trem- bling string. I stood in silence; for bright in her locks was the daughter of many isles! Her eyes were two stars, looking forward through a rushing shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's resounding stream: the foe moved to the sound of Ton- thormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed. I met Ton-thormod in fight. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the king in war. I gave his hand, fast bound with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuarfed, for the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away from Oina- morul of isles. (38 s s I A X . "Son of Fingal," began Mal-orcliol, "not forgot sbalt thou pass from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina- moriil of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladness along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid move in Selma through the dwelling of kings." In the hall I lay in night. Mine e3'es were half closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ears. It was like the rising breeze, that whirls at first the thistle's ])eard, then flies dark-shadowy over the grass. It was the maid of Fuarfed wild ! she raised the nightly song ; she knew that my soul was a stream that flowed at pleas- ant sounds. "Who looks," she said, "from his rock on ocean's closing mist? His long locks like the raven's wing, are w^andering on the blast. — Stately are his steps in grief! The tears are in his eyes! His manly breast is heaving over his bursting soul ! ' Retire, I am distant afar, a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race o'* kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why have our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids!" "Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said, "why dost thou mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander by streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! within this bosom is a voice: it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian hear tlie hapless in their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer by night! Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock!" With rooming I loosed the king. I gave the long- haired maid. Mal-orchol heard mv words in the midst ADDRESSTOTHESUN. gg of ids eclioing halls. '' King of Fuarfed wild, wlij should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war. Your fathers have been foes, but now tlieir dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors! It was the cloud of other years." Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were young; though loveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles. TVe call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! USSi^SSS JO I?f£ Sblif. THOU that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, San! thy everlasting light! Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves de- cay with years, the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and 70 S S I A N . lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps like me for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, Sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain: the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. HECTOR MACNEILL. Hectoe Macneill was brought up to a mercantile life, but was un- successful in most of his business aflfairs. He cultivated in secret an attachment to the muses, which at length brought him fame, but not wealth. In 1795 he published his moral tale, "History of Will and Jean." The simple truth and pathos of description evinced in this poem soon rendered it universally popular in Scotland. After many wanderings in the West Indies and elsewhere, the lat- ter years of the poet were spent in comparative comfort at Edin- burgh, where he enjoyed the refined and literary society of the Scot- tish capital till an advanced age. |art |ir$t. "Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace? Wha in neeboring town or farm? Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face. Deadly strength was in his arm! Wha wi' AYill could rin or wrastle? Throw the sledge or toss the bar? Hap what wou'd, he stood a castle, Or for safety, or for war. "Warm his heart, and mild as manfu', Wi' the bauld he bauld could be : But to friends wha had their handfu', Purse and service aye ware free. Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller, Wha wi Jeanie cou'd compare? — Thousands had mair braws and sillei-, But ware ony half sae fair? 10 74 MACNEILL. Saft lier smile raise like May morning, Glintin owre Demait's brow; Sweet! wi' opening charms adorning Strevlin's lovely plains below! Kind and gentle was ber nature; At ilk place sbe bore the bell; — Sic a bloom, and shape, and stature! But her look nae tongue can tell! Sic was Jean whan Will first, mawing, Spy'd her on a thraward beast; Flew like fire, and, just whan fa'ing, Kepp'd her on his manly breast, Light he bare her, pale as ashes. Cross the meadow, fragrant, green, Plac'd her on the new-mawn rashes, Watching sad her opening een. Such was Will, when poor Jean, fainting. Drapt into a lover's arms; Waken'd to his saft lamenting; Sigh'd, and blush'd a thousand charms. Soon they loo'd and soon ware buckl'd, Nane took time to think and rue : — Youth and worth and beauty coupl'd, Luve had never less to do. WILL AND JEAN 70 Three sliort years flew by fu' canty, Jean and Will thouglit them but ane; Ilka day brought joy and plenty, Ilka year a dainty wean. "Will wrought sair, but aye wi' pleasure Jean the hale day span and sang; Will and weans her constant treasure,- — Blest wd' them, nae day seem'd lang. 76 M A C N E I L L . Trig her Louse, and oh! to busk aye Ilk sweet bairn was a' her pride! But at this time News and Whisky Sprang nae up at ilk roadside. Luckless was the hour whan Willie, Hame returning frae the fair, Ow'rtook Tarn, a neebor billie. Sax miles frae their hame and mair. Simmer's heat had lost its fury ; Calmly smil'd the sober een ; Lasses on the bleachfield hurry, Skelping bare-fit owre the green : Labor rang wi' laugh and clatter, Canty hairst was just begun, And on mountain, tree, and water, Glinted saft the setting sun. Will and Tarn, wi' hearts a' lowpin, Markt the hale, but could nae bide; Far frae hame, nae time for stopping, — Baith wish'd for their ain fireside. On they travell'd, warm and drouthy, Cracking owre the news in town ; The mair they crack'd, the mair ilk youth aye Pray'd for drink to wash news down. WILLANDJEAN. 77 Fortune, wlia but seldom listens To poor Merit's modest pray'r, And on fools lieaps needless blessings, Harken'd to our drouth j pair. In a liowm, whase bonnie burnie Whimperin row'd its crystal flood, Near the road whar travellers turn aye, Neat and bield a cot-house stood: White the wa's wi' roof new theekit. Window broads just painted red; Lown 'mang trees and braes it reekit, Haflins seen and haflins hid, Up the gavel-end thick spreading, Crap the clasping ivy green. Back ower, firs the high craigs cleadin, Eais'd a' round a cozey screen. Down below, a flow'ry meadow Join'd the burnie's rambling line; Here it was that Howe, the widow, That same day set up her sign. Brattling down the brae, and near its Bottom, Will first marv'ling sees, "Porter, Ale, and British Spirits," Painted bright between twa trees. MACNEILL. "Dear me, Tarn I here's walth for drinking! — Wha can this new comer be!" — " Hout !" quo' Tarn, " there's drouth in thinking- Let's in, Will, and syne we'll see." Nae mair time they took to speak or Think of ought but reaming jugs, Till three times in humming liquor. Ilk lad deeply laid his lugs. Slocken'd now, refreshed, and talking, In cam Meg, (weel skill'd to please,) ''Sirs, ye're surely tir'd wi' walking — Ye maun taste my bread and cheese." " Thanks," quo' Will, " I canna tarry, Pick-mirk night is setting in; Jean, poor thing's, her lane, and eery — I maun to the road and rin." "Hout!" quo' Tam, "what's a' the hurry? Hame's now scarce a mile o' gate — Come, sit down — Jean winna wearie: Ko, I'm sure its no sae late." Will o'ercome wi' Tam's oration, Baith fell to and ate their fill: "Tam," quo' Will, "in mere discretion, We maun hae the widow's gill." WILLANDJEAN. 79 After ae gill cam anither — Meg sat craking 'tween them twa; Bang! cam in Mat Smith and's brither, Geordie Brown and Sandj Shaw. Neebors wha ne'er thought to meet here, Now sat down wi' double glee; Ilka gill grew sweet and sweeter, — Will gat Tiame 'tween twa and three. Jean, poor thing! had lang been greeting; Will, neist morning, blam'd Tam Lowes: But ere lang a weekly meeting Was set up at Maggie Howe's. Maist things hae a sma' beginning, But wha kens how things will end? Weekly clubs are nae great sinnin, If folk hae enough to spend: But nae man o' sober thinking Ere will say that things can thrive, If there's spent in weekly drinking. What keeps wife and weans alive. 8Q MACNEILL. Drink maun aye liae conversation^ Ilka social soul allows; But in this reforming nation^ Wha can speak without the News? ITews, first meant for State Phj^sicians, Deeply skill'd in courtly drugs, Now when a' are politicians^ Just to set folk by the lugs — Maggie's club, wha could get nae light On some things that should be clear, Found e'er lang the fau't, and ae night, Clubb'd and gat the Gazetteer. Twice a week to Maggi.e's cot-house. Swift by post the papers fled; Thoughts spring up like plants in hot-house Every time the news are read. Bk ane's wiser than anither, — • "Thing's are no ga'en right," quo' Tam; ''Let us aftener meet thegither — ■ Hand me bye anither dram." See them now in grave convention, To mak a thing square and even Or at least wi' firm intention To drink sax nights out o' seven. WILL AND JEAN. 31 'Mid this sitting up and drinkin, Gathering a' the news that fell, Will, wha was nae yet past thinkin, Had some battles wi' himsel. On ae hand, drink's deadly poison Bare ilk firm resolve awa; On the ither, Jean's condition Eave his very heart in twa. Weel he saw her smother'd sorrow; Weel he saw her bleaching cheek; Mark't the smile she strave to borrow. When, poor thing, she could na speak! Jean, at first, took little heed o' Weekly clubs 'mang three or four. Thought, kind soul ! that Will had need o' Heartsome hours when wark was owre. But whan now that nightly meetings Sat and drank frae sax till twa, When she found that hard earn'd gettings Kow on drink ware thrown awa; Saw her Will, wha ance sae cheerie Raise ilk morning wi' the lark, Now grown mauchless, dowf, and sweer aye To look near his farm or wark; 6 82 MACNETLL. Saw him tjne his manly spirit, Healthy bloom and sprightly ee; And o' luve and hame grown wearit, Nightly frae his family flee ; Wha conld blame her heart's complaining Wha condemn her sorrows meek? Or the tears that now ilk e'ening Bleach'd her lately crimson'd cheek? Will, wha lang had ru'd and swither'd, (Aye asham'd o' past disgrace,) Markt the roses as they withered Fast on Jeanie's lovely face? Markt — and felt wi' inward racking A' the wyte lay wi' himsel, — Swore neist night he'd make a breakin — Leave the club at hame to dwell. But, alas! when habit's rooted, Few hae pith the root to pu'; Will's resolves war aye nonsuited, — Promis'd aye — ^but aye gat fu'. Aye at first at the convening Moraliz'd on what was right : Yet o'er clavers entertaining, Doz'd and drank till brade day -light. WILLANDJEAN. 33 Things at lengtli drew near an ending; Cash rins out; Jean quite unhappy, Sees that "Will is now past mending, Tjnes a' heart, and taks — a drappj. Ilka drink deserves a posej; Port maks men rude; Claret civil; Beer mak's Britons stout and rosy; Whisky maks ilk wife — a devil. Jean, wha lately bare affliction Wi' sae meek and mild an air, School'd by whisky, learns new tricks soon, Flytes, and storms, and rugs Will's hair. Jean, sae late the tenderest mither, Fond o' ilk dear dauted wean; Now, heart hardened a' thegither, Skelps them round frae morn till e'en. Jean, wha, vogie, loo'd to busk aye In her hame-spun, thrifty wark, Kow sells a' her braws for Whisky, To her last gown, coat, and sark! Eobin Burns, in mony a ditty, Loudly sings in Whisky's praise; Sweet his sang — ^the mair's the pity "•^I'er on it he wared sic lays. 84 M A C N E I L L . 0' a' tlie ills poor Caledonia E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste, Brew'd in hell's black Pandemonia, Whisky's ill will skaith her maistl "Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace? Wha in neeboring town or farm? Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face, Deadly strength was in his^arm. When he first saw Jeanie Miller, Wha wi' Jeanie conld compare? Thousand's had mair braws and siller. But war ony half sae fair?"' See them now I — how chang'd wi' drinking! A' their youthfu' beauty gane! Daver'd, doited, daiz'd, and blinking — Worn to perfect skin and bane I In the cauld month o' November, (Claise and cash and credit out,) Cow'ring owre a dying ember, Wi' ilk face as white's a clout! Bond and bill and debts a' stoppit, Ilka sheaf selt on the bent; Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit, Now to pay the laird his rent. WILL A X D J E A X 85 No anither night to lodge here? No a friend their cause to plead! — He ta'en on to be a sodger, She wi' weans to beg her bread! '•0' a' the ills poor Caledonia E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste, Brew'd in hell's black Pandemonia, Whisky's ill will skaith her maist!" |;trt fHrK Oh! that folk wad weel consider What it is to tyne a — Name, What this warl is a' thegither, If bereft of honest fame! 36 MACNEILL. Poortitli ne'er can bring dislionor, Hardships ne'er breed Sorrow's smart, If bright Conscience taks upon her To shed sunshine round the heart: But, wi' a' that wealth can borrow. Guilty Shame will aye look down; What maun then, Shame, Want, and Sorrow, Wandering sad frae town to town! Jeanie Miller, ance sae ch eerie. Ance sae happy, good, and fair. Left by Will, neist morning drearie Taks the road o' black Despair. Cauld the blast! — 'the day was sleeting; Pouch and purse without a plack ! In ilk hand a bairn ie greeting. And the third tied on her back! Wan her face! and lean and haggard! Ance sae sonsy, ance sae sweet! What a change! — unhoused and beggared. Starving — without claise or meat? Far frae ilk kent spot she wandered. Skulking like a guilty thief; Here and there, uncertain, daundered, Stupefied wi' shame and grief: WILLANDJEAN. §7 But soon shame for bjgane errors, Fled owre fast for ee to trace, Whan grim Death, wi' a' his terror^, Cam o'er ilk sweet bairnie's face! Spent wi' toil, and caiild, and hunger, Baith down drapt! and down Jean sat! ''Dais'd and doited" now nae langer, Thought — and felt — and, bursting, grat. Gloaming fast, wi' mirkj shadow, Crap o'er distant hill and plain; Darkened wood, and glen, and meadow, Adding fearfii' thoughts to pain! Eound and round, in wild distraction, Jeanie turned her tearfu' ee! Eound and round for some protection! Face nor house she could na see! Dark and darker grew the night aje; Loud and sair the cauld winds thud: Jean now spied a sma' bit lightie Blinking through a distant wood. Up wi' frantic haste she started; s Cauld nor fear, she felt nae mair; V[ope, for ae bright moment, darted Through the gloom o' dark Despair! §3 MACNEILL Fast o'er fallowed lea she brattled; Deep she wade through bog and burn; Sair wi' steep and craig she battled, Till she reached the hoped sojourn, Proud, 'mang scenes o' simple Nature, Stately auld, a mansion stood On a bank, whase sylvan feature, Smiled out-o'er the roaring flood. Summer here, in varied beauty, Late her flowery mantle spread, Where auld chesnut, aik, and yew-tree, Mingling, lent their friendly shade: Blasted now wi' Winter's ravage A' their gaudy livery cast; Wood and glen, in wailings savage, Howl and murmur to the blast. Darkness stalked wi' fancy's terror; Mountains moved and castle rocked! Jean, half dead wi' toil and horror, Keached the door, and loudly knocked. " Wha thus loudly wakes the sleeping?" Cried a voice wi' angry grane ; — "Help! oh help!" quo' Jeanie, weeping, "Help my infants, or they're gane! WILLANDJEAN. gg "Nipt wi' cauld! — wi' hunger fainting! Baith lie speecUess on tlie lea! Help!" quo' Jeanie, loud lamenting, "Help my lammies! or they'll die!" "Wha thus travels, cauld and hungry, Wi' young bairns sae late at e'en? Beggars!" cried the voice, mair angry, " Beggars ! wi' their brats, I ween. "Beggars now^ alas! wha lately Helpt the beggar and the poor!" "Fye, gudeman!" cried ane, discreetly, '* Taunt na poortith at our door. "Sic a night and tale thegither. Plead for mair than Anger's din: — Kise, Jock!" cried the pitying mither, "Eise, and let the wretched in!" "Beggars now, alas! wha lately Helpt the beggar and the poor! — ^" "Enter!" quo' the youth fu' sweetly, While up flew the open door. "Beggar, or what else, sad mourner! Enter without fear or dread; Here, thank God! there's aye a corner To defend the houseless head! 90 MACNETLL. "For your bairnies cease repining; If in life, ye'll see them soon." Aff he flew; and brightly shining, Through the dark clouds brak the moon. KXi |0tirtl^ Here, for ae night's kind protection, Leave we Jean and weans awhile; Tracing Will in ilk direction. Far frae Britain's fostering isle! Far frae scenes o' saft'ning pleasure, Luve's delights and Beauty's charms; Far frae friends and social leisure, Plunged in murdering Wae's alarms ! Is it Nature, Vice, or Folly, Or Ambition's feverish brain. That sae aft, wi' melancholy. Turns, sweet Peace! thy joys to pain? Strips thee of thy robes o' ermin, (Emblems of thy spotless life,) And on war's grim look alarming, Arms thee with the murd'rer's knife! WILLAXDJEAN. Ql A' tliy gentle mind upliarrows ! Hate, revenge, and rage appears! And for hope and joj, (twin marrows,) Leaves the mourner drowned in tears. Willie Gairlace, without siller. Credit, claise, or aught beside, Leaves his ance-lov'd Jeanie Miller, And sweet bairns, to warld wide! Leaves his native, cozy dwellin, Sheltered haughs and birken braes; GreeDswaird hows and dainty mealin, Ance his profit, pride, and praise! Deckt wi' scarlet, sword, and musket. Drunk wi' dreams as fause as vain, Fleeched and flattered, roosed and buskit, Wow! but Will was wond'rous fain! Eattling, roaring, swearing, drinking, How could Thought her station keep? Drams and drumming (faes to thinking) Dozed Reflection fast asleep. But in midst o' toils and dangers, Wi' the cauld ground for his bed — Compass'd round wi' faes and strangers — Soon Will's dreams o' Fancy fled. 92 MACNEILL. Led to Battle's blood-dj'd banners, Waving to tlie widow's moan, Will saw Glory's boasted honors End in life's expiring groan I Eoiind Yalenciennes' strong-wa'd city, Thick o'er Dunkirk's fatal plain, Will (though dauntless) saw wi' pity Britain's valiant sons lie slain! Fired by Freedom's burning fever, Gallia strack Death's slaughtering knell ; Frae the Scheld to Khine's deep river, Britons fought — but Britons fell! Fell unaided! though cemented By the faith o' Friendship's laws; Fell unpitied — unlamented ! Bleeding in a thankless cause ! In the thrang o' comrades deeing, Fighting foremost o' them a', Swift! Fate's winged ball cam fleeing, And took Willie's leo^ awa! 'O Thrice frae aff the ground he started. Thrice to stand he strave in vain; Thrice, as fainting strength departed, Sighed — and sank 'mang hundreds slain WILL AND JEAN. i);] Battle fast on battle raging, Wed our stalwart youths awa'; Day by day fresli faes engaging, Forced the weary back to fa'! Driven at last frae post to pillar, Left by friends wha ne'er prov'd true; Trick't by knaves, wha pouched our siller, What could worn-out valor do? Myriads, dark lik gathering thunder, Bursting, spread o'er land and sea: Left alane, alas! nae wonder Britain's sons were forced to flee! Cross the Waal and Yssel frozen, Deep through bogs and drifted snaw, Wounded — weak — and spent! our chosen Gallant men now faint and fa' ! On a cart wi' comrades bluiding. Stiff wi' gore, and cauld as clay, Without cover, bed, or bedding. Five lang nights Will Gairlace lay! In a sick-house, damp and narrow, (Left behind, wi' mony mair,) See Will next, in pain and sorrow, Wasting on a bed of care. 94 MACNEILL Wounds, and pain, and burning fever, Doctors cured wi' healing art; Cured, alas! — but never, never Cooled the fever at liis beart! For wban a' were sound and sleeping, Still and on, baitb ear' and late, Will in brinj grief lay steeping. Mourning o'er bis bapless fate! A' bis gowden prospects vanisbed! A' bis dreams o' warlike fame! A' bis glittering pbantoms banisbed! Will could tbink o' nougbt but bamel Tbink o' nougbt but rural quiet, Eural labor, rural ploys; Far frae carnage, blood, and riot, War, and a' its murdering joys ! |art liftlr. Back to Britain's fertile garden, Will's returned, (excbanged for faes,) Wi' ae leg, and no ae farden. Friend or credit, meat or claise. WILLANDJEAN. 95 Lang tlirongli county, burgh, and city, Crippling on a wooden leg, Gathering alms frae melting pity, See! poor Gairlace forced to beg! Placed at length on Chelsea's bounty, Now to langer beg thinks shame. Dreams ance mair o' smiling plenty — Dreams o' former joys, and hame ! Hame! and a' its fond attractions! Fast to Will's warm bosom flee; While the thoughts o' dear connections Swell his heart, and blind his ee. — "Monster! wha could leave neglected Three sma' infants and a wife, Naked — starving — ^unprotected ! Them, too, dearer ance than life! " Yillain ! wha wi' graceless folly. Ruined her he ought to save! Changed her joys to melancholy, Beggary, and — perhaps a grave!" Starting! — ^wi' Remorse distracted — Crushed wi' Grief's increasing load. Up he banged; and, sair afSicted, Sad and silent took the road. 96 MACNEILL Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggm, Sometimes helpit, Will gat fortli, On a cart, or in a wagon, Hirpling aye towards the North. Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly, Pondering on his thraward fate, In the bonny month o' July, Willie, heedless, tint his gate. Saft the southland breeze was blawing, Sweetly sugh'd the green aik wood; Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing, Strack the ear wi' thundering thud: Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleeting; Linties chirped on ilka tree ; Frae the West, the sun, near setting, Flamed on Koshn's' towers sae hie! Eoslin's towers ! and braes sae bonny ! Craigs and water ! woods and glen ! Eoshn's banks! unpeered by ony, Save the muse's Hawthornden !^ Ilka sound and charm delighting; Will (though hardly fit to gang) 1 Rosliu Castle. 2 The ancient seat of the celebrated poet, William Dnimmond, who flourished in 1585. WILLANDJEAN. 97 Wandered on throngli scenes inviting, List'ning to the mavis' sang. Faint at length, the day fast closing, On a fragrant strawberry steep, Esk's sweet stream to rest composing, Wearied Nature drapt asleep. "Soldier rise! — the dews o' e'ening Gathering fa' wi' deadly skaith ! — Wounded soldier! if complaining, Sleep na here, and catch your death. "Traveller, waken! — night advancing, Cleads wi' grey the neighboring hill; Lambs nae mair on knows are dancing — A' the woods are mute and stUl." " What hae I," cried Willie, waking. What hae I frae night to dree? Morn, through clouds in splendor breaking. Lights nae bright'ning hope to me. "House, nor hame, nor farm, nor stedding! Wife nor bairns hae I to see! House nor hame, nor bed nor bedding! — What hae I frae night to dree?'' "Sair, alas! and sad and many Are the ills poor mortals share! — 98 MACNEILL. Yet, though hame nor bed je hae nae, Yield na, Soldier, to despair! " What's this hfe, sae wae and wearie, If Hope's bright'niiig beams should fail; See! though night conies, dark and eerie, Yon sma' cot-hght cheers the dale! "There, though wealth and waste ne'er riot, Humbler joys their comforts shed. Labor — health — content and quiet — Mourner ! there ye'll find a bed 1 " Wife, 'tis true, wi' baimies smiling, There, alas! je need na seek — Yet there bairns, ilk wae beguiling, Paint wi' smiles a mother's cheek! " A' her earthly pride and pleasure Left to cheer her widow'd lot! A' her warldly wealth and treasure To adorn her lanely cot! "Cheer! then Soldier! midst affliction Bright'ning joys will aften shine ; Virtue aye claims Heaven's protection — Trust to Providence divine!" WILLANDJEAN. 99 Sweet as Rosebank's' woods and river, Cool when summer's sunbeams dart, Came ilk word, and cooled the fever That lang burned at Wilhe's heart. Silent stept he on, poor fallow! Listening to his guide before, O'er green know and flowerj hallow, Till thej reached the cot-house door. Laigh it was; yet sweet, though humble; Deckt wi' honeysuckle round; Clear below Esk's waters rumble, Deep glens murmuring back the sound. Melville's towers, sae white and stately. Dim by gloaming, glint to view; Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly Skies sae red and lift sae blue! Entering now, in transport mingle. Mother fond, and happy wean. Smiling round a canty ingle, Bleasing on a clean hearth-stane. 1 Rosebank, near Roslin. the author's place of nativity. '' Soldier, welcome ! come ! be cheer ie — Here ye'se rest, and tak your bed — Faint, waes me! ye seem and wearie, Pale's your clieek, sae lately red!" ''Changed I am," sighed Willie till her; "Changed nae donbt, as changed can be; Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller Nought o' Willie Gairlace see?" Hae ye markt the dews o' morning Glittering in the sunny ray, Quickly fa', when, without warning, Rough blasts came and shook the spray? WILL AND JEAN. IQl Hae ye seen tlie bird fast fleeting Drap, when pierced by Death mair fleet ! Then see Jean wi' color deeing, Senseless drap at Willie's feet! After three lang years' af&iction, (A' their waes now hushed to rest,) Jean ance mair, in fond affection, Clasps her Willie to her breast. Tells him a' her sad, sad sufferings! How she wandered, starving poor. Gleaning Pity's scanty offerings, Wi' three bairns, from door to door! How she served — and toiled — and fevered, Lost her health, and syne her bread; How that Grrief, when scarce recovered, Took her brain, and turned her head. How she wandered round the county Mony a live-lang night her lane ; Till at last an angel's bounty. Brought her senses back again ! Gae her meat — and claise — and siller; Gae her bairnies wark and lear; Lastly, gae this cot-house till her, Wi' four sterling pounds a year! 102 MACNEILL. Willie, barkening, wiped his e'en aye ;■ — "Oh! what sins hae I to rue! But say, wha's this angel, Jeanie?" "Wha," quo' Jeanie, "but Buccleugh!' "Here, supported' — cheered — and cherished, Nine blest months I've lived and mair; Seen these infants clad and nourished, Dried my tears, and tint despair: "Sometimes serving, sometimes spinning, Light the lanesome hours gae round; Lightly too ilk quarter rinning, Brings yon angel's helping pound!" "Eight pounds mair," cried Willie, fondly, " Eight pounds mair will do nae harm ! And, Jean! gin friends were kindly, Twall pounds soon might stock a farm. "There, ance mair, to thrive by pie win, Ereed frae a' that peace destroys. Idle waste and drunhen ruin! War, and a' its murdering joys!" Thrice he kissed his lang-lost treasure ; Thrice ilk bairn — ^but could na speak; Tears of love, and hope, and pleasure, Streamed in silence down his cheek! I Tne Duchess of Buccleiigh, the luiwearied patroness and supporter of the afflicted anc tlie poor. MICHAEL BRUCE. Michael Bkl'ce, a vouug Scottish poet of rich promise, was born at Kineswood, in Kinross-shire. His father was an humble trades- man — a weavei*, who w^as burdened with a family of eight children, of whom the poet was the fifth. The dreariest poverty and obscur- ity hung over the infancy of the poet. His father was a good and pious man, and trained all his childi-en to a knowledge of their let- ters, and a deep sense of religious duty. In the summer months Michael was put out to herd cattle. His education was retarded by this employment; but his training as a poet w^as benefited by soh- tary communion with nature, amidst scenery that overlooked Loch- leven and its fine old ruined castle. At the age of fifteen he was left a legacy of eleven pounds, which was piously devoted to his educa- tion, and with Avhich he proceeded to Edinburgh, and was enrolled as a student of the University, Here he was soon distinguished for proficiency in his studies, and for his taste for poetry. Having been three sessions at college, supported by his parents and kind friends, Bruce engaged in teaching school, for which service he re- ceived about eleven pounds per annum ! His school-room was low- roofed and da*np, and the poor youth, confined for five or six hours a day in this unwholesome atmosphere, depressed by poverty and dis- appointment, soon lost health and spirits. A pulmonary complaint settled on him, and he was forced to return to his father's cottage, which he never again left. With death full in his view, he wrote his Elegy to Spring, the finest of all his productions. He displayed the utmost eli.-erlidness to the last. After his death, his Bible, found 104 BRUCE beneath his pillow, was marked at Jer. xxii. 10, ""Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him." The author of the "Genius of Scotland," Rev. R. TurnbuU, says of him: "In his personal appearance he is said to have resembled Shel- ley; having yellowish curling hair, a long neck and narrow chest, skin white and shining, and his cheeks ' tinged with red rather than ruddy.' He was ' early smitten with the love of song,' and began oc- casionally to write verses. Possessed of a fine musical ear, he was impatient to get hold of all sorts of old ballads and songs ; and while the other children of the village or school were amusing themselves with play, or spending their money on trash, he was poring with de- lighted eyes over 'Chevy Chase,' or 'The Flowers of the Forest.' When he had made himself familiar with the music and sentiments of these ballads, he would endeavor 'to supply his lack of novelty with verses of his own.' It is in this way, probably, that his fine ;ballad of ' Sir James the Rose,' and some of his pastorals, originated." FS^TEi^Si i^'Q ' v"- Of all the Scottish northern chiefs, Of high and warhke name, The bravest was Sir James the Rose, A knicht of meikle fame. His growth was as the tufted fir, That crowns the mountain's brow; And, waving o'er his shoulders broad, His locks of yellow flew. 106 BRUCE. The chieftain of the brave clan Eoss, A firm undaunted band; Five hundred warriors drew their sword, Beneath his high command. In bloody fight thrice had he stood, Against the English keen. Ere two and twenty opening springs This blooming youth had seen. The fair Matilda dear he loved, A maid of beauty rare; Ev'n Margaret on the Scottish throne "Was never half so fair. Lang had he wooed, lang she refused, With seeming scorn and pride; Yet aft her eyes confessed the love Her fearfiil words denied. At last she blessed his well-tried faith. Allowed his tender claim: She vowed to him her virgin heart, And owned an equal flame. Her father, Buchan's cruel lord, Their passion disapproved; And bade her wed Sir John the Graeme, And leave the youth she loved. SIR JAMES THE ROSE. 1Q7 Ae nicht they met, as tliej were wont, Deep in a shady wood. Where, on a bank beside a burn, A blooming saugh-tree stood. Concealed among the underwood, The crafty Donald lay, The brother of Sir John the Graeme ; To hear what they would say. When thus the maid began: "My sire Your passion disapproves. And bids me wed Sir John the Graeme; So here must end our loves. "My father's will must be obeyed; Nocht boots me to withstand; Some fairer maid, in beauty's bloom. Must bless thee with her hand. " Matilda soon shall b^ forgot. And from thy mind effaced: But may that happiness be thine, Which I can never taste." "What do I hear? Is this thy vow?" Sir James the Eose replied: " And will Matilda wed the Graeme, Though sworn to be my bride? 108 BRUCE. "His sword shall sooner pierce mj heart Than reave me of thy charms." Then clasped her to his beating breast, Fast lock'd into his arms. "I spake to try thy love," she said; "I'll ne'er wed man but thee: My grave shall be my bridal bed, Ere Grraeme my husband be. "Take then, dear youth, this faithful kiss. In witness of my truth ; And every plague become my lot. That day I break my oath!" They parted thus: the sun was set: Up hasty Donald flies; And, "Turn thee, turn thee, beardless youth!' He loud insulting cries. Soon turn'd about the fearless chief, And soon his sword he drew; For Donald's blade, before his breast, Had pierced his tartans through. " This for my brother's slighted love ; His wrongs sit on my arm." Three paces back the youth retired, And saved himself from harm. SIR JAMES THE EOSE. 109 Eeturuing swift, Lis hand lie reared, Frae Donald's head above. And through the brain and crashing bones His sharp-edged weapon drove. He staggering reeled, then tumbled down, A lump of breathless clay: "So fall mj foes!" quoth valiant Eose, And stately strode away. Through the green-wood he quickly hied. Unto Lord Buchan's hall ; And at Matilda's window stood, And thus began to call: "Art thou asleep, Matilda dear? Awake, my love, awake I Thy luckless lover on thee calls, A long farewell to take. " For I have slain fierce Donald G-raeme ; His blood is on my sword: And distant are my faithful men, Xor can assist their lord. "To Sk}'e 1*11 now direct my way, Where my two brothers hide, And raise the valiant of the Isles, To combat on mv side." 110 BRUCE. "0 do not so," tlie maid replies; " With me till morning stay ; For dark and drear v is the niffht, And dano^erons the o^ wa}^ "All night I'll watch thee in the park; My faithful page I'll send, To run and raise the Eoss's clan, Their master to defend." Beneath a bush he laid him down, And wrapped him in his plaid; While, trembling for her lover's fate, At distance stood the maid. Swift ran the page o'er hill and dale, Till, in a lonely glen, He met the furious Sir John Graeme, With twenty of his men. " Where go'st thou, little page ?" he said ; "So late who did thee send?" "I go to raise the Eoss's clan. Their master to defend; "For he hath slain Sir Donald Graeme; His blood is on his sword: And far, far distant are his men, That should assist their lord." SIR JAMES THE ROSE. m "And has lie slain my brother dear?" The farious Graeme replies: "Dishonor blast mj name, but he By me, ere morning, dies! " Tell me where is Sir James the Eose ; I will thee well reward." "He sleeps into Lord Buchan's park; Matilda is his guard." They spurred their steeds in furious mood. And scoured along the lee; They reached Lord Buchan's lofty towers, By dawning of the day. Matilda stood without the gate; To whom the Grraeme did say, "Saw ye Sir James the Eose last night? Or did he pass this way?" "Last da}^, at noon," Matilda said, Sir James the Eose passed by : He furious pricked his sweaty steed, And onward fast did hie. "By this he is at Edinburgh, If horse and man hold good." "Your page, then, lied, who said he was Now sleeping in the wood." 112 BRUCE. She wrung her hands, and tore her hair: "Brave Eose, thou art betrayed; And ruined by those means," she cried, " From whence I hoped thine aid !" By this the valiant knight awoke; The virgin's shrieks he heard; And up he rose and drew his sword, When the fierce band appeared. "Your sword last night my brother slew* His blood yet dims its shine: And, ere the setting of the sun. Your blood shall reek on mine." "You word it well," the chief replied; " But deeds approve the man : Set by your band, and, hand to hand, We'll try what valor can. "Oft boasting hides a coward's heart; My weighty sword you fear. Which shone in front of Flodden field, When you kept in the rear." With dauntless step he forward strode, And dared him to the fight : But Graeme gave back, and feared his arm; For well he knew its might. SIR JAMES THE ROSE H^ Four of liis men, the bravest four, Sunk down beneath his sword: But still he scorned the poor revenge. And sought their haughty lord. Behind him basely came the Graeme, And pierc'd him in the side; Out spoating came the purple tide. And all his tartans dyed. But yet his sword quat not the grip, Nor dropt he to the ground, Till through his enemy's heart his steel Had forced a mortal wound. Graeme, like a tree with wind o'erthrown, Fell breathless on the clay; And down beside him sank the Eose, And faint and dying lay. The sad Matilda saw him fall: " Oh, spare his life !" she cried ; "Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life; Let her not be denied!" Her well-known voice the hero heard; He raised his death-closed eyes. And fixed them on the weeping maid, And weakly thus replies: 8 114 BRUCE. " In vain Matilda begs the life, By death's arrest denied: My race is run — adieu, my love — " Then closed his eyes and died. The sword, yet warm, from his left side With frantic hand she drew: "I come. Sir James the Rose," she cried "I come to follow yon!'' She leaned the hilt against the ground, And bared her snowy breast; Then fell upon her lover's face, And sunk to endless rest. TO THE CUCKOO. 115 JO JJ}£ 6t(e^O0. Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Thou messenger of Spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green. Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? Delightful visitant! with thee, I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet, From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy wandering through the wood, To pull the primrose gay. Starts the new voice of spring to hear. And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom. Thou fliest thy local vale, 116 BRUCE. Another guest in other lands, Another spring to hail. Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. No winter in thy year! O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual "yisit o'er the globe, Companions of the spring. 'Tis past : the iron North has spent his rage ; Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day; The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, And warm o'er ether western breezes play. Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, From southern climes, beneath another sky. The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: Before his beams all noxious sapors fly. 118 BRUCE. Far to the north grim Winter draws his train, To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign ; Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar. Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground Again puts on her robe of cheerfal green, Again puts forth her flowers; and all around Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen. Behold! the trees new deck their withered boughs; The ample leaves, the hospitable plane, Their taper elm, and lofty ash disclose ; The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen. Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun; The birds on ground, or on the branches green. Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers. From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers; Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms That fill the air with fragrance all around, The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, While o'er the wild his broken notes resound. ELEGY 119 While the sun journeys doAvn the western skj^, Along the green sward, marked with Eoman mound, Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye, The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. Now is the time for those who wisdom love, Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road. Along the lovely paths of spring to rove, And follow Nature up to Nature's God. Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws; Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind ; Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty cause. And left the wondering multitude behind. Thus Ashley gathered academic bays; Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll. Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise. And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. 120 B R U E . Thus have I walked along the de\y v lawn ; My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn ; Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, And gathered health from all the gales of morn. And, even wlien winter chilled the aged year, I wandered lonely o'er the koary plain: Though frosty Boreas warned me to forbear, Boreas, with all his tempests, warned in vain. Then, sleep my nights, and quiet blessed jnj days ; I feared no loss, my mind was all my store ; ^o anxious wishes e'er disturbed my ease; Heaven gave content and health — I asked no more. ^ow. Spring returns; but not to me returns The vernal J03' my better years have known , Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, And all the joys of life Avith health are flown. Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind. Meager and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, And count the silent moments as they pass: The winged moments, whose unstaying speed No art can stop, or in their course arrest; Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead. And lay me down in peace with them at rest. ELEGY. 121 Oft morning dreams j^i'esage approaching fate ; And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true ; Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate. And bid the realms of life and light adieu. I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe ; I see the m^uddj wave, the dreary shore, The sluggish streams that slowly sleep below, Which mortals visit, and return no more. Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound. Where melancholy with still silence reigns. And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the shut of eve, When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes ; The world and all its busy follies leave. And talk with Wisdom where my Daphne lies. There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay. When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes; Eest in the hopes of an eternal day, Till the long night is gone, and the last morn aris 122 BRUCE. (from a LOXG rOKM ENTITI.KI) "lOCHLEVEX.") " How blest tlie man, wlio, in these peacefal plains, Plonglis his paternal field ; far from the noise, The care and bustle of a busy world! All in the sacred, sweet, sequestered vale Of solitude, the secret primrose path Of rural life he dwells; and with, him dwells Peace and content, twins of the sylvan shade, And all the graces of the golden age. Such, is Agricola, the wise, the good, By nature formed for the calm retreat, The silent path of life. Learned, but not fraught With self-importance, as the starched fool Who challenges respect by solemn face. By studied accent, and high-sounding phrase. Enamored of the shade, but not morose. Politeness raised in courts by frigid rules With him spontaneous grows. Not books alone, But man his study, and the better part; To tread the ways of virtue, and to act The various scenes of life with God's applause. JOHN LOaAN. HA^S— 1188. Jonx Logan was born at Soutra, in tlie parish of Fala, Mid Lothian. Ilis father, a small farmer, educated him for the church, and, after he had obtained a license to preach, he distinguished him- self so much for pulpit eloquence, that he was appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. He published some poems in 1781, which were well received, and in 1783 he produced the tragedy of Runni- rnede^ founded on the signing of the Magna Charta. His parishoners Avere opposed to such an exercise of his talents, and unfortunately Logan had lapsed into irregular and dissipated habits. The conse- quence was, that he resigned his charge on receiving a small annuity, and proceeded to London, where he resided till his death, in 1788. One act in Logan's life casts a shade over his literary character, we refer to his editorial supervision of the poems of his friend Michael Bruce. He left out several pieces by Bruce, and, as he states in his preface, " to make up a miscellany," poems by different authors were inserted. Many of these he claimed, and published afterwards as his own. With respect to the best of the disputed pieces, "The Ode to the Cuckoo," whose "magical stanzas of picture, melody and senti- ment," as Disraeli calls them, have been so much admired, we think there is sufficient evidence to show that it was written by Bruce. It is unfavorable for the case of Logan that he retained some of the manuscripts of Bruce, and his conduct through the whole affair was careless and unsatisfactory. That Logan was a man of genius, both his published sermons, which have been exceedingly popular, and his poems, sufficiently tes- tifv. " Thy braes were bonn}^, Yarrow stream ! When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream! When now thy waves his body cover! Forever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. "He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers: 126 LOGAN. He promised me a little page, To squire me to liis father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,- — • The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow ; — Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas ! his watery grave, in Yarrow ! " Sweet were his words when last we met, M}^ passion I as freely told him ! Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the w^ater-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow ! "His mother from the window look'd, With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west. They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow! "ISTo longer from thy window look, Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid! Alas! thou hast no more a brother! THE PRAYER OF JACOB. 127 'No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough ; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. " The tear shall never leave my cheek, ISTo other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow." The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow ; She found his body in the stream. And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. O God of Bethel! by whose hand Thy people still are fed; Who through this weary pilgrimage Hast all our fathers led: Our vows, our pray'rs, we now present Before thy throne of grace : God of our fathers! be the God Of their succeeding race. 128 LOGAN. Through each perplexing path of life Our wand'ring footsteps g-uide; Give us each day our daily brer.d, And raiment fit provide. spread thy cov'ring wings around, Till all our wand'rings cease, And at our Father's lov'd abode Our souls arrive in peace. Such blessings from thy gTacious hand Our humble pray'rs implore ; And thou shalt be our chosen God. And portion evermore. USK8 6 if f^ I 81. Where high the heav'nly temple stands, The house of God not made with hands, A great High Priest our nature wears. The guardian of mankind appears. He who for men their surety stood. And pour'd on earth his precious blood. Pursues in heav'n his mighty plan. The Saviour and the friend of man. THE REIGN OF MESSIAH. 129 Though now ascended up on high, He bends on earth a brother's eye ; Partaker of the human name, He knows the frailty of our frame. Oar fellow-suff'rer yet retains A fellow-feeling of our pains ; And still remembers in the skies His tears, his agonies and cries. In ev'ry pang that rends the heart, The Man of sorrows had a part ; He sympathizes with our grief. And to the suff'rer sends relief. TVith boldness, therefore, at the throne, Let us make all our sorrows known; And ask the aids of heav'nly pow'r To help us in the evil hour. Behold ! the mountain of the Lord In latter days shall rise On mountain-tops above the hills. And draw the wond'ring eyes. 130 LOGAN To this the joyful nations round, All tribes and tongues shall flow; Up to the hill of God, they'll say. And to his house we'll go. The beam that shines from Zion's hill Shall lighten ev'ry land; The King who reigns in Salem's tow'rs Shall all the world command. Among the nations he shall jndge ; His judgments truth shall guide ; His sceptre shall protect the just. And quell the sinner's pride. No strife shall rage, nor hostile fends Disturb those peaceful j'ears; To ploughshares men shall beat their swords, To pruning-hooks their spears. ' ISTo longer hosts enconnt'ring hosts Shall crowds of slain deplore : They hang the trumpet in the hall, And study war no more. Come then, house of Jacob ! come To worship at his shrine ; And, walking in the light of God, With holy beauties shine. THE DYING CHRIST I AX l^l The hour of my departure's come ; I hear the voice that calls me home , At last, Lord! let trouble cease, And let thy servant die in peace. The race appointed I have won ; The combat's o'er, the prize is won; And now my witness is on high, And now my record's in the sky. x^ot in mine innocence I trust; I bow before thee in the dust; And through my Saviour's blood alone I look for mercy at thy throne. I leave the world without a tear, Save for the friends I held so dear; To heal their sorrows. Lord, descend, And to the friendless prove a friend. I come, I come, at thy command, I give my spirit to thy hand; Stretch forth thine everlasting armS; And shield me in the last alarms. 132 LOGAN. The hour of my departure's come; I hear the voice that calls me home : Now, my God ! let trouble cease ; Now let thy servant die in peace. Take comfort, Christians, when your friends In Jesus fall asleep; Their better being never ends; Why then dejected weep? Why inconsolable, as those To whom no hope is giv'n. Death is the messenger of peace. And calls the soul to heav'n. As Jesus died, and rose again Victorious from the dead; So his disciples rise, and reign With their triumphant Head. The time draws nigh, when from the clouds Christ shall with shouts descend, And the last trumpet's awful voice The heav'ns and earth shall rend. THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE. X33 Then tliej who live shall changed be, And they who sleep shall wake; The graves shall yield their ancient charge, And earth's foundations shake. The saints of God, from death set free, With joy shall mount on high ; The heav'nly hosts with praises loud Shall meet them in the sky. Together to their Father's house With joyful hearts they go ; And dwell forever with the Lord, Beyond the reach of woe. A few short years of evil past, We reach the happy shore, Where death-divided friends at last Shall meet, to part no more. Few are thy days, and full of woe, man, of woman born! Thy doom is written, "Dust thou art, And shalt to dust return." 134 LOGAN. Behold the emblem of thy state In flow'rs that bloom and die, Or in the shadow's fleeting form, That mocks the gazer's eye. Gruilty and frail, how shalt thou stand Before thy sovereign Lord? Can troubled and polluted springs A hallow'd stream afford? Determin'd are the days that fly Successive o'er thy head; The number'd hour is on the wing That lays thee with the dead. Great God! afSict not in thy wrath The short allotted span. That bounds the few and weary days Of pilgrimage to man. All nature dies, and lives again ; The flow'r that paints the field, The trees that crown the mountain's brow, And boughs and blossoms yield. Resign the honors of their form At Winter's stormy blast. And leave the naked leafless plam A desolated waste. THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE. 135 Yet soon reviving plants and flow'rs Anew shall deck the plain; The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, And flourish green again. But man forsakes this earthly scene, Ah ! never to return : Shall any foU'wing spring revive The ashes of the urn? The mighty flood that rolls along Its torrents to the main, Can ne'er recall its waters lost From that abyss again. So days, and years, and ages past, Descending down to night, Can henceforth never more return Back to the gates of light And man, when laid in lonesome grave, Shall sleep in Death's dark gloom. Until th' eternal morning wake The slumbers of the tomb. O may the grave become to me The bed of peaceful rest, Whence I shall gladly rise at length, And mingle with the blest! 136 LOGAN. Clieer'd by this hope, with patient mind, I'll wait Heav'n's high decree, Till the appointed period come, When death shall set me free. 60S. . Who can resist th' Almighty arm That made the starry sky? Or who elude the certain glance Of God's all-seeing eye? From him no covering veils our crimes Hell opens to his sight; And all Destruction's secret snares Lie fall disclos'd in light. Firm on the boundless void of space He pois'd the steady pole, And in the circle of his clouds Bade secret waters roll. While nature's universal frame Its Maker's pow'r reveals, His throne, remote from mortal eyes, An awful cloud conceals. GOD. 137 From where the rising day ascends, To where it sets in night, He compasses the floods with bounds, And checks their threat'ning might. The pillars that support the sky Tremble at his rebuke; Through all its caverns quakes the earth As though its centre shook. He brings the waters from their beds. Although no tempest blows, And smites the kingdom of the proud Without the hand of foes. With bright inhabitants above He fills the heav'nly land, And all the crooked serpent's breed Dismay'd before him stand. Few of his works can we survey ; These few our skill transcend: But the full thunder of his pow'r What heart can comprehend? 138 LOGAN O HAPPY is the man who hears Instruction's warning voice; And who celestial Wisdom makes His early, only choice. For she has treasures greater far Than east or west imfold; And her rewards more precious are Than all their stores of gold. In her right hand she holds to view A length of happy days; Riches, with splendid honors join'd, Are what her left displays. She guides the young with innocence, In pleasure's paths to tread, A crown of glory she bestows Upon the hoary head.. According as her labors rise. So her rewards increase; Her ways are ways of pleasantness, And all her paths are peace. ROBERT Bl^RNS. n59— n96. Robert BrEXS was born near A3T, in the yet-venerated clay-built cottage which his father's hands had constructed. Reared amidst a religious and virtuous household's struggles with poverty and toil, he enjoyed little even of the ordinary education of a Scottish peasant. A smattering of French, a little mathematics, some half dozen Eng- lish authors, some exercise in local debating clubs, the fireside religious instruction of his father, the songs of his mother, and the traditional legends of an old female domestic, — these constituted the early intel- lectual stock in trade of the ploughman poet. From his youth song burst from him incontrollably. A nature susceptible, wayward, im- petuous, proud, and, even in youth, shadowed with hypochondria, could not give promise of a life of prudence and steadiness. His father had died in embarrassment and distress ; a farm leased by Robert and his brother Gilbert was, like the family's former agricultural speculations, totally unsuccessful; this, combined with the consequences of the poet's own indiscretion or criminality, forced him to think of seeking a more propitious fortune in the West Indies. The publication of his poems at Kilmarnock had, however, blown his reputation to Edin- burgh. On the point of embarking for Jamaica, he was advised to try what patronage and fame might do for him in the Scottish capital. He was received with unbounded applause by rank and learning ; nor was his bearing or his conversation unworthy of the spheres in which he mingled; nobility owned the title of low-born genius to a patent to higher respect than birth can confer ; and learning was amazed by the power of the gigantic judgment, the untaught eloquence, and the 140 BURNS. splendid wit, that enabled tlie imacadeniic rustic to cope with her ac- quirements. The Edinburgh edition of his poems yielded the poet, it is said, nearly £900. Eescued thus from poverty, he retired to the farm of Elliesland on the Mth in Dumfriesshire, with his wife (for- merly Miss Armour — "Bonnie Jean") and her four children. The disadvantages of his farm, added to his own careless management, compelled him in two or three years to throw up his lease, and rely on the prospect of promotion in the excise, in which he had procured an humble situation. The jealousy excited by some parts of his con- duct, by former satires on the royal family, and by imprudent political jeux-d'esprit, prevented his advancement. Meanwhile, his health was daily undermined by dissipation — a dissipation no doubt increased by the nature of his profession, and by the importunities of hundreds who sought Mm for the charms of his conversation. He died at Dumfries in ■utter poverty, but without one farthing of debt. The sorrow of his .country was universal. The mausoleums erected to his memory would have amply "stowed his pantry;" the patronage denied to the un- fortunate poet has been generously extended to his family. Professor Wilson, in his eloquent Essay on the Life and Genius of Burns, speaking of his closing days, remarks: — "But he had his Bible with him in his lodgings, and he read it almost continually — often when seated on a bank, from which he had diflQculty in rising with- ■out assistance, for his weakness was extreme, and in his emaciation he was like a ghost. The fire of his eye was not dimmed — ^indeed fever had lighted it up beyond even its natural brightness ; and though his voice, once so various, was now hollow, his discourse was still that of .a poet. To the last he loved the sunshine, the grass, and the flowers ; to the last he had a kind look and word for the passers-by, who all knew it was Burns. Laboring men, on their way from work, would step aside to the two or three houses called the Brow, to know if there was any hope of his life; and it is not to be doubted that devout people remembered him, who had written the Cotter's Satur- day Night in their prayers. His sceptical doubts no longer troubled him; they had never been more than shadows; and he had at last the faith of a confiding Christian." iif£ COUSIN'S saibfi^say ffjsjfj Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure, Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. — Gray. My lov'd, my honor'd, mucli respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise; To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 142 BURNS. The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, What Aiken in a cottage would have been : Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween ! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough; The shortening winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The blackening train o' craws to their repose : The toil-worn Cottar frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at jom end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view. Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile. The lisping infant prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, A.nd makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in, At service out amang the farmers roiin'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town : THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT. I43 Their eldest hope, their Jennj, woman grown, In yonthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, Or deposit her sair-worn penny fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's welfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swiffc-wing'd, nnnotic'd fleet; Each tells the imcos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopefu' years: Anticipation forward points the view: The Mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, Gars anld claes look amaist as weel's the new: The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's and their mistress's command The yonnkers a' are warned to obey; And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand. And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play ; "And 0! be sure to fear the Lord alway! And mind your duty duly morn and night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright."' But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door: Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' th<^ same. 144 BURNS. Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees a conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak, Weel-pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben: A strappan youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen; The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; But mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. O happy love, where love like this is found! O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage Experience bids me this declare: "If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT 14; Is tliere, in human form, that bears a heart — A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! That can, with studied, slj, ensnaring heart. Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild. But now the supper crowns their simple board. The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; The soup their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud: The dame brings forth in complimental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it gude; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. How 'twas a towmond auld,. sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done,, wi' serious face. They round the ingle form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace. The big Ha' -Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearin' thin and bare; 10 146 BURNS. Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care, And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy o' the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd wi' these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they wi' our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage "With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or, rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire: Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT I47 How His first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How lie, wlio lone in Patmos banislied. Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband, prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days; There, ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art. When men display to congregations wide. Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart. May hear well-pleas'd the language of the soulj And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest, 148 BURNS The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowerj pride, \Yould, iD the way His wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide: But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of Grod;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What IS a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd! Scotia! my dear, my native soil; For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! A.nd, ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 'hen, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much -lov'd Isle. FAREWELL TO AYRSIIIKE. 1_1.9 Thou! -u'lio pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) never, never Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. Faeewell old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those-— The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayrl 150 BURNS Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flow'rs, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes. And there the langest tarry! For there I took the last fareweel 0' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fa' tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore ourselves asunder: VERSES. 151 But, oil! fell death's Tintimely frost, That nipt my flower so early! Now green's the sod, and canld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! pale, pale now those rosy lips, I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly! And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. LEFT AT A FRIENd's HOUSE IN THE EOOM WHERE THE AUTHOR SLEPT. THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above! I know thou wilt me hear; When for this scene of peace and love, I make my pray'r sincere. The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, Long, long, be pleas'd to spare! 152 BURNS. To bless his little filial flock, And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes an' fears, bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears ! Their hope, their stay, their darling youth In manhood's dawning blush; Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish.! The beauteous, seraph sister-band With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on every hand, Guide thou their steps alway: When soon or late they reach that coast. O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in heav'n! TO MARY IN -HEAVEN. IqI A& isi^a IK ifsaiisii'. Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn. Again thon usher's t in the day My Mary from my soul was torn; Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast; That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met. To hve one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface. Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green : The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. The birds sang love on every spray. 154 BURNS. Till too, too soon, tlie glowing west, Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er tliese scenes my mem'rj wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? JAMES aRAHAM. The Eev. James Graham was born in Glasgow. He studied the law, and practiced at the Scottish bar for several years, but after- wards tooks orders in the Church of England, and was successively curate of Shipton and Sedgefield. Ill health compelled him to aban- don his cm*acy, where his virtues and talents had attracted notice, and rendered him a popular and useful preacher, and on revisiting Scotland, he died on the 14th September, 1811. " The Sabbath" is the best of his productions. There is no author, excepting Burns, whom an intelligent Scotchman, residing abroad, would read with more de- light than Graham. He paints the charms of a retired cottage life, the sacred calm of a Sabbath morning, a walk in the fields, or even a bird's nest, with such unfeigned delight and accurate observation, tha^ the reader is constrained to see and feel with the writer. On the first publication of the Sabbath, which was issued anony- mously, none of his family were acquainted with the secret of its composition. He took a copy home with him one day, and left it or the table. His wife began reading it, while the sensitive authoi walked up and down the room. At length she broke out into praise of the little volume, adding, "Oh, James, if you could but produce a poem like this!" The joyful acknowledgment of his being the author was then made, no doubt with the most exquisite pleasure on both sides. ARGUMENT. Description of a Sabbath morning in the country. — The laborer at home. — The town me- chanic's morning walk ;— his meditation, — The sound of bells. — Crowd proceeding in Church.— Interval before the service begins.— Scottish ser\ice.— English service.— Scriptures read.— The organ, with the voices of the people. — The sound borne to the sick manN couch : — his wish. — The worship of God in the solitude of the woods. — The shepherd buy among the hills. — People seen on the heights returning from Church,— Contrast of the pres- 3nt times with those immediately preceding the Kevolution. — The persecution of the Cov- enanters : — A Sabbath conventicle : — Cameron : — Renwick : — Psalms. — Night conventicles during storms. — A fimeral according to the rites of the Church of England. — A female character.— The Suicide, — Expostulation.— The incurable of an hospital,— A prison scene.- Debtors.— Divine service in the prison-hall.— Persons under sentence of death.— The public guilt of inflicting capital punishments on persons who have been left destitute of religious and moral instruction.— Children proceeding to a Sunday school.— The father.— The im- press.— Appeal on the indiscriminate severity of crimiAial law. — Comparative mildness of the Jewish law.— The year of Jubilee.— Description of the commencement of the jubilee.— The sound of the trumpets through the land. — The bondman and his family returning from their ser\itude to take possession of their inheritance.— Emigrants to the wilds of America, — Their Sabbath worship, — The whole inhabitants of Highland districts who have emigrated tosrether, still regret their counlrj". — Even the blind man regrets the objects with which he had been conversant. — An emigrant's cou'rast between the tropical climates and Scotland.— The boy who had been bom on the voyage. — Description of a person on a desert island. — His Sabbath. — His release. — Missionary ship. — The Pacific Ocean. — Defence of Missionaries. — Effects of the conversion of the primitive Christians. — Transition to the slave trade. — The Sabbath in a slave ship. — Appeal to England on the subject of her encouragement to this horrible complication of crimes,— Transition to war.— Unfortunate issue of the late war- in France— in Switzerland. — Apostrophe to Tell.— The attempt to resist too late.— The treacherous foes already in possession of the passes, — Their devastating progress. — Desohi- tion.— Address to Scotland. — Happiness of seclusion from the world,— Description of a Sab- bath evening in Scotland, — Psalmody, — An aged man, — Description of an industrious female reduced to poverty by old age and disease. — Disinterested virtuous conduct to be found chiefly in the lower walks of life.— Test of charity in the opulent.— Recommendation to the rich to devote a portion of the Sabbath to the duty of visiting the sick.— Invocation to Health —to Music— The Beguine nuns,— Lazarus,— The Resurrection.— Dawnings of faith.- -Its prog- ess,— Consummation. How still tlie morning of the liallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear — ^the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew. The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of psalms — ^the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings. Peace o'er yon village broods; The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din 158 GRAHAM. Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on tliis day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man. Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days the man of toil is doom'd To eat his joyless bread, lonely ; the ground Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's cold And summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree ; But on this day, embosom'd in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves. With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy Of giving thanks to Grod — not thanks of form, A word and a glance, but rev'rently. With cover'd face and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke ; While, wandering slowly up the river side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough. As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm. THE SABBATH 159 He Lopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. But now his steps a welcome sound recalls: Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile, Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe : Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground: The aged man, the bowed down, the blind Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new-made grave well pleased; These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach The house of God; these, spite of all their ills, A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise They enter in. A placid stillness reigns, Until the man of God, worthy the name, Arise and read the anointed shepherd's lays. 150 URAHAM. His locks of snow, his brow serene, his look Of love, it speaks, " Ye are mj children all ; The graj-hair'd man, stooping upon his staft', As well as he, the giddj child, whose eje Pursues the swallow flitting thwart the dome. Loud swells the song: how that simple song, Though rudely chanted, how it melts the heart, Commingling soul with soul in one full tide Of praise, of thankfulness, of humble trust! Next comes the unpremeditated prayer, Breathed from the inmost heart, in accents low, But earnest. — Alter'd is the tone: to man Are now address'd the sacred speaker's words. Instruction, admonition, comfort, peace, Flow from his tongue : chief, let comfort flow 1 It is most needed in this vale of tears: Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy ; The stranger to discern the Almighty's shield Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child Feel, 'mid his tears, I have a father still! 'Tis done. But hark that infant querulous voice! Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear; And see the father raise the white-robed babe In solemn dedication to the Lord: The holy man sprinkles with forth-stretched hand The face of innocence; then earnest turns, And prays a blessing in the name of him Who said. Let little children come to me: THE SABBATH. Forbid them not : The infant is replaced Among the happy band; they, smilingly, In gay attire, hie to the house of mirth. The poor man's festival, a jubilee day, Bemember'd long. 161 Nor would I leave unsung The lofty ritual of our sister land: In vestment white, the minister of God Opens the book, and reverentially The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes, 11 1(52 GRAHAM. Then swells into a diapason full: The people rising, sing, With harp, with harp, And voice of psalms ; harmonionsly attuned The various voices blend; the long drawn aisles. At every close, the lingering strain prolong. And now the tubes a mellow'd stop controls, In softer harmony the people join, While liquid whispers from yon orphan band Eecall the soul from adoration's trance, And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears. Again the organ-peal, loud-rolling, meets The halleluiahs of the choir: Sublime, A thousand notes symphoniously ascend. As if the whole were one, suspended high. In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float, Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch : Eaised on his arm, he lists the cadence close, Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheer'd; . He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise, — "Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! No lukewarm accents from my lips should blow; My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far In solitary paths, where wild flowers flow, There would I bless his name, who led me forth From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets, Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye. THE SABBATH. IQ^ It is not only in the sacred fane That homage should be paid to the Most High There is a temple, one not made with hands — The vaulted firmament; Far in the woods, Almost beyond the sound of city-chime, At intervals heard through the breezeless air; When not the limberest leaf is seen to move. Save where the linnet lights upon the spray ; Whon not a floweret bends its little stalk. Save where the bee alights upon the bloom; — There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love, The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon ; Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts, Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend Beyond the empyrean. — Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne. The Sabbath-service of the shepherd-boy. In some lone glen, where every sound is lull'd To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill, Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry, Stretch'd on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son- Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold, And wonders why he weeps; the volume closed. With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conn'd With meikle care beneath the lowly roof. Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth Pines unrewarded by a thankless state. 154 GRAHAM. Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen, The shepherd-hoy the Sabbath holy keeps, Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands Returning homeward from the house of prayer. In peace they home resort. blissful days! When all men worship God as conscience wills. Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew, A virtuous race, to godliness devote. What though the sceptic scorn hath dared to soil The record of their fame I what though the men Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatize The sister-cause. Religion and the Law, With Superstition's name! yet, yet their deeds, Their constancy in torture and in death, — These on Tradition's tongue still live; these shall On History's honest page be pictured bright To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse Disdains the servile strain of Fashion's quire. May celebrate their unambitious names. With them each day was holy, every hour They stood prepared to die, a people doom'd To death; — old men, and youths, and simple maids. With them each day was holy; but that morn On which the angel said, See where the Lord Was laid, ']0j0Vi^ arose; to die that day AYas bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways, O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought The upland muirs, where rivers, there but brooks. THE SABBATH. 165 Dispart to dijBferent seas: Fast bj such brooks A little glen is sometimes scoop'd, a plat With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers seem Amid the heathery wild, that all around Fatigues the eye; in solitudes like these, Thy persecuted children, Scotia foil'd A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws: There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array. Whose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose On England's banner, and had powerless struck The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,) The lyart veteran heard the word of Grod By Cameron thunder'd or by Eenwick pour'd In gentle stream; then rose the song, the loud Acclaim of praise. The wheeling plover ceased Her plaint; The solitary place was glad. And on the distant cairns the watcher's ear Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note. But years more gloomy follow'd; and no more The assembled people dared, in face of day, To worship God, or even at the dead Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce, And thunder-peals compell'd the men of blood To couch within their dens; then dauntlessly The scatter'd few would meet, in some deep dell By rocks o'er canopied, to hear the voice, Their faithful pastor's voice : He by the gleam Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book, 166 GRAHAM. And words of comfort spake: Over their souls His accents soothing came, — as to her young The heathfowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve, She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast, They, cherish'd, cower amid the purple blooms. But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale. The house of prayer itself, — no place inspires Emotions more accordant with the day, Than does the field of graves the land of rest: — Oft at the close of evening prayer, the toll, The solemn funeral toll, pausing, proclaims The service of the tomb : the homeward crowds Divide on either hand ; the pomp draws near ; The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, / am the resurrection and the life. Ah me ! these youthful bearers robed in white, They tell a mournful tale ; some blooming friend Is gone, dead in her prime of years : — 'Twas she, The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give, With angel tongue pleaded to those who could; With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye. That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd For longer life, with heart resign'd to die, — Kejoiced to die; for happy visions blessed Her voyage's last days, and hovering round. Alighted on her soul, giving presage THE SABBATH. IgJ That heaven was nigh: what a burst Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joj Her heavenward eyes suffused ! Those eyes are closed ; But all her lovehness is not yet flown : She smiled in death, and still her cold pale face Retains that smile ; as when a waveless lake, In which the wintry stars all bright appear, Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice, Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged, Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast. Again that knell! The slow procession stops: The pall withdrawn, Death's altar, thick emboss'd With melancholy ornaments, — (the name. The record of her blossoming age,) — appears Unveil'd and on it dust to dust is thrown, The final rite. Oh! hark that sullen sound! Upon the lower'd bier the shovell'd clay Falls fast, and fills the void. — But who is he That stands aloof, with haggard wistful eye, As if he coveted the closing grave? And he does covet it — his wish is death: The dread resolve is fix'd; his own right hand Is sworn to do the deed: The day of rest No peace, no comfort, brings his woe-worn spirit: Self-cursed, the hallow'd dome he dreads to enter; He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope; Annihilation is his only heaven. 168 GKAHAM. Loathsome the converse of his friends; he shuns The human face; in every careless eye Suspicion of his purpose seems to lurk. Deep piny shades he loves, where no sweet note Is warbled, where the rook unceasing caws: Or far in moors, remote from house or hut, Where animated nature seems extinct. Where even the hum of wandering bee ne'er breaks The quiet slumber of the level waste; Where vegetation's traces almost fail. Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks Half-buried lie, and tell where greenwoods grew, — There on the heathless moss outstretch'd he broods O'er all his ever-changing plans of death: The time, place, means, sweep like a stormy rack, In fleet succession, o'er his clouded soul; — The poniard, — and the opium draught, that brings Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm Between the act and consequence, — ^the flash Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death; — The ruin'd tower perched on some jutting rock, So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below. The breath might take its flight in midway air, — ■ This pleases for a while; but on the brink. Back from the toppling edge his fancy shrinks In horror: Sleep at last his breath becalms, — He dreams 'tis done; but starting wild awakes, THE SABBATH. 1(^9 Besigning to despair Ms dream of joj. Then hope, faint hope, revives — hope, that Despair May to his aid let loose the demon Frenzy, To lead scared Conscience blindfold o'er the brink Of self-destruction's cataract of blood. Most miserable, most incongruous wretch! Barest thou to spurn thy life, the boon of Grod, Yet dreadest to approach this holy place? dare to enter in ! may be some word. Or sweetly chanted strain, Avill in thy heart Awake a chord in unison with life. What are thy fancied woes to his, whose fate Is (sentence dire!) incurable disease, — The outcast of a lazar-house, homeless. Or with a home where eyes do scowl on Mm! Yet he, even he, with feeble steps draws near. With trembling voice joins in the song of praise. Patient he waits the hour of his release; He knows he has a home beyond the grave. Or turn thee to that house with studded doors, And iron-vizor'd windows; even there The Sabbath sheds a beam of bliss, though faint; The debtor's friends (for still he has some friends) Have time to visit him; the blossoming pea. That climbs the rust-worn bars seems fresher tinged, And on the little turf, this day renewed, The lark, his prison-mate, quivers the wing With more than wonted joy. See, through the bars, 170 GRAHAM. That pallid face, retreating from tlie view, That glittering eye following, with hopeless look, The friends of former years, now passing hj In peaceful fellowship to worship God: With them, in days of youthful years, he roamd O'er hill and dale, o'er broomy knowe; and wist As little as the blithest of the band Of this his lot; condemn'd, condemn'd unheard, The party for his judge; — among the throng. The Pharisaical hard-hearted man He sees pass on, to join the heaven-taught prayer, Forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors : From unforgiving lips most impious prayer! happier far the victim than the hand That deals the legal stab! The injured man Enjoys internal, settled calm; to him The Sabbath bell sounds peace; he loves to meet Bis fellow-sufferers to pray and praise: And many a prayer, as pure as e'er was breathed In noly fanes, is sigh'd in prison-halls. Ah me! that clank of chains, as kneel and rise The death-doom'd row. But see, a smile illumes The face of some; perhaps they're guiltless: Oh! And must high-minded honesty endure The ignominy of a felon's fate! No, 'tis not ignominious to be wrong'd: No; conscious exultation swells their hearts, To think the day draws nigh, when in the view THE SABBATH. 171 Of angels, and of just men perfect made, The mark wliicli rashness branded on their names Shall be effaced; — when wafted on life's storm, Their sonls shall reach the Sabbath of the skies;— As birds from bleak ISTorwegia's wintry coast Blown out to sea, strive to regain the shore, But, vainly striving, yield them to the blast. — • Swept o'er the deep to Albion's genial isle, Amazed they light amid the bloomy sprays Of some green vale, there to enjoy new loves, And join in harmony unheard before. The land is groaning 'neath the guilt of blood Spilt wantonly: for every death-doom'd man, Who, in his boyhood, has been left untaught, That Wisdom! s ways are ways of pleasantness^ And all her paths are peace^ unjustly dies. But, ah! how many are thus left untaught, — How many would be left, but for the band United to keep holy to the Lord A portion of his day, by teaching those Whom Jesus loved with forth-stretched hand to bless I Behold yon motley train, by two and two. Each with a Bible 'neath its little arm. Approach well-pleased, as if they went to play. The dome where simple lore is learnt unbought: And mark the father 'mid the sideway throng; Well do I know him by his glistening eye, That follows steadfastly one of the line. 172 GRAHAM. A dark seafaring man lie looks to be; And mncli it glads liis boding lieart to tbink, That wben once more be sails tbe valleyed deep, His cbild sball still receive Instruction's boon. But bark, — a noise, — a cry, — a gleam of swords!— Eesistance is in vain, — be's borne away, Nor is allow'd to clasp bis weeping cbild. My innocent, so belpless, yet so gay! How could I bear to be tbus rudely torn From tbee; — to see tbee lift tby little arm, And impotently strike tbe ruf&an man, — To bear tbee bid bim cbidingly- — ^begone! ye wbo live at borne, and kiss eacb eve Your sleeping infants ere you go to rest. And, 'wakened by tbeir call, bft up your eyes Upon tbeir morning smile, — tbink, tbink of tbose, Wbo, torn away witbout one farewell word To wife or cbildren, sigb tbe day of life In banisbment from all tbat's dear to man; — raise your voices in one general peal Kemonstrant, for tbe oppress'd. And ye, wbo sit Montb after montb devising impost-laws, Grive some small portion of your midnigbt vigils To mitigate, if not remove tbe wrong Eelentless Justice ! witb fate-furrow'd brow ; Wberefore to various crimes of various guilt. One penalty, tbe most severe, allot? Wby, pall'd in state, and mitred witb a wreatb THE SABBATH. 173 Of niglitsliacle, dost tlioii sit porteutously, Beneath a clouclj canopj of siglis, Of fears, of trembling hopes, of boding doubts; Death's dart thy mace! — ^Why are the laws of God, Statutes promulged in characters of fire, Despised in deep concerns, where heavenly guidance Is most required? The murderer — ^let Mm die, And him who lifts his arm against his parent, His country, — or his voice against his God. Let crimes less heinous dooms less dreadful meet Than loss of life! so said the law divine; That law beneficent, which mildly stretch'd. To men forgotten and forlorn, the hand Of restitution: yes, the trumpet's voice The Sabbath of the jubilee announced: The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land At once, in every city, echoing rings. From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs, So loud, that far within the desert's verge The couching lion starts, and glares around. Free is the bondman now, each one returns To his inheritance: the man gTown old, Li servitude far from his native fields. Hastes joyous on his way; no hills are steep. Smooth is each rugged path; his httle ones Sport as they go, while oft the mother chides The lingering step, lur'd by the wayside flowers; At length the hill, from which a farewell look, 174 GRAHAM. And still another parting look, lie cast On his paternal vale, appears in view : The summit gain'd, throbs hard his heart with joy And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more: Instant his eager eye darts to the roof Where first he saw the light; his youngest born He lifts, and pointing to the much-loved spot, Says, — " There thy fathers lived, and there they sleep.' Onward he wends; near and more near he draws: How sweet the tinkle of the palm-bo wer'd brook! The sunbeam slanting through the cedar grove How lovely, and how mild! but lovelier still The welcome in the eye of ancient friends, Scarce known at first! and dear the fig-tree shade 'Neath which on Sabbath eve his father told Of Israel from the house of bondage freed. Led through the desert to the promised land; — With eager arms the aged stem he clasps, And with his tears the furrow'd bark bedews: And still, at midnight hour, he thinks he hears The blissful sound that brake the bondman's chains, The glorious peal of freedom and of joy ! Did ever law of man a power like this Display? power marvellous as merciful, Which, though in other ordinances still Most plainly seen, is yet but little mark'd For what it truly is, — a miracle! Stupendous, ever new, perform'd at once THE SABBATH. 175 In every region, — yea, on every sea Wliich Europe's navies plongli; — ^yes, in all lands From pole to pole, or civilized or rude, People tliere are, to whom tlie Sabbath morn Dawns, shedding dews into their drooping hearts: Yes, far beyond the high-heaved western wave, Amid Columbia's wildernesses vast, The words which Grod in thunder from the Mount Of Sinai spai:e, are heard, and are obey'd. Thy children, Scotia, in the desert land, Driven from their homes by fell Monopoly, Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day. Assembled under loftiest canopy Of trees primeval, soon to be laid low, They sing, By BabeVs streams we sat and wept. What strong mysterious links enchain the heart To regions where the morn of life was spent! In foreign lands, though happier be the clime. Though round our board smile all the friends we love, The face of nature wears a stranger's look. Yea, though the valley which we love be swept Of its inhabitants, none left behind, Not even the poor blind man who sought his bread From door to door, still, still there is a want; Yes, even he, round whom a night that knows No dawn is ever spread, whose native vale Presented to his closed eyes a blank, — Deplores its distance now. There well he knew 176 GRAHAM. Eacli object, thougli unseen: tliere could lie wend His wa}^, guideless, tlirougli wilds and mazj woods; Each aged tree, spared wlien tlie forest fell. Was his familiar friend, from the smooth birch. With rind of silken touch, to the rough elm: The three gray stones that mark'd where heroes lay, Mourn'd by the harp, mourn'd by the melting voice Of Cona, oft his resting-place had been; Oft had they told him that his home was near: The tinkle of the rill, the murmuring So gentle of the brook, the torrent's rush. The cataract's din, the ocean's distant roar. The echo's answer to his foot or voice, — All spoke a language which he understood, All warn'd him of his way. But most he feels, Upon the hallow'd morn, the saddening change: No more he hears the gladsome village bell Eing the bless'd summons to the house of God: And — for the voice of psalms, loud, solemn, grand, That cheer'd his darMing path, as with slow step And feeble, he toiled up the spire-topt hill, — A few faint notes ascend among the trees. What though the cluster'd vine there hardly tempts The traveller's hand ; though birds of dazzling plume Perch on the loaded boughs; — "Grive me thy woods, (Exclaims the banish'd man,) thy barren woods. Poor Scotland! Sweeter there the reddening haw, The sloe, or rowan's ^ bitter bunch, than here THE SABBATH. 177 The purple grape ; dearer the red-breast's note, That mourns the fading year in Scotia's vales, Than Philomel's, where spring is ever new; More dear to me the redbreast's sober suit. So like a wither'd leaflet, than the glare Of gaudj wings, that make the Iris dim." Nor is regret exclusive to the old: The boy whose birth was midway o'er the main, A ship his cradle, by the billows rock'd, — "The nurshng of the storm," — although he claims No native land, yet does he wistfal hear Of some far distant country still cali'd liome^ "Where lambs of whitest fleece sport on the hills; Where gold-speck'd fishes wanton in the streams: Where little birds, when snow-flakes dim the air. Light on the floor, and peck the table crumbs. And with their singing cheer the winter day. But what the loss of country to the woes Of banishment and solitude combined? Oh! my heart bleeds to think there now may hve One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck, Cast on some desert island of that main Immense, which stretches from the Cochian shore To Acapulco. Motionless he sits, As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days. With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste; Now striving to beheve the albatross A sail appearing on the horizon's verge; 12 178 aRAHAM. Now vowing ne'er to clierisli other liope Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours, Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time Upon the shell-notch'd calendar to mark Another day, another dreary day, — Changeless; — for, in these regions of the sun. The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil, Bestowing grateful interchange of rest And labor, is annulled; for there the trees, Adorn'd at once with bud, and flower, and fruit, Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread And blossoms on the ground. But yet by him, The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserved The Sabbath passes. 'Tis his great delight. Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray. And loves, and sighs to think, — that setting sun Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain tops. Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales. Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below Chant in the dewy shade. Thus all night long He watches, while the rising moon describes The progress of the day in happier lands. And now he almost fancies that he hears The chiming from his native village church; And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain May be the same that sweet ascends at home In congregation full, — ^where, not without a tear, THE SABBATH. |^79 They are remembered who in ships behold The wonders of the deep: he sees the hand, The widow'd hand, that veils the eye suffused; He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive The widow's heart to soothe. His spirit leans On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil, Though tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves On winds of cloudless wing ; though lightnings burst So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen In aAvful alternation: Calm he views The far-exploding firmament, and dares To hope — one bolt in mercy is reserved For his release: and yet he is resign'd To live; because full well he is assured, Thy hand does lead him, thy right hand upholds. And Thy right hand does lead him. Lo ! at last One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep. Music remote, swelling at intervals, As if the embodied spirits of such sounds Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave: The cadence well he knows, — a hymn of old, "Where sweetly is rehearsed the lowly state Of Jesus, when his birth was first announced, In midnight music, by an angel choir, To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they watch'd their flocks Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell. He looks, and starts to see, moving along, 30 G P^ A H A M . A fiery wave, (so seems it,) crescent form'd, Approaching to the land; straightway he sees A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-fiU'd sails That waft the mission'd men, who have renounced Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world, Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again. Forward the gleam-girt castle coastwise glides; It seems as it would pass away. To cry The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain, Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream: ISTot so his hand: he strikes the flint, — a blaze Mounts from the ready heap of wither'd leaves: The music ceases, accents harsh succeed, Harsh, but most grateful: downward drop the sails; Ingulf 'd the anchor sinks; the boat is launch'd; But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn: then the transport of the man unused To other human voice beside his own, — His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home, Though earth's diameter is interposed. Of perils of the sea he has no dread, Full well assured the mission'd bark is safe, Held in the hollow of the Almighty's hand (And signal thy deliverances have been Of these thy messengers of peace and joy.) From storms that loudly threaten to unfix Islands rock-rooted in the ocean's bed. THE SABBATH. ^81 Thou dost deliver tliem, — and from the calm, More dreadful than the storm, when motionless Upon the purple deep the vessel lies For days, for nights, illum'd by phosphor lamps ; When sea-birds seem in nests of flame to float ; When backward starts the boldest mariner To see, while o'er the side he leans, his face As if deep-tinged with, blood. — Let worldly men The cause and combatants contemptuous scorn, And call fanatics them who hazard health And life in testifjdng of the truth, Who joy and glory in the cross of Christ? What were the Galilean fishermen But messengers, commission'd to announce The resurrection, and the life to come ! They, too, tliougli clothed with power of mighty works Miraculous, were oft received with scorn ; Oft did their words fall powerless, though enforced By deeds that mark'd Omnipotence their friend: But, when their efforts fail'd, unAvearieclly They onward went, rejoicing in their course. Like helianthus, borne on downy wings To distant realms, they frequent fell on soils Barren and thankless; jet oft-times they saw Their labors crown'd with, fruit an hundred fold. Saw their new converts testify their faith By works of love, — the slave set free, the sick 132 GRAHAM. Attended, prisoners visited, the poor Eeceived as brothers at the rich man's board. Alas! how different now the deeds of men Nursed in the faith of Christ !■ — 'the free made slaves ! Torn from their country, borne across the deep, Enchain'd, endungeon'd, forced by stripes to live, Doom'd to behold their wives, their little ones, Tremble beneath the white man's fiend-like frown! Yet even to scenes like these, the Sabbath brings Alleviation of the enormous woe: — The oft-reiterated stroke is still; The clotted scourge hangs hardening in the shrouds. But see, the demon man, whose trade is blood, With dauntless front, convene his ruf&an crew To hear the sacred service read. Accursed, The wretch's vile-tinged lips profane the word Of God: accursed, he ventures to pronounce The decalogue, nor falters at that law Wherein 'tis written. Thou slialt do no murder: Perhaps, while yet the words are on his lips. He hears a dying mother's parting groan ; He hears her orphan'd child, with lisping jjlaint, Attempt to rouse her from the slee}) of death. O England! England! wash thy purpled hands Of this foul sin, and never dip) them more In guilt so damnable! then lift them up In supplication to that Grod, whose name Is Mercy; then thou mayest without the risk THE SABBATH. X^g Of drawing vengeance from the surcharged clouds Implore protection to thy menaced shores; Then, God Avill blast the tyrant's arm that grasps The thunderbolt of ruin o'er thy head: Then will he turn the wolvish race to prey Upon each other; then will he arrest The lava torrent, causing it regorge Back to its source with fiery desolation. Of all the murderous trades by mortals plied, 'Tis war alone that never violates The hallow'd day by simulate respect, — By hypocritic rest: no, no, the work proceeds. From sacred pinnacles are hung the flags. That gives the sign to slip the leash from slaughter. The bells, whose knoll a holy calmness pour'd Into the good man's breast, — whose sound solaced The sick, the poor, the old — ^perversion dire — Pealing with sulphurous tongues, speak death-fraught words : From morn to eve Destruction revels frenzied, Till at the hour when peaceful vesper-chimes Were wont to soothe the ear, the trumpet sounds Pursuit and flight altern; and for the song Of larks, descending to the grass-bower'd homes, The croak of flesh-gorged ravens, as they slake Their thirst in hoof-prints fiU'd with gore, disturbs The stupor of the dying man ; while Death Triumphantly sails down the ensanguined stream, 13_J. GRAHAM. On corses tlironed, and crown'd with sliiver'd bouglis, That erst hung imaged in the crystal tide. And what the harvest of these bloody fields? A double weight of fetters to the slave, And chains on arms that wielded Freedom's sword. Spirit of Tell ! and art thou doom'd to see Thy mountains, that confessed no other chains Than what the wintry elements had forged, — Thy vales, where Freedom, and h.er stern compeer, Proud virtuous Poverty, their noble state Maintain'd, amid surrounding threats of wealth, Of superstition, and tyrannic sway Spirit of Tell! and art thou doom'd to see That land subdued by Slavery's boasted slaves; By men, whose lips pronounce the sacred name Of Liberty, then kiss the despot's foot? Helvetia! hadst thou to thyself been true. Thy dying sons had triumph'd as they fell: But, 'twas a glorious effort, though in vain. Aloft thy Genius, 'mid the sweeping clouds. The flag of freedom spread; bright in the storm The streaming meteor waved, and far it gleam'd: But, ah ! 'twas transient, as the Iris' arch. Glanced from Leviathan's ascending shower. When 'mid the mountain waves heaving his head. Already had their friendly-seeming foe Possess'd the snow-piled ramparts of the land: Down like an avalanche they roll'd, they crush'd THE SABBATH. 1S5 The temple, palace, cottage, every work Of art and nature, in one common ruin. The dreadful crash is o'er, and peace ensues, — The peace of desolation, gloomy, still: Each dav is hush'd as Sabbath ; but, alas ! No Sabbath-service glads the seventh day ! ISTo more the happy villagers are seen Winding adoAvn the rock-hewn paths, that wont To lead their footsteps to the house of ]3rayer; But, far apart, assembled in the dejDth Of solitudes, perhaj3S a little group, Of aged men, and orphan boys, and maids. Bereft, list to the breathings of the holy man, Who spurns an oath of fealty to the power Of rulers chosen by a tyrant's nod. jSTo more, as dies the rustling of the breeze. Is heard the distant vesper-hymn; no more At gioamin hour, the plaintive strain, that links His country to the Switzer's heart, delights The loosening team : or if some shepherd boy Attempt the strain, his voice soon faltering stops; He feels his countrv now a foreio-n land. Scotland I canst thou for a moment brook The mere imagination, that a fate Like this should ere be thine ! that e'er these hills And dear-bought vales, whence Wallace, Douglas, Bruce, Repell'd proud Edward's multitudinous hordes, A Gallic foe, that abject race, should rule! 186 GRAHAM. No, no! let never hostile standard touch Thy shore: rush, rush into the dashing brine, And crest each wave with steel; and should the stamp Of Slavery's footstep violate the strand, Let not the tardy tide efface the mark; Sweep off the stigma with a sea of blood! Thrice happy he, who, far in Scottish glen Ketired, (yet ready at his country's call,) Has left the restless emmet-hill of man: He never longs to read the saddening tale Of endless wars; and seldom does he hear The tale of woe; and ere it reaches him, Eumor, so loud when new, has died away Into a whisper, on the memory borne Of casual traveller: — as on the deep. Far from the sight of land, when all around Is waveless calm, the sudden tremulous swell, That gentle heaves the ship, tells, as it rolls, Of earthquakes dread, and cities overthrown. Scotland! much I lov^e thy tranquil dales: But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun Slants through the upland copse, 'tis m}^ delight, Wandering, and stopping oft^ to hear the song Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs; Or, when the simple service ends, to hear The lifted latch, and mark the gray-hair'd man, The father and the priest, walk forth alone Into his garden-plat, or little field, THE SABBATH. 187 To commune with his God in secret prayer, — To bless tlie Lord, that in his downward years His children are about him: sweet, meantime, The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn. Brings to his view the days of youthful years When that same aged thorn was but a bush. Nor is the contrast between youth and age To him a painful thought; he joys to think His journey near a close, — Heaven is his home. More happy for that man, though bowed down, Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye, Than they, the favorites of youth and health. Of riches, and of fame, who have renounced The glorious promise of the life to come. Clinging to death.- — • Or mark the female face, The faded picture of its former self, — The garments coarse, but clean; — ^frequent at church I've noted such a one, feeble and pale. Yet standing, with a look of mild content, Till beckon'd by some kindly hand to sit. She had seen better days; there was a time Her hands could earn her bread, and freely give To those who were in want; but now old age, And lingering disease, have made her helpless. Yet she is happy, aye, and she is wise, (Philosophers may sneer, and pedants frown,) Although her Bible is her only book; 188 G K A H A M . And slie is rich, although her only wealth Is recollection of a Avell-spent life — Is expectation of the life to come. Examine here, ' explore the narrow path In which she walks; look not for virtuous deeds In history's arena, where the prize Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts. Peruse the lives themselves of men obscure : — There charity, that robs itself to give; There fortitude in sickness, nursed by Vv^ant; There courage, that expects no tongue to praise; There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid, With no alloy of selfish motive mix'd. The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread, Is prized more highly in the sight of him Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from handfi That scarce can know their countless treasures less : Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's breast To see distress, and feel his willing arm Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven; While ponderous bequests of lands and goods Ne'er rise above their earthly origin. And should all bounty, that is clothed with power Be deemed unworthy? — Far be such a thought! Even when the rich bestow, there are sure tests Of genuine charity ;■ — yes, yes, let wealth Give other alms than silver or than gold, — Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness, THE SABBATH. 189 Exposure to disease; — yes, let the rich Be oftea seen beneatli tlie sick man's roof; Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart, And hopes of health, the melancholy range Of couches in the public wards of woe: There let them often bless the sick man's bed. With kind assurances that all is well At home, that plenty smiles upon the board, — The while the hand that earn'd the frugal meal Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks. Above all duties, let the rich man search Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime. Ye, bless'd with wealth ! (another name for power Of doing good,) would ye but devote A little portion of each seventh day To acts of justice to your fellow-men ! The house of mourning silently invites: Shun not the crowded alley; prompt descend Into the half-sunk cell, darksome and damp ; ISTor seem impatient to be gone : inquire, ■ Console, instruct, encourage, soothe, assist; Read, pray, and sing a new song to the Lord; Make tears of joy down grief- worn furrows flow. O Health! the sun of life, wuthout whose beam The fairest scenes of nature seem involved In darkness, shine upon my dreary path Once more; or, with thy faintest dawn, give hope, 190 GRAHAM. That I may yet enjoy tliy vital ray! Thougli transient be the hope, 'twill be most sweet, Like midnight music, stealing on the ear, Then gliding past, and dying slow away. Music! thou soothing power, thy charm is proved Most vividly when clouds o'ercast the soul; So light its loveliest effect displays In lowering skies, when through the murky rack A slanting sunbeam shoots, and instant limns The ethereal curve of seven harmonious dyes. Eliciting a splendor from th« gloom: Music! still vouchsafe to tranquillize This breast perturb'd; thy voice, though mournful, sootlics; And mournful, aye, are thy most beauteous lays, Like fall of blossoms from the orchard boughs, — The autamn of the spring. Enchanting power! Who, by thy airy spell, canst whirl the mind Far from the busy haunts of men, to vales Where Tweed or Yarrow flows; or, spurning time Recall red Flodden field; or suddenly Transport, with alter'd strain, the deafen'd ear To Linden's plain ! — But what the pastoral lay, The melting dirge, the battle's trumpet-peal. Compared to notes with sacred numbers link'd In union, solemn, grand! then the spirit, Upborne on pinions of celestial sound, Soars to the throne of God, and ravish'd hears Ten thousand times ten thousand voices rise THE SABBATH. 19| In halleluiaHs ; — voices, that erewhilo Were feebly tuned jDerliaps to low-breath'd hymns Of solace in the chambers of the poor, — The Sabbath worship of the friendless sick. Bless'd be the female votaries, whose days No Sabbath of their pious labors prove, Whose lives are consecrated to the toil Of ministering around the uncurtain'd couch Of pain and poverty! Bless'd be the hands, The lovely hands, (for beauty, youth, and grace, Are oft conceal'd by Pity's closest veil,) That mix the cup medicinal, that bind The wounds which ruthless warfare and disease Have to the loathsome lazar-house consign'd. Fierce Superstition of the mitred king! Almost I could forget thy torch and stake. When I this blessed sisterhood survey, — Compassion's priestesses, disciples true Of him whose touch was health, whose single word Electrified with life the palsied arm, — Of him who said, Tahe up thy led and walk^ — Of him who cried to Lazarus, Come forth And he who cried to Lazarus, Come forth ^ Will, Avhen the Sabbath of the tomb is past, Call forth the dead, and re-unite the dust (Transform'd and purified) to angel souls. Ecstatic hope! belief! conviction firm! How grateful 'tis to recollect the time 192 GRAHAM When hope arose to faith! Faintly at first The heavenlj voice is heard; then, by degrees, Its music sonnds perpetual in the heart. Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long Has dwelt in city crowds, wandering a-field Betimes on Sabbath morn, ere yet the spring Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the song, Check'd by the chill uu genial northern breeze; But, as the sun ascends, another springs. And still another soars on loftier wing, Till all o'erhead, the joyous choir nnseen. Poised welkin high, harmonious fills the air, As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven. SIR ^YALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott, a younger son of a writer to the signet, was born in Edinburgh. Some of the poet's earliest years were passed with his paternal grandfather at the farm of Sandy Knowe, near the village of Smailholm in Roxburghshire. Here he acquired that taste for border lore and chivalric tradition which was so strongly developed in after life. In 1802-3 appeared his '"Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," with his own imitations of the old ballads, and in 180-i his edition of the romance of "Sir Tristrem," ascribed to Thomas the Rhymer of Ercildoune ; these works procured for him high reputation as a lit- erary antiquary. He threw his genius more boldly into the sphere of original poetry, in the composition of " The Lay of the Last Min- strel," a tale of Border warfare, illustrating the habits and superstition:? of former centuries, and glorifying the ancestry of the Duke of Buc- cleuch, the chief of the clan Scott. Its pubhcation in 1805 attracted universal and enthusiastic admiration. Tlie theme and the style were so new and so original; the colors of forgotten phases of society were painted with such graphic splendor, that this metrical romance placed the author at once in the front rank of genius. The time was favor- able for the experiment ; the great poets of the nineteenth century had merely begun to sing, and, as Scott himself remarks, '^ Tlie realms of Parnassus seemed to lie open to the first bold invader." ''Marmion** appeared in 1808 ; in 1810, the '" Lady of the Lake," illustrating the scenery and chivalry of the Highlands in the reign of James Y. ; these were followed by the "Vision of Don Roderic," "Rokeby," and, in 1814, "The Lord of the Isles." But Scott had reached his culmin- ating point in his Highland poem. Byron's reputation was nov>' paling 13 194 SCOTT. every otlier fire; and the anonymous publication of the Bridal of Triermain," and "Harold the Dauntless," by wakening no feeling cor- respondent to his former renown, convinced Scott that he had sung too long. And now he penetrated that rich mine in prose fiction which seemed but the continuation of his poetical vein, and whose treasures astonished the world. For nearly fifteen years he continued anonymously in rapid succession the series of his novels, and the " Author of Waverley" became a profound speculation, the subject of three-volumed works. The secret, however, was faithfully kept ; and, though universally suspected, the poet held his incognito till commer- cial misfortune forced its withdrawal. Besides his poetry and novels, his other literary labors are miraculous in amount. They consist of reviews, histories, biographies, annotated editions of great writers, &c. The folloAving beautiful allusion to an interview with Scott is from an oration by the Hon. Edward Everett : — " I have made my pilgrimage to Melrose Abbej', in company with that modern magician, who, migh- tier than the magician of old that sleeps beneath the marble floor of its chancel, has hung the garlands of immortal poesy jiipon its shat- tered arches, and made its moss-clad ruins a shrine, to be visited by the votary of the muse from the remotest corners of the earth, to tlie end of time. Yes, sir, musing as I did, in my youth, over the sepul- chre of the wizard, once pointed out by the bloody stain of the cross and the image of the archangel: — standing within that consecrated enclosure, under the friendly guidance of him whose genius has made it holy ground; while ever}" nerve within me thrilled with excite- ment, my fancy kindled with the inspiration of the spot. I seemed to behold, not the vision so magnificently described by the minstrel, — the light, which, as the tomb was opened, broke forlh so gloriously, Streamed u]iw:ird to the cluiiicel roof, And through the galleries far aloof: but I could fancy that I beheld, with sensible perception, the brighter light, v/hich had broken forth from the master mind ; which had streamed from his illumined page ail-gloriously upward, above the pin- nacles of worldly grandeur, till it mingled its equal beams with that of the briii-htest constellations in the intellectual firmament of Endaiul " uii nwE8 M^. 'i\o^gm^% mn The shades of eve come slowly down, The woods are wrapt in deeper brown. The owl awakens from her dell, The fox is heard upon the fell; Enough remains of glimmering light To guide the wanderer's steps aright. 196 SCOTT. Yet not enough from far to show His figure to the watchful foe. With cautious step, and ear awake, He climbs the crag and threads the brake; And not the summer solstice, there, Temper'd the midnight mountain air, But every breeze, that swept the wold, Benumb'd his drenched limbs with cold. In dread, in danger, and alone, Famish'd and chill'd, through ways unknown, Tangled and steep, he journey'd on; Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd, A watch-fire close before him burn'd. Beside its embers red and clear, Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer; And up he sprung with sword in hand, — "Thy name and purpose! Saxon, stand!" — "A stranger." — "What dost thou require?'' — "Eest and a guide, and food and fire. My life's beset, my path is lost, The gale has chill'd my limbs with frost.'' "Art thou a friend to Eoderick ?"— " Xo."— "Thou darest not call thyself a foe?" — "I dare! to him and all the band He brings to aid his murderous hand." "Bold words! — ^but, though the beast of game The privilege of chase may claim. riTZ JAMES AND RODEKICK DHU. I97 Though space and law the stag we lend, Ere hound w^e slip, or bow we bend, Whoever reck'd, where, how, or when, The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain? Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie, Who say thou earnest a secret spy!" — "They do, by Heaven! — Come Eoderick Dhu, And of his clan the boldest two. And let me but till morning rest, I write the falsehood on their crest," — "If by the blaze I mark aright. Thou bear'st the belt and spur of Knight." — " Then by these tokens mayst thou know Each proud oppressor's mortal foe." — " Enough, enough ; sit down and share A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare." He gave him of his Highland cheer, The harden'd flesh of mountain deer; Dry fuel on the fire he laid. And bade the Saxon share his plaid. He tended Mm like welcome guest, Then thus his further speech address'd " Stranger, I am to Eoderick Dhu, A clansman born, a kinsman true; Each word against his honor spoke, Demands of me avenging stroke; 198 SCOTT. Yet more, — upon mj fate, 'tis said, A mighty augury is laid. It rests with me to wind my horn, — Thou art with numbers overborne; It rests with me, here, brand to bran.l, Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand: But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause, Will I depart from honor's laws; To assail a wearied man were shame. And stranger is a holy name; Guidance and rest, and food and fire. In vain he never must require. Then rest thee here till dawn of day ; Myself will guide thee on the way, O'er stock and stone, through watch and ward, Till past Clan- Alpine's outmost guard, As far as Coilantogle's ford; From thence thy warrant is thy sword."' "I take thy courtesy, by Heaven, As freely as 'tis nobly given!" — "Well, rest thee; for the bittern's cry Sings us the lake's wild lullaby." With that he shook the gather'd heath. And spread his plaid upon the wreath ; And the brave foemen, side by side. Lay peacefal down like brothers tried. And slept until the dawning beam Purpled the mountain and the stream. j06» ^an^jif E AxD now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made. The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won. Where, gleaming with the setting sun. 200 SCOTT. One burnisli'd sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll VI, In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay. And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down on the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurld, The fragments of an earlier world ; A wildering forest feather'd o'er His ruin'd sides and summit hoar. While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed. And, " What a scene were here," he cried, "For princely pomp, or churchman's pride! On this bold brow, a lordly tower; In that soft vale, a lady's bower; On yonder meadow, far away. The turrets of a cloister gray ; How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn ! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves were still and mute ! HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. 901 And, when the midnight moon should lave Her forehead in the silver wave, How solemn on the ear would come The holy matins' distant hum, While the deep peal's commanding tone Should wake in yonder islet lone, A sainted hermit from his cell. To drop a bead with every knell — And bugle, lute, and bell, and all. Should each bewilder'd stranger call To friendly feast, and lighted hall. When Israel of the Lord beloved. Out from the land of bondage came. Her father's Grod before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day along the astonish'd lands The cloudy pillar glided slow; By night, Arabia's crimson' d sands Eeturn'd the fiery pillar's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise. And trump and timbrel answer'd keen ; 202 SCOTT. And Zion's daughters pour'd their laj'S, With priests' and warriors' voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen. When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen, To temper the deceitful ray. And, hoi when stoops on Judah's path, In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn, But Thou hast said, " The blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; A contrite heart, an humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice."' THE SUN U P X THE W J E R D L A W - H I L L . 203 The sun upon the Wierdlaw-MU, In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet, The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore ; Though evening, with her richest dye. Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain, I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, — Are they still such as once they were. Or is the dreary change in me? Alas, the warp'd and broken board. How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! 204 SCOTT. To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ; And Araby's or Eden's bowers Were barren as this moorland hill. Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned. As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power and pelf, The wretch concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung! JAMES HOGG. James Hogg was born in a sphere perhaps still more remote than that of Burns from the possibility of attaining the dignity of a popular and national poet. Born the descendant of an ancestry of shepherds in the "wilds of Ettrick, his seventh year opened amidst the ruins of his father's small and painfully-acquired means. A rude shieling was the dA^eUing of his childliood; some six months "buckled in the sum" of his school education ; tiU nearly his manhood the Bible was his only reading; but the sunshine of the poetical fancy seems early to have flitted about his mind. To his mother, like many great men, he owed the mirsing of the talent wliich God had given. Literature slowly shed her showers on his intellect ; and, after a youth passed in sequestered regions in the care of a few sheep, he appeared before his countrymen as a claimant of the successorship to the throne of Burns. The first wealth his pen yielded was expended on an unlucky farming specula- tion. Driven to Edinburgh and to literature as a means of subsistence, the publication of the " Queen's Wake" in 1813 at length vindicated his position as a poet. In that year, a grant of the farm of Altrive in Ettrick, from his patron the Duke of Buccleuch, restored him to his original occupation. He married; leased the larger adjoining farm of Mount Benger, the failure of which again reduced him in a few years to poverty. During these years he continued to write voluminously ; he was intimately connected for a considerable time with Blackwood's Magazine ; he claims, indeed, the merit of founding that periodical. His poetry consists chiefly of songs, ballads, and elfin legends ; he was at home in the fairy wcrld, and it is in these gorgeous and airy regions in which his genius is chiefly conspicuous. Bird of the wilderness, Blythsome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing. Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen. O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day. Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim. Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms 208 HOGG. Sweet will tliy welcome and bed of love be ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — to abide in the desert with thee ! Blessed be thy name forever, Thou of life the guard and giver; Thou canst guard thy creatures sleeping; Heal the heart long broke with weeping. God of stillness and of motion, Of the desert and the ocean. Of the mountain, rock, and river. Blessed be thy name forever! Thou who slumberest not, nor sleepest. Blest are they thou kindly keepest: God of evening's parting ray, Of midnight's gloom, and dawning day. That rises from the azure sea. Like breathings of eternity; God of life! that fade shall never. Blessed be thv name forever! muouii, 01^ i&mm mmmii. CuLLODEN", on thy swarthy brow Spring no wild flowers or verdure fair: Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow More than the freezing wintry air; For once thou drank'st the hero's blood, And War's unhallowed footsteps bore, The deeds unholy nature view'd. Then fled and curs'd thee evermore. 210 HOGG From Beauty's wild and woodland glen How proudly Lo vat's banuers soar! How fierce the plaided Highland clan Eush onward with the broad claymore; How hearts that high with honor heaves, The volleying thunder there laid low, Or scattered like the forest leaves "When wintry winds begin to blow. Where now thy banners, brave Lochiel? The braided plumes torn from thy brow, What must thy haughty spirit feel When skulking like the mountain roe? What wild birds chant from Lochy's bowers On April's eve their loves and joys? The Lord of Lochy's loftiest towers To foreign lands an exile flies. To his blue hills that rose in view. As o'er the deep his galley bore, He often look'd and cried "Adieu," I ne'er shall see Lochaber more! Though now thy wounds I cannot heal, My dear, my injur'd native land! In other climes, thy foe shall feel The weight of Cameron's deadly brand. Land of proud hearts and mountains gray. Where Fingal fought and Ossian sung. THE COVENANTER'S SCAFFOLD SONG. 211 Mourn dark Culloden's fateful daj, That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung, Where once thev rul'd and roamed at will, Free as their own dark mountain game, Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel A longing for their fathers' fame. Shades of the mighty and the brave. Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell — No trophies mark your common grave, No dirges to your mem'ry swell; But generous hearts will weep your fate, When far has roU'd the tide of time. And lands unborn shall renovate Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme. im m^mmiE^'^ ^miwi^ Bern. Sing with me! sing with me! Weeping brethren, sing with me! For now an open heaven I see. And a crown of glory laid for me. How my soul this earth despises! How my heart and spirit rises! 212 HOGG Bounding from the flesh I sever! World of sin, adieu forever! Sing with mel sing with me! Friends in Jesus, sing with me! All my sufferings, all mj woe, All my griefs, I here forego.- Farewell terrors, sighing, grieving, Praying, hearing, and believing, Earthly trust and all its wrongings, Earthly love and all its longings. Sing with me! sing witli me! Blessed spirits, sing with me! To the Lamb our songs shall be. Through a glad eternity! Farewell earthly morn and even, Sun and moon and stars of heaven ; Heavenly portals ope before me. Welcome, Christ, in all his glory ! ROBEKT TANNAHILL. EoBEET Taot^ahill, a lyrical poet of superior order, whose songs rival all but Burns' best in popularity, was a native of Paisley. His education was limited, but he was a diligent reader and student. He was early sent to the loom, weaving being the staple trade of Paisley, and continued to follow his occupation in his native village until his twenty-sixth year, when he removed to Lancashire. There he remained two years, till the declining state of his father's health induced him to return home. Whilst delighting all classes of his countrymen with his native songs, the poet fell into a state of morbid despondency, aggravated by bodily weakness, and a tendency to consumption. He had pre- pared a new edition of his poems for the press, and sent the MS. to Mr. Constable the publisher; but it was returned by that gentleman, in consequence of his having more new works on hand than he could undertake that season. His disappointment preyed on the spirits of the sensitive poet, and his melancholy became deep and habitual. He burned all his MS. and sunk into a state of mental derangement. Returning from a visit to Glasgow on the I7th May, 1810, the unhappy poet retired to rest; but suspicion having been excited, in about an hour afterwards it was discovered that he had stolen out unperceived. Search was made in every direction, and by the dawn of the morning the coat of the poet was discovered lying at the side of a neighboring stream, pointing out too surely where his body was to be found. His lamentable death arose from no want or irregularity, but was solely caused by that morbid disease of the mind, which at last over- threw his reason. ^^i:^^2i-^ '^^ Keen blaws the wind o'er the Braes o' Gleniffer, The auld castle's turrets are cover'd -^d' snaw; How chang'd frae the time when I met wi' my lover Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw: The wild flow'rs o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree: But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me. Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw; 216 TAXNAHILL. Now naething is heard bat the wind whistling dreary, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, Thej shake the cauld drift frae their wings as thej flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, — 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmuj'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. 'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e. For, O gin I saw but my bonny Scotch callan. The dark days o' winter were simmer to me! The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; JESSIE, THE FLOWR 0' DUMBLANE. 217 Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. How lost were my days 'till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain, I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, 'Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur. Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain; And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor. If wanting sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. 218 TANNAHILL Gloomy winter's now awa', Saffc tLe westlin' breezes blaw: 'Mang the birks o' Stanley -sliaAV The mavis sings fa' clieerie, 0. Sweet the craw-flower's early beP Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, Blooming like thy bonny sel', My young, my artless dearie, 0. Come, my lassie, let ns stray O'er Glenkilloch's sunnj brae, Blythely spend the gowden day 'Midst joys that never wearie, O. Towering o'er the Newton woods, Laverocks fan the snaw- white clouds; Siller saughs, wi' downie buds, Adorn the banks sae brierie, O. Eound the sylvan fairy nooks, Feath'ry braikens fringe the rocks, *Neath the brae the burnie jouks. And ilka thing is cheerie, 0. THE LAMENT OF WALLACE. 219 Trees maj bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me tliey canna bring. Unless wi' thee, my dearie, 0. Ji£ JLf»l£1|J 01 ^'UlUl, AFTER THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK. Thou dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see, To me tliou can'st never give pleasure again; My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea. And thy streams are deep-ting'd with the blood of the slain. Ah! base-hearted treachery has doom'd our undoing, — My poor bleeding country, what more can I do? Even valor looks pale o'er the red field of ruin. And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low. Farewell, ye dear partners of peril ! farewell ! Though buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave. Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell. And your names be enroU'd with the sons of the brave ! But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander, Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die ! On thy wrongs, my country! indignant I ponder — Ah! woe to the hour when thy "Wallace must fly! 220 TANNAHILL. Haek! 'tis the poor maniac's song; She sits on yon wild craggy steep, And while the winds mournfully whistle along, She wistfully looks o'er the deep; And aye she sings, "Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby! To hush the rude billows asleep. She looks to yon rock far at sea. And thinks it her lover's white sail. The warm tear of joy glads her wild glist'ning eye. As she beckons his vessel to hail: And aye she sings, ''Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!" And frets at the boisterous gale. Poor Susan was gentle and fair, Till the seas robb'd her heart of its joy ; Then her reason was lost in the gloom of despai] And her charms then did wither and die; And now her sad "Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!" Oft wakes the lone passenger's sigh. JOHN LEYDEN. m^—\s\\ Literature has seldom to mourn more truly over genius early blighted by death than in the case of John Leyden. He was the son of humble parents, and born at Denholm, on the banks of the Teviot Id Roxburghshire. His powerful talents, while he was yet young, amassed a singular amount of classical and oriental literature. He was destined for the church, but suddenly exchanged his profession for that of medicine, on a prospect of obtaining an appointment in the East. He proceeded to India, and acted in different capacities in various quar- ters of that country for several years, hiving up daily stores of oriental learning. In 1811 Leyden accompanied the governor-general to Java. His spirit of romantic adventure led him literally to rush upon death ; for with another volunteer who attended the expedition, he threw himself into the surf, in order to be the first Briton of the expedition who should set foot in Java. "When the success of the well-concerted movements of the invaders had given them possession of the town of Batavia, Leyden displayed the same ill-omened precipitation in his haste to examine a library, or rather a warehouse of books, in Avhich many Indian manuscripts were said to be deposited. A library in a Dutch settlement was not, as might have been expected, in the best order, the apartment had not been regularly ventilated, and either from this circumstance, or already affected by the fatal sickness peculiar to Batavia, Leyden, when he left the place, declared the atmosphere was enough to give any mortal a fever. The presage was too just, he took to his bed, and died in three days (Aug. 28, 1811) on the eve of the battle that gave Java to the British Empire. y Iif£ ¥£^¥aiS Os Jm^a's lieatli hovr sweetly swell The murmurs of tlie mountain bee ! How softly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore its parent sea ! But softer, floating o'er the deep, The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charm'd the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsaj. Aloft the purple pennons wave, As, parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore. 224 LEY DEN. In youth's gay bloom, the grave Macphail Still blamed the lingeriug bark's delay; For her he chid the flagging sail, The lovely maid of Colonsay. And "Kaise," he cried, "the song of love, The maiden sung with tearful smile, When first, o'er Jura's hills he rove, We left afar the lonely isle !" "When on this ring of ruby red Shall die," she said, "the crimson hue, Know that thy favorite fair is dead, Or proves to thee and love untrue." Kow, lightly poised, the rising oar Disperses wide the foamy spray. And, echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, Eesounds the song of Colonsay. "Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail, Sooth to rest the furrowy seas, Before my love, sweet western gale! " Where the wave is tinged with red. And the russet sea-leaves grow, Mariners, with prudeot dread, Shun the shelving reefs below. THE MERMAID. 225 "As you pass tTirough Jura's sound, Bend your course by Scarba's sliore, Shun, shun, the gulf profound, Where Corrivrekin's surges roar! "If from that unbottom'd deep, "With wrinkled form and writhed train, O'er the verge of Scarba's steep. The sea-snake heave his snowy mane, "Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils, Sea-green sisters of the main. And in the gulf where ocean boils The unwieldy wallowing monster chain "Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail, Sooth to rest the furrowed seas, Before my love, sweet western gale!" Thus, all to soothe the chieftain's woe, Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow. He seem'd her parting sigh to hear. The lonely deck he paces o'er, Impatient for the rising day, And still, from Crinan's moonlight shore, He turns his eyes to Colonsay. 15 226 LEY DEN. The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, Tliat streaks with foam the ocean green ; While forward still the rowers urge Their conrse, a female form was seen. That Sea-maid's form, of pearly light, Was whiter than the downy spray, And round her bosom, heaving bright, Her glossy yellow ringlets play. Borne on a foamy-crested wave, She reach'd amain the bounding prow, Then, clasping fast the chieftain brave. She plunging sought the deep below. Ah ! long beside thy feigned bier The monks the prayers of death shall say, And long for thee the fruitless tear Shall weep the maid of Colonsay! But downwards, like a powerless corse, The eddying waves the chieftain bear; He only heard the moaning hoarse Of waters murmuring in his ear. The murmurs sink by slow degrees; No more the surges round him rave; Lull'd by the music of the seas. He lies within a coral cave. THE MERMAID. 227 In dreamy mood reclines he long, Nor dares Ms tranced eyes unclose, Til], warbling wild, tlie Sea-maid's song Far in tlie crystal cavern rose; Soft as that harp's imseen control, In morning dreams that lovers hear, Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul, Bnt never reach the waking ear. As snnbeams through the tepid air. When clouds dissolve in dews unseen, Smile on the flowers, that bloom more fair, And fields, that glow with livelier green. So melting soft the music fell ; It seem'd to sooth the fluttering spray. " Say, heard'st thou not these wild notes swell?'' "Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay." Like one that from a fearful dream Awakes, the morning light to view. And joys to see the purple beam, Yet fears to find the vision true,' — He heard that strain, so wildly sweet, Which bade his torpid languor fly! He fear'd some spell had bound his feet. And hardly dared his limbs to try. 228 LEYDEN. ''This yellow sand, this sparry cave, Sliall bend thy soul to beauty's sway. Can'st thou the maiden of the wave Compare to her of Colonsay?" Eoused by that voice of silver sound, From the paved floor he lightly sprung, And, glancing wild his eyes around. Where the fair Nymph her tresses wrung. No form he saw of mortal mould; It shone like ocean's snowy foam, Her ringlets waved in living gold, Her mirror crystal, pearl her comb. Her pearly comb the Syren took. And careless bound her tresses wild; Still o'er the mirror stole her look. As on the wandering youth she smiled Like music from the greenwood tree, Again she raised the melting lay: "Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me And leave the maid of Colonsay? "Fair is the crystal hall for me. With rubies and with emeralds set, And sweet the music of the sea Shall sing, when we for love are met. THE MERMAID. 2211 "How swce': to dance with gliding feet Along tlie level tide so green, Eesponsive to the cadence sweet, That breathes along the moonlight scene ! "And soft the music of the main Eings from the motley tortoise-shell, While moonbeams o'er the watery plain Seem trembling in its fitful swell. "How sweet, when billows heave their head, And shake their snowy crests on high, Serene in ocean's sapphire bed, Beneath the tumbling surge to lie; "To trace with tranquil step the deep, Where pearly drops of frozen dew In concave shells unconscious sleep, Or shine with lustre silvery blue! "Then shall the summer sun from far Pour through the wave a softer ray, While diamonds, in a bower of spar, At eve shall shed a brighter day. "Xor stormy wind, nor wintry gale, Tliat o'er the angry ocean sweep, Shall e'er our coral groves assail. Calm in the bosom of the deep. 230 LEYDEN. " Througli the green meads beneath the sea, Enamor'd, we shall fondly stray: Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me, And leave the maid of Colonsay !" — "Though bright thy locks of glistering gold Fair maiden of the foamy main! Thy life-blood is the water cold, While mine beats high in everj^ vein. "If I, beneath thy sparry cave, Should in thy snowy arms recline. Inconstant as the restless wave, My heart would grow as cold as thine." — As cygnet-down, proud swell'd her breast; Her eye confest the pearly tear; His -hand she to her bosom prest — "Is there no heart for rapture here? "These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, Does no warm blood their currents fill, No heart-pulse riot, wild and free. To joy, to love's delirious thrill?" — "Though all the splendor of the sea Around thy faultless beauty shine. That heart, that riots wild and free, Can hold no sympathy with mine. THE MERMAID. 231 "These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay, They swim not in the light of love: The beauteous maid of Colonsay, Her eyes are milder than the dove! "E'en now, within the lonely isle, Her eyes are dim with tears for me: And canst thou think that Syren-smile Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?" An oozy film her limbs o'erspread; Unfolds in length her scaly train; She toss'd in proud disdain her head, And lashed with webbed fin the main. •'Dwell here, alone!" the Mermaid cried. "And view far off the Sea-nymphs play; The prison- wall, the azure tide. Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay. "Whene'er, like ocean's scaly brood, I cleave with rapid fin the wave, Far from the daughter of the flood Conceal thee in this coral cave. "I feel my former soul return; It kindles at thy cold disdain: And has a mortal dared to spurn A daughter of the foamy main?" — 232 L E Y D E N . She fled; around the crj'stal cave The rolling waves resume their road, On the broad portal idly rave, But enter not the Nymph's abode. And many a weary night went by, As in the lonely cave he lay, And many a sun roU'd through the sky, And pour'd its beams on Colonsay : And oft, beneath the silver moon, He heard afar the Mermaid sing, And oft, to many a melting tune. The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring: And when the moon went down the sky, Still rose in dreams his native plain, And oft he thought his love was by, And charm'd him with some tender strain: And, heart-sick, oft he waked to weep. When ceased that voice of silver sound, And thought to plunge him in the deep, That wall'd his crj^stal cavern round. But still the ring of ruby red Eetain'd its vivid crimson hue. And each despairing accent fled. To find his gentle love so true. THE M E K M A I D . 933 "When seven long lonely months were gone, The Mermaid to his cavern came, No more mishappen from the zone, But like a maid of mortal frame. " give to me that rubv ring, That on thy finger glances gay, And thou shalt hear the Mermaid sing The song, thou lov'st, of Colonsay." '' This ruby ring, of crimson grain, Shall on thy finger glitter gay. If thou wilt bear me through the main, Again to ^dsit Colonsay."' — "Except thou quit thy former love. Content to dwell for aye with me. Thy scorn my finny frame might move To tear thy limbs amid the sea." — " Then bear me swift along the main, The lonely isle again to see. And when I here return again, I plight my faith to dwell with thee." An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, AVhile slow unfolds her scaly train, With gluey fangs her hands were clad. She lash'd with wcbbv^d fin the main. 234 L E Y D E N . He grasps the Mermaid's scaiy sides, As witli broad fin slie oars lier way; Beneath tlie silent moon she glides. That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay. Proud swells her heart! she deems, at last, To lure him with her silver tongue, And, as the shelving rocks she past. She raised her voice and sweetly sung. In softer, sweeter strains she sung. Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay, When light to land the chieftain sprung. To hail the maid of Colonsay. sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell. And sadly sink remote at sea! So sadly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore its parent ssa. And ever as the year returns. The charm-bound sailors know the day; For sadly still the Mermaid mourns The lovely chief of Colonsay. ODE TO THE EVENING STAR. 235 0S£ 10 Jifl ^^E1(l%& SIBi^ How sweet fhj modest light to view, Fair Star, to love and lovers dear! While trembling on the falling dew, Like beauty shining through a tear. Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream. To mark that image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam, To see thy lovely face so fair. Though, blazing o'er the arch of night. The moon thy timid beams outshine. As far as thine each starry light; — Her rays can never vie with thine. Thine are the soft enchanting hours. When twilight lingers on the plain, And whispers to the closing flowers That soon the sun will rise again. Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland As music, wafts the lover's sigh. 236 LEYDEN. And bids tlie yielding heart expand In love's delicious ecstasj^ Fair Star! tliougli I be doom'd to prove That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain, Ah, still I feel 'tis s^Yeet to love! But sweeter to be lov'd again. Slave of the dark and dirty mine! AVhat vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear? The tent-ro]oes flapping lone I hear, For twihght converse arm in arm; The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear, When mirth and music wont to cheer. By Cherical's dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot loved while still a child; Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of voutli and friendsliip smiled Uncursed bj thee, vile yellow slave ! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played, Eevives no more in after time. Far from my sacred natal clime I haste to an untimely grave; The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine, thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widowed heart to cheer. Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding-stars to mine ; Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true! I crossed the tedious ocean wave. To roam in climes unkind and new. 238 LEYDEN. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered heart; the grave Dark and untimely met my view — And all for thee, vile yellow slave! Ila! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, Now that his frame, the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipt with, death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey: Yile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clayl WILLIAM KNOX. William Kxox, a young poet of considerable talent, wlio died in Ed- inburgh in 1825, at the age of thirty -six, was author of "The Lonely Hearth,'' '' Songs of Israel," " The Harp of Zion," Szc. Extravagance and dissipation marked his earlier years, and for a time clouded his genius, but he could never fully overcome the force of early religious impressions ; and it is said, that even in the midst of the most deplora- ble dissipation, he Avas able to command his mind, at intervals, to tlie composition of verses alive Avith sacred fire, and breathing of Scriptural simplicity and tenderness. The feelings of the poet's heart at a particu- lar crisis of his family history, are truly expressed in the first of the fol- lowing pieces: 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 heart awake thee To the strains I love so much ? I have loved thy thrilling numbers. Since the dawn of childhood's day ; Since a mother soothed my slumbers With the cadence of thy lay ; Since a little blooming sister Clung with transport round my knee, And my glowing spirit blessed her With a blessing caught from thee I Mother — sister — ^both are sleeping Where no heaving hearts respire, Whilst the eve of age is creeping Eound the widowed spouse and sire. 16 242 KNOX. He and his, amid their sorrow Find enjoyment in thj strain : Harp of Zion, let me borrow, Comfort from thy chords again! (GrENESIS XXXV. 19.) And Kachel lies in Ephrath's land, Beneath her lonely oak of weeping; With mouldering heart and withering hand, The sleep of death forever sleeping. The spring comes smiling down the vale, The lilies and the roses bringing; But Eachel never more shall hail The flowers that in the world are springing. The summer gives his radiant day. And Jewish dames the dance are treading ; But Eachel on her couch of clay. Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding. The Autumn's ripening sunbeam shines, And reapers to the field is calling; THE FIELD OF GILBOA 9-1.3 But Rachel's voice no longer joins The choral song at twilight's falling. The winter sends his drenching shower, And sweeps his howling blast around her, But earthly storms possess no power To break the slumber that hath bound her. The sun of the morning looked forth from his throne, And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying : For the yell of the strife like the thunder had flown. And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying. And there lay the husband that lately was pressed To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy- Now the claws of the vulture were fixed in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody. And there lay the son of the widowed and sad, Who yesterday went from her dwelling for ever — Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had On the delicate limb that had ceased not to quiver. 244 KNOX And there came the daughter, the desolate child, To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary ; And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild. To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory. And there came the consort, that struggled in vain To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her; And there came the mother, that sunk 'mid the slain. To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her. O bloody Grilboa ! a curse ever lie Where the king and his people were slaughtered to- gether ! May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither ! TO-MORROW 246 To-MOEROW — mortal, boast not thou Of time and tide that 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; To-morrow — ^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: 246 KNOX. To-morrow — 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 e'en thyself may pass away. Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud! Like a fast flitting 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 lie. The child whom a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved. The husband that mother and infant who blessed. Each — all are away to their dwelling of rest. MORTALITY. 247 The maid on whose cheek, on wliose brow, in wliose eye. Shone beauty and pleasure — her triamphs are by; And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king who the sceptre hath borne. The brow of the priest who tbe 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 who wandered in search of his bread. Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner who 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 has 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 run the same course that our fathers have run. 248 KNOX The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink. To the life we are clinging too, 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 cola, 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! and we things that are now. Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwelling a transient abode. Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea; hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in 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 draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death. From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud — Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud! THOMAS CAMPBELL, LL.D. nil— i 84^4 Campbell was the youngest son of a Glasgow merchant, who traced his descent to a distinguished family of Argyleshire. Commercial mis- foitunes had reduced his father to comparative poverty, but he was able to give his favorite and promising son an education in Glasgow university. Through the classes of that seminary the youth passed with great reputation, especially for Greek literatm-e ; and, abandoning his original prospect of church preferment, he came to Edinburgh with some hazy intentions of studying law. Poetical sympathies and Avant of opportunity fortunately threw his energies in another direction. The publication of the "Pleasures of Hope," in 1799, at the early age of twenty-one, elevated him to the rank of a popular poet. The emol- ument yielded by his poem enabled him to travel in Germany: he witnessed the battle of Hohenlinden, which he has so nobly commem- orated. Ultimately he married his cousin. Miss Matilda Sinclair, and settled in the neighborhood of London. His married life was happy, but the death of one son and the madness of another, cast a dark shadow on Campbell's existence. He continually struggled with nar- rowness of circumstances, caused in a great measure by his generosity to his destitute mother, sisters, and other relations. His health was sel- dom vigorous, while his subsistence demanded the incessant exercise of his pen, chiefly in the task- work of compilation. For a number of years (1820-1831) he edited the New Monthly Magazine. He was frequently on the continent, and the death of his wife in 1828, leaving the poet stripped of his last domestic comfort, seemed to give his wandering pro- pensities a wider range ; he visited Algiers in 1834. He had the honor 250 CAMPBELL. of being thrice elected to the Lord Rectorship of his native university. During his later years, in the enjoyment of a merited pension from gov- ernment, he resided chiefly in London, engaged in literary pursuits, and enjoying the society of his friends. He died in 1844 at Boulogne, to which he had removed in search of renovated health. He vv^as bm-ied in Westminster Abbey. Campbell's poetical works consist of the " Pleasures of Hope ;" " Ger- trude of Wyoming," an affecting tale of an Indian incursion on that Pennsylvania village during the American war ;" " Theodoric," a do- mestic Swiss tale, and many beautiful minor perns. His lyrics are among the noblest in the language. Chambers gives the following just and beautiful analysis of Camp- bell's poetry: " The genius and taste of Campbell resemble those of Gray. He dis- plays the same delicacy and purity of sentiment, the same vivid pei-cep- tion of beauty and ideal loveliness, equal picturesqueness and elevation of imagery, and the same lyrical and concentrated power of expression. The diction of both is elaborately choice and select. The general tone of Campbell's verse is calm, uniform and mellifluous — a stream of mild harmony and delicious fancy flowing through the bosom scenes of life, with images scattered separately, like flowers on its surface, and beau- ties of expression interwoven with it — certain words and phrases of magical power — which never quit the memory. In his highest pulse of excitement, the cadence of his verse becomes deep and strong, with- out losing its liquid smoothness, the stream expands to a flood, but never overflows the limits prescribed by a correct taste and regulated magnificence." Our bugles sang truce — ^for the night-cloud had lower'd And the sentinel stars set their watch in the skj ; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'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 ; 262 CAMPBELL. At the dead of tlie night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 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 welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed 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 the 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 return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 10 Iif£ 1]fmiS0iU. Tkiumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. 264 CAMPBELL. Can all that Optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow? When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil v/ithdraws, What lovely visions jdeld their place To cold material laws 1 And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth ^ To watch thy sacred sign. And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod. Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. The first made anthem rang On earth deliver'd from the deep, And the first poet sang. TO THE RAINBOW. 255 Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam: Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the prophet's theme! The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When glittering in the freshen'd fields The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town. Or, mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark. As young thy beauties seem. As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, JSTor lets the type grow pale wdth age That first spoke peace to man. 9,56 CAMPBELL. All worldly shapes sliall 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 with 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 ! THE LAST MAN. 257 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high. That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm pass'd by, Saying, We are 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 parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day: For all these trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. Go. '.et oblivion's curtiin fall Upon the stage of men. Not with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, Kor waken flesh upon the rack 17 258 CAMPBELL. Of pain anew to writhe ; Stretcli'd in disease's shapes abliorr'd Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. Ev'n I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sunless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge' of death- Their rounded gasp of gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall. The majesty of Darkness shall Eeceive 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 recall'd to breath. Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of Victory, — And took the sting from Death ! Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awfnl waste LINES. 259 To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste — 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 in God ! WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. At the silence of twilight's contemplative lioar, I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild 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 trode, To his hills that encircle the sea. Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, By the dial-stone aged and green. 260 CAMPBELL. One rose of tlae wilderness left on its stalk, To mark where the garden had been. Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, All wild in the silence of nature, it drew. From each wandering sunbeam a lonely embrace, 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 fabric 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 ! Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdairi, May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ! Yea ! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall wake not the sigh of remembrance again : To bear is to conquer our fate. ALLAN CUNNINaHAM, n84— 184^^. This poet, novelist, and miscellaneons writer, was born of compara- tively humble parentage in Dumfries-shire. He began life as a stone mason ; but his early literary ability w^as such that, being introduced to Cromek, the editor of "Eemains of ISTithsdale and Galloway Song," and undertaking to procure contributions to that work, he sent to the editor, as genuine remains, compositions of his own. These form the bulk of Cromek's collection. The cheat w^as long unsuspected; but the suspicious sagacity of the Ettrick Shepherd and others, especially Professor Wilson (see Blackwood's Magazine, Dec. 1819), ultimately demonstrated the imposition, much to the reputation of the real author. Mr. Cunningham repaired in 1810 to London, and, obtaining an ap- pointment of trust in the sculptor Chantrey's studio, he settled himself here for life. In this congenial position of comfort and independence, ne possessed opportunities for the employment of his active pen, and for intercourse with men of kindred genius. His warm heart, his honest, upright and independent character, attracted the affectionate esteem and respect of all who enjoyed his acquaintance. n iij£i stfisi M^ a iiomm& sib. A WET slieet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lea. 264 CUNNINGHAM. for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one crj; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving high, my bojs, The good ship tight and free — The world of waters is onr home. And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon h\jrned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; But hark, the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys. The lightning flashing free — While the hollow oak our palace is. Our heritage the sea. The sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree. THE SUN RISES BRIGHT IN FRANCE. 265 O it's nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e, But the dear Marie I left ahin', Wi' sweet bairnies three. My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie, An' smiled my ain Marie; I've ""eft a' my heart behin' In my ain countree. The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee, But I'll win back — never, To my ain countree. O I am leal to high Heaven, Where soon I hope to be, An' there I'll meet ye a' soon Frae my ain countree. 266 CUNNINGHAM Gane were but the winter-cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in tlie wild woods, Where prim-roses blaw. Cauld's the snaw at my head, And cauld at mj feet, And the finger o' death's at my een. Closing them to sleep. Let nane tell my father, Or inj mither sae dear, I'll meet them baith in heaven At the spring o' the year. TflOMAS PRINaLE. n88— 1804 Thomas Pei>CtLE was born in Roxburghshire. He was concerned in the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, and was the author of "Scenes of Teviotdale," " Ephemerides," and other poems, all of which display fine feeling and a cultivated taste. Although from lameness ill-fitted lor a life of hardship, Mr. Pringle, with his father and several brothers, emigrated to the Cape of Good Hope in the year 1820, and there established a little township or settlement named Glen Lynden. The poet afterward removed to Cape Town, the capital; but, wearied with his Caffre-land exile, and disagreeing with the governor, he returned to England and subsisted by his pen. His services were en- gaged by the African Society as secretary to that body, a situation which he continued to hold until within a few months of his death. In the discharge of its duties, he evinced a spirit of active humanity and an ardent lovo to the cause to which he was devoted. His last work was a series of African sketches, containing an interesting per- sonal narrative, iuterspersed ^vith verse. I SAT at noontide in my tent, And looked across the Desert dun, Beneath the cloudless firmament Far gleaming in the sun. When from the bosom of the waste A swarthy Stripling came in haste, With foot unshod and naked limb ; And a tame springbok followed him. With open aspect, frank yet bland, And with a modest mien he stood, 270 PR INGLE. Caressing with a gentle hand That beast of gentle brood ; Then, meekly gazing in mj face, Said ' in the language of his race, With smiling look yet pensive tone. "Stranger — I'm in the world alone!" "Poor boy!" I said, "thy native home Lies far beyond the Stormberg blue: Why hast thou left it, boy! to roam This desolate Karroo?" His face grew sadder while I spoke; The smile forsook it; and he broke Short silence with a sob-like sigh, And told his hapless history. "1 have no home!" replied the boy: "The Bergenaars — ^by night they came, And raised their wolfish howl of joy, While o'er our huts the flame Eesistless rushed; and aye their yell Pealed louder as our warriors fell In helpless heaps beneath their shot : — One living man they left us not! "The slaughter o'er, they gave the slain To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey; And, with our herds, across the plain They hurried us away — THE BECHUANA BOY. 271 The widowed mothers and their brood. Oft, in despair, for drink and food We vainly cried : they heeded not, But with sharp lash the captive smo e. "Three days we tracked that drearj' wild. Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore ; And many a mother and her child Lay down to rise no more. Behind us, on the desert brown, We saw the vultures swooping down : And heard, as the grim night was falling, The wolf to his gorged comrade calling. "At length was heard a river sounding 'Midst that dry and dismal land. And, like a troop of wild deer bounding, We hurried to its strand — Among the maddened cattle rushing; The crowd behind still forward pushing. Till in the floods our limbs were drenched, And the fierce rage of thirst was quenched. "Hoarse-roaring, dark, the broad Grareep In turpid streams was sweeping fast. Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep Loud snorting as we passed ; But that relentless robber-clan Eight through those waters wild and wa,n 272 PRINGLE. Drove on like sheep our wearied band: — Some never reached the farther strand. "All shivering from the foaming flood, We stood upon the stranger's ground, When, with proud looks and gestures rude. The White Men gathered round: And there, like cattle from the fold, Bj Christians we were bought and sold, 'Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn — And roughly from each other torn. "My Mother's scream, so long and shrill, My little Sister's wailing cry, (In dreams I often hear them still !) Eose wildly to the sky. A tiger's heart came to me then. And fiercely on those ruthless men I sprang.' — Alas! dashed on the sand, Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand. " Away — away on prancing steeds The stout man-stealers bhthely go. Through long low valleys fringed with reeds, O'er mountains capped with snow, Each with his captive, far and fast; Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed. And distant stripes of cultured soil Bespoke the land of tears and toil. THE BECHUANA BOY. 273 "And tears and toil have been my lot Since I tlie White Man's thrall became, And sorer griefs I wish forgot — Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame! Oh, Englishman! thou ne'er canst know The injured bondman's bitter woe, When round his breast, like scorpions, cling Black thoughts that madden while they sting ! "Yet this hard fate I might have borne. And taught in time my soul to bend, Had my sad yearning heart forlorn But found a single friend: My race extinct or far removed, The Boors rough brood I could have loved ; But each to whom my bosom turned Even like a hound the black boy spurned. "While, friendless thus, my master's flocks I tended on the upland waste, It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks, By wolfish wild-dogs chased: I rescued it, though wounded sore And dabbled in its mother's gore: And nursed it in a cavern wild, Until it loved me like a child. "G-ently I nursed it; for I thought (Its hapless fate so like to mine) 274 P R I N G L E By good Utiko it was bronglit To bid me not repine, — ■ Since in this world of wrong and ill One creature lived that loved me still, Although its dark and dazzling eye Beamed not with human sympathy. "Thn.s lived I, a lone orphan lad, My task the proud Boor's flocks to tend; And this poor fawn was all. I had To love or call my friend ; When suddenly, with haughty look And taunting words, that tyrant took My playmate for his pampered boy, Who envied me my only joy. " High swelled my heart! — But when the star Of midnight gleamed, I softly led My bounding favorite forth, and far Into the Desert fled. And here, from human kind exiled, Three moons on roots and berries wild I've fared; and braved the beasts of prey, To 'scape from spoilers worse than they. "But yestei morn a Bushman brought The tidings that thy tents were near; And now with hasty foot I've sought Thy presence, void of fear; AFAR IN THE DESERT. 275 Because thej saj, English Chief, Thou scornest not the Captive's grief: Then let me serve thee, as thine own- — • For I am in the world alone!" Such was Marossi's touching tale. Our breasts they were not made of stone ; His words, his winning looks prevail — We took him for "our own." And One, with woman's gentle art Unlocked the fountains of . his heart; And love gushed forth — till he became Her Child in everything but name. Afar in the Desert I 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 cling to the Past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears. From the fond recollections of former years; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead : Bright visions of glory — that vanished too soon ; Dav-dreams — ^that departed ere manhood's noon ; 276 P R I N G L E . Attachineiits — by fate or by falsehood reft; Companions of early days — ^lost or left; And my Kative Land — whose magical name Thrills to the 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 Eden unfolding to view; All — all now forsaken — ^forgotten — foregone! And I — a lone exile remembered of none — My high aims abandoned, — my good acts undone, — Aweary of all that is under the sun, — With that sadness of heart Avhich no stranger may scan, I fly to the Desert afar from man! 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, — The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, — And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and foUj^ Dispose me to musing 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 I AFAR IN THE DESERT, 277 There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, With the death-fraught firelock in mj hand — The only law of the Desert Land! Afar in the Desert I love to ride, "With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: Away — away from the dwelhngs of men, By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 278 PRINGLE. By vallej^s remote wliere the oribi plays. Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, And the kudu and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forests o'erhnng with wild vine ; Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood. And the mightj^ rhinoceros wallows at will Tn the fen ^vhere the wild-ass is drinking his fill. Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the bileiit Bush-boy alone by my side: O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; Where the zebra wantonlj^ tosses his mane. With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste. Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scooped their nest. Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view In the pathless depths of the parched Karroo. Afar in the Desert I 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, AFAR IN THE DESERT. 279 And tlie quivered Coranna or Bechuan Hath rarelj crossed witli 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, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; And the bitter melon, for food and drink, Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink: A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears to refresh the aching eye : But the barren earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round. Spread — void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night-winds round me sigh. And the stars bum bright in the midnight sky, As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, "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! 280 P K I X 6 L E Let the proud White Man boast his flockSj And fields of foodful grain; My home is 'mid the mountain rocks, The Desert mj domain. I plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits, I toil not for my cheer ; The Desert yields me juicy roots, And herds of bounding deer. The countless springboks are my flock. Spread o'er the unbounded plain ; The buffalo bendeth to my yoke, The wild-horse to my rein ; My yoke is the quivering assagai. My rein the tough bow-string ; My bridle curb is a slender barb — Yet it quells the forest-king. The crested adder honoreth me, And yields at my command His poison-bag, like the honey-bee, When I seize him on the sand. THE LION AND GIRAFFE. 281 Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm, Whicli miglitj nations dread. To rae nor terror brings nor liarm — For I make of tliem my bread. Thus I am lord of tbe Desert Land, And I will not leave my bounds, To crouch beneath the Christian's hand, And kennel with his hounds : To be a hound, and watch the flocks. For the cruel White Man's gain — No ! the brown Serpent of the Kocks His den doth yet retain ; And none who there his sting provokes, Shall find its poison vain! WouLDST thou view the Lion's den? Search afar from haunts of men — Where the reed-encbcled rill Oozes from the rocky hill. By its verdure far descried 'Mid the desert brown and wide. 282 P R I N G L E . Close beside the sedgy brim Coucliaiit lurks tlie Lion grim; Watcbing till tbe close of day Brings the deatb-devoted prey. Heedless, at tbe ambnsbed brink Tbe tall Griraffe stoops down to drink: Upon bim straight tbe savage springs With cruel joy. The desert rings With clanging sound of de>«!perate strife — The prey is strong and be strives for life. Plunging oft with frantic bound, To shake tbe tyrant to tbe ground. He shrieks' — ^be rushes through tbe waste, With glaring eye and headlong haste: In vain! — ^the spoiler on his prize Eides proudly — ^tearing as be flies. For life — the victim's utmost speed Is mustered in tbe hour of need : For life — for life — ^bis 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; tbe thirsty sands are drinking His streaming blood — ^bis strength is sinking ; Tbe victor's fangs are in his veins — His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains— THE HOTTENTOT. 28o His panting breast in foam and gore Is bathed — lie reels — bis race is o'er: He falls — and, with convulsive throe, Eesigns bis tbroat to tbe ravening foe! — And lo! ere quivering life lias fled, The vultures, wheeling overhead, Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array, Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey. Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands. Tending another's flock upon tbe fields, His fathers' once, where now the White Man builds His home, and issues forth his proud commands. His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands Lean on the shepherd's staff; no more he wields The Libyan bow — ^but to th' oppressor yields Submissively his freedom and his lands. Has he no courage? Once he had — ^but, lo! Harsh Servitude hath worn him to the bone. No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow, Have humbled him to dust — even ho'pe is gone ! "He's a base-hearted hound — not worth his food" — His Master cries — "he has no gratitude P I^^gmgii je ig]}idiMl& "Our native Land — our native Yale — A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale, And Cheviot-mountains blue ! "Farewell, ye bills of glorious deeds, And streams renowned in song; Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads Our hearts have loved so long. "Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes. Where thyme and harebells grow; FAREWELL TO TEVIOTDALE. 285 Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe. " The battle-mound, the Border-tower, That Scotia's annals tell; The martyr's grave, the lover's bower — To each — to all — farewell ! " Home of our hearts ! our fathers' home ! Land of the brave and free! The keel is flashing through the foam That bears us far from thee: "We seek a wild and distant shore Beyond the Atlantic main; We leave thee to return no more. Nor view thy cliffs again: "But may dishonor blight our fame, And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name. Green Island of our Sires! "Our native Land — our native Yale — A long, a last adieu! Farewell to Bonny Lynden-dale, And Scotland's mountains blue." 286 P R I N G L E . I FOUND a Kameless Stream among the hills, And traced its course throngli many a changeful scene Now gliding free through grassy uplands green, And stately forests, fed by limpid rills ; Now dashing through dark grottos, where distils The poison dew ; then issuing all serene 'Mong flowery meads where snow-white lilies screen The wild swan's white breast. At length it fills Its deepening channels ; flowing calmly on To join the ocean on his billowy beach. — But that bright bourne its current ne'er shall reach : It meets the thirsty desert, — and is gone To waste oblivion ! let its story teach The fate of one — who sinks, like it, unknown. ROBERT POI.LOK. The author of " The Course of Time" adds one more to the h&it of minds too early quenched by the very ardor of their pursuit of great- ness. He was born at Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, in Ren- frewshire. Destined for the dissenting Presbyterian ministry of Scot- kind, he passed with reputation through his curricuhim of study. But the severity of his apphcation induced consumption, which cut off tlie young poet at the age of twenty-seven ; he died in the south of Enghmd. to which he had been removed for the recovery of his heahh, shortly after his license to the ministry and the publication of his great poem. A.S the production of a youth, "The Course of Time" must rank amoug the most wonderful efforts of genius. The following letter to his brother, announcing its completion, will be read with interest : " Muirhouse, July 7, 182G. " Dear Beothee, — 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 con- siderably more than a hundred every successive day. This, you will see, was extraordinary expedition, to be continued so long ; and I neither can, nor wish to ascribe it to any thing but an extraordinary manifesta- tion of Divine goodness. Although some nights I was on the borders of fever, I rose every morning equally fi-esh, without one twitch of head- ache ; and with all the impatience of a lover, hasted to my study. To- wards the end of the tenth book — ^for the whole consists of ten books — where the subject was overwhelmingly great, and where I, indeed. 288 POLLOK. seemed to write from immediate inspiration, I felt the body beginning to give way. But now tliat I have finished, though thin with the great heat, and tlie ahnost 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 incalculable benefit for mental pursuit. And I am now convinced that summer is the best season for great mental exertion; because the heat promotes the circulation of the blood; the stagnation 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 high- est of them, I proceeded, from day to day, as if I had been in a Avorld in which there Avas 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 exceeded anything that I had con- ceived. This is not boasting, remember. I only say that I have ex- ceeded the degree of excellence which I had formerly thought of." " Pollok w^as tall, well-proportioned, of a dark complexion, " sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set eyes, heavy eyebrows and black bushy hair. A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, which flashed witli a meteor brilliancy whenever he spoke with enthu- siasm and energy." In the woodlands Love is singing, Health salutes the rosy day, Hill and dale with joy are ringing, Eise, my love, and come away ! Winter, with his snowy head, To his icy den has fled ; Frost severe, and tempest high, "With the shivering monarch fly ; Bound in chains, with him they dwell, Far away in horrid cell. And gay Spring, in gown of green, Frisking o'er the lawn is seen — Frisking o'er the lawn and mountain, Bathing in the silver fountain. Singing in the arbor'd shade. And weeping tears of joy on every blade. With her forth the Graces sally, Painting flowers with nature's skill ; Lilies dwelling in the vallej^. Daisies shining on the hill ; 19 290 POLL OK. And the primrose of the glen, Far retired from haunt of men ; And the violet meek and mild, Stooping modest o'er the wild : And a thousand flowers that grow, Where hermit-streams to reed of shepherd flow. Mirth on tiptoe ever dancing, Leaps before the leaf-clad queen ; Joy, with eye seraphic glancing. Tripping close behind is seen. And the goddess kind to thee, Lyda ! comes in sportive glee. Health, the maid forever young, Trips the gamesome group among ; Health, that loves to see the Day Yoke his steeds on eastern way ; Health, with cheek of rosy hue. Bathed in Morning's holy dew. Sighing Zephyr, too, attends, Where her flowery footpath wends ; And from every fanning wing, Dipt in Life's immortal spring — Spring that flows before the throne Of the always-ancient One — Sheds balmy life in viewless shower, Like oil of gladness seen on herb and flower. Hark ! the sons of harmony Sing the dirge of Winter's reign ; Sing a song of jubilee To the Spring returned again. Thrush and black-bird in the grove, Tune their harps to notes of love ; Tune their harps to Zephyr's sigh, And the streamlet murmuring by ; And the simple linnet too, With beak wet in silver dew. From the poplar's lofty pride, To its half-consenting bride 292 P L L K . Sings a song as soft and clear As Ausonia's daughters liear, When the lovesick serenade In their ravished ear is made. Deep in bosom of the wood The stockdove coos in amorous mood ; Warbling high in heaven, hark ! How the silver-throated lark, Hovering on the roseate cloud, Anthems sings so sweet, so loud ! From the dewy hillock's side Joj'ous lists his honest bride. Joyous lists, or flits on high To meet her lover in the sky ; And the cuckoo voice of spring, Surest pledge of sunshine day, Ever fanning with his wing Flora on her lilied way, Sends o'er mountain, vale, and grot. His never-changing, ever-pleasing note. 'Tis morn, my love ! 'tis morn of Spring, O'er the dew the roe is bounding ; Hark ! a thousand voices sing, Hark ! Aurora's horn is sounding ; And the glorious god of Day Starts upon his eastern way, THE DYING MOTHER. 293 And liis golden ringlets fly O'er vale and mountain liigli ; Over steepy rock and hill, Loud cascade and gentle rill, Leafy wood and shining lake. Flowery mead and flowery brake ; Over silent wilderness, Where modest love retires to feel his bliss. In the woodlands love is singing, Healtb salutes the rosy Day ; Hill and dale with joy are ringing, Else, my love, and come away ! J3f£ SSR^a ¥0I»£1^. (from the course of timk.) " Fresh in our memory, as fresb As yesterday, is yet the day she died. It was an April day; and blithely all The youth, of nature leaped beneath, the sun. And promised glorious manhood ; and our hearts Were glad, and round them danced the lightsome blood, In healthy merriment — when tidings came, A child was born ; and tidings came again. 294 POLL OK. That she who gave it birth was sick to death. So swift trod sorrow on the heels of joy ! We gathered round her bed, and bent our knees In fervent supplication to the Throne Of Mercy ; and perfumed our prayers with sighs Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks Of self-abasement ; but we sought to stay An angel on the earth ; a spirit ripe For heaven ; and Mercy, in her love, refused : Most merciful, as oft, when seeming least ! Most gracious when she seemed the most to frown ! The room I well remember ; and the bed On which she lay ; and all the faces too. That crowded dark and mournfully around. Her father there, and mother bending stood, And down their aged cheeks fell many drops Of bitterness ; her husband, too, was there. And brothers ; and they wept — her sisters, too, Did weep and sorrow comfortless ; and I, Too, wept, tho' not to weeping given ; and all Within the house was dolorous and sad. This I remember well ; but better still, I do remember and will ne'er forget The dying eye — that eye alone was bright. And brighter grew, as nearer death approached : As I have seen the gentle little flower Look fairest in the silver beam, which fell Reflected from the thunder cloud that soon TJIE DYING MOTHER. 99- Came down, and o'er the desert scattered far And wide its loveliness. She made a sign To bring her babe — 'twas brought, and bj her placed. She looked upon its face, that neither smiled Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon 't, and laid Her hand upon its little breast, and sought For it, with look that seemed to penetrate The heavens — unutterable blessings — such As God to dying parents only granted. For infants left behind them in the world. " God keep mj child," we heard her say, and heard No more : the Angel of the Covenant Was come, and faithful to his promise stood Prepared to walk with her thro' death's dark vale. And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still. Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused With many tears, and closed without a cloud. They set as sets the morning star, which goes Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides Obscured among the tempests of the sky. But melts away into the light of heaven." 296 POLL OK OxE man there was, and many sncli you might Have met, who never had a dczen thoughts In all his life, and never changed their course ; But told them o'er, each in its customed place. From morn till night, from youth to hoary age. Little above the ox that grazed the field, His reason rose. ■K- -Jf « -Jf « * The word philosophy he never heard Or science ; never heard of liberty, Necessity, or laws of gravitation ; And never had an unbelieving doubt. Beyond his native vale he never looked ; But thought the visual line, that girt him round, The world's extreme ; and thought the silver Moon, That nightly o'er him led her virgin host, No broader than his father's shield. He lived, — Lived where his father lived, died where he died. Lived happy, and died happy, and was saved. Be not surprised. He loved and served his God. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. MoTUEKWELL wfis bom in Glasgow, but, after his eleventh year, was brought up under the care of an uncle in Paisley. At the age of twenty-one he was appointed deputy to the sheriif-clerk of that town. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany entitled the " Harp of Renfrewshire." A taste for antiqua- rian research divided with the muse the empire of MotherwelPs genius, and he attained an unusually familiar acquaintance with the early his- tory of our native literature, particularly in the department of tradi- tional poetry. The result of this erudition appeared in Minstrelsy^ Ancient and Modern (1827), a collection of Scottish ballads, prefaced by a historical introduction. The following year he became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley. The talent and spirit which he evinced in his editorial duties were the means of advancing him to the more important office of conducting the Glasgow Courier^ in which situation he continued till his death. The taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities of Motherwell, rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. As a poet, he was happiest in pathetic or sentimental lyrics. An eloquent writer (Mr. Turnbull) says of him : — " MotherAvell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head was large and finely formed ; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In mixed society he was rather reserved, ' but appeared internally to enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul.' Somewhat pensive in his mood, he lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way to a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailiugs of a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his lofty aspirations after the beautiful and true. mm I mimB im ^&m, us^ imi^ "When" I beneatli the cold, red eartli am sleeping, Life's fever o'er. Will tliere for me be any bright eye weeping, That I'm no more? Will there be any heart still memory keeping Of heretofore? 300 MOTHERWELL. When the great winds, tbrougli leafless forests rushing, Like fall hearts break, When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gnlly gushing, Sad music make; Will there be one whose heart despair is crushing Mourn for my sake? When the bright sun upon that spot is shining With purest ray, And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twdning, Burst through that clay, — Will there be one still on that spot repining Lost hopes all day? When 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? When 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 round? THE MIDNIGHT W IX D OQ| It may be so, — ^but tliis is selfish sorrow To ask sucli meed, — A weakness and a wickedness to borrow, From hearts tliat bleed, The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow Shall never need. Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, Thou gentle heart; And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling. Let no tear start; It were in vain, — for Time hath long been knelling, — Sad one, depart! Mouexfully! 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 moulderino: lie! 302 MOTHERWELL. Mournfully 1 0, mournfully, This midniglit 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 death had made it lone. Mournfully! 0, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell. With its quaint, pensive minstrelsj^, Hope's passionate farewell To the dreamy joys of early years, Ere yet grief's canker fell On the heart's bloom, — aye ! well may tears ! Start at that parting knell! mummw. Bright maiden of Orkney, star of the blue sea! I've swept o'er the waters to gaze upon thee; IVe left spoil and slaughter, I've left a far strand, To sing how I love thee, to kiss thy small hand ! WOOING SONG OF JARL EGTLL SKALLAGRIM. 3Q3 Fair daughter of Einar, golden-haired maid! The lord of yon brown bark, and lord of this blade, — The jo J of the ocean, of warfare and wind, — Hath borne 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 Yikingir who kisses thy hand; It is a Yikingir that bends his proud knee. And swears by G-reat 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 he 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, 'T is a Yikingir asks thee, Land-maiden, to w^ed! 304 M T H E R WE L L . He skills not to woo tliee, in trembling and fear, Thougli lords of the land may tlius troop witli the deer. The cradle he rocked in so sound and so long, llath framed him a heart and a hand that are strong : He comes then as Jarl should, sword belted to side, To win thee and wear thee with glory 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 truce 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 underground. Through sounds that appall and through sights that con- found, I sought the Weird women within their dark cell, And made them surrender futurity's spell; I made them run 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 shadows. WOOING SONG OF JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIM. 305 They waxed and tliey 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 I'* Fair daughter of Einar, I've sung the dark lay That the Weird sisters runed, and which thou must obe}^ 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 fall 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: 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 proud maiden. Away and aw^ay then, I have thy small hand ; Joy with me, — our tall bark now bears toward the strand ; 1 call it; the Kaven, 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 trulj^, my noble-souled maid. The ransom of kings can be w^on by this blade. So bravely Jarl Egill did soothe the j)ale trembler. 20 306 M T II E R W ELL. Aye, gaze on liis large liilt, one wedge of red gold ; But doat on its blade, gilt witli blood of the bold. The hilt is right seemly, but nobler the blade. That swart Yelint's hammer with cunning spells made ; I call it tlie Adder, death lurks in its bite, TJirough bone and proof-harness it scatters 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. nil. Life! what is thy quest? — What owns this world Of stalking shadows, fleeting phantasies. Enjoyments substanceless — to wed the mind To its still querulous, ever-faltering mate — To crib the pinion of the aspiring soul (Upborne ever by the mystical) To a poor nook of this sin-stricken earth, Of sterile point of time ? — the Universe, My Spirit, is thy birth-right — and thy term Of occupance, thou river, limitless — Eternity 1 Jif£ aiiSJ£fi] I3f£ iiiSISi]! The Water ! the water ! The joyous brook for me, That tuneth through the quiet night Its ever-living glee. The Water ! the Water ! That sleepless, merry heart, Which gurgles on unstintedly And loveth to impart 308 MOTHERWELL. To all around it some small measure Of its own most perfect pleasure. Tlie Water ! the Water ! The gentle stream for me, That gushes from the old gray stone, Beside the alder-tree. The Water ! the Water ! That ever-bubbling spring I loved and looked on when a child, In deepest wondering, — • And asked it whence it came and went, And when its treasures would be spent. The Water ! the Water ! The merrj, wanton brook. That bent itself to pleasure me. Like mine old shepherd crook. The Water ! the Water ! That sang so sweet at noon. And sweeter still at night, to win Smiles from the pale, proud moon, And from the little fairy faces That gleam in heaven's remotest places. The Water ! the Water ! The dear and blessed thing. That all day fed the little flowers On its banks blossomins:. THE WATER! THE WATER! gQC) The Water ! the Water ! That murmured in mj ear Hjmns of a saint-like purity, That angels well might hear ; And whisper in the gates of heaven, How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. The Water ! the Water ! Where I have shed salt tears, In loneliness and friendliuess, A thing of tender years. The Water ! the Water ! Where I have happy been. And showered upon its bosom flowers Called from eaph. meadow green, And idly hoped my life would be So crowned by love's idolatry. The Water ! the Water ! My heart yet burns to think How cool thy fountain sparkled forth, For parched lip to drink. The Water ! the Water ! Of mine own native glen ; The gladsome tongue I oft have heard. But ne'er shall hear again ; Though fancy fills my ear for aye With sounds that live so far awav ! 310 MOTHERWELL. The Water ! the Water ! The mild and glassy wave, Upon whose broom j banks I've longed To find mj silent grave. The Water ! the Water ! O, blest to me thou art ! ThiLS sounding in life's solitude, The music of my heart, And filling it, despite of sadness, With dreamings of departed gladness. The Water ! the Water ! The mournful, pensive tone, That whispered to my heart how soon This weary life was done. The Water ! the Water ! That rolled so bright and free. And bade me mark how beautiful Was its soul's purity ; And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As, wandering on, it sought its grave. JEANIE MORKISON. gH 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. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thoochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path. And blind my e'en wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine. As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither wee], 'Twas then we twa did part ; Sweet time, — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 312 MOTHERWELL. 'Twas tlien we sat on ae laio'li bink To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were slied, Remembered evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften jet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae bulk on our knee. Thy lips were on thj lesson, but My lesson w^as in thee. 0, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said, We decked thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, — The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O' scule-time and o' thee. mornin' life ! mornin' luve ! lichtsome days and lang, JEANIE MORRISON. 313 When hmnied 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 burnside, 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 whusslit 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 Wi' 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 were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, — ^unsung ! 314 MOTHERWELL. I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest tliochts, As ye hae been to me ? 0, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine I O, 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 luve o' life's young day. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The 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 ! BOBERT aiLFILLAN. n98— isse). EoBEET GiLFiLLAN was bom in Dunfermline, in Fifeshire. His pa- rents were in a humble rank of life, bis fatber being a small manufac- turer. His mother was a woman of strong sense and high intellectual endowments. At the age of thirteen, he was bound as an apprentice in Leith to the trade of a cooper, at which he served the usual term of seven years. On the expiry of that period, he relinquished his trade, which it seems he never liked, and was for three years in a grocery store in Dunfermline. He subsequently went to Edinburgh, where he procured employment in mercantile life, and had opportunities of pur- suing his studies under favorable circumstances. He seems to have re- sided in Edinburgh till his death, and the years spent there he ever characterized as the happiest of his existence. He attempted song writing when a mere boy, before he had removed from his native town, and while his spirits were yet fresh and buoyant. Gilfillan's biographer says of him : " He fills a place in Scottish poetry altogether distinct and different from any of the acknowledged masters of Scottish song. He is cer- tainly not so universal as Burns, nor so broad and graphic a delineator of Scottish manners as Eamsay or Hogg, nor is he so keenly alive to the beauties of external nature as Robert Tannahill ; but in his own peculiar walk, that of home and the domestic affections, he has shown a com- mand 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 prede- cessors, with the exception only of Burns himself." i»i jfS£?bj says 0' i)0biiif. O ! THE happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky ; An' whanr shall we shelter frae its storm when they blaw, When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa' ? They said that wisdom came wi' manhood's riper years, But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears : O ! I'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine, For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne. 318 GILFILLAN. I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn, For tlie blithe happy days that never can return ; When jo J was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue, An* mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young. O ! 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. ! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain, There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain ; Sae farewell happy days, an' farewell youthfu' glee. The young may court your smiles, but ye're gane frae me. Oh ! why left I my hame ? Why did I cross the deep ? Oh ! why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep ? 1 sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea. But I canna get a blink 0' my ain countrie. OH! WHY LEFT I MY II A ME? 319 The palm-tree waveth Mgli, And fair the myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings ; Bat I dinna see the broom, Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang 0' my ain countrie. Oh ! here, no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn ; Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn ; For the tyrant's voice is here. And the wail of slavery ; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie. There's a hope for every woe. And a balm for every pain, But the first joys of 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 countrie. 320 GILFILLAN ] mu IS lifis mvm, w us ! 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 bestow. There's monj a wee biggin', in forest and glen, Wi' its clean sandit floor, an' its but and its hen. Where there's mair o' that peace which contentment aye brings, Than is found in the palace o' princts 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, ! 'tis na sma', A heart fa' 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. 0! THIS WERE A BRIGHT WORLD, 321 Wha e'er climbs the mountain maun aje risk a fa', While he that is lowlj is safe fi*ae it a'. The flower blooms unscath'd in the valley sae deep, While the storm rends the aik on its high rocky 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 ! ! THIS were a bright world, — Most pleasant and gay, Did love never languish, Xor friendship decay ; And pure rays of feeling, That gladden the heart — Like sunshine to nature — Did never depart ! To fair eyes no weeping. To fond hearts no pain ; — Did hope's buds all blossom — All blooming remain ! 21 322 GILFILLAN. No sorrow to bligTiten, No care to destroy ; O ! then what a bright world Of gladness and joy ! Did time never alter, Nor distance remove, The friends that we cherish — The fond ones we love — A sky never clouded,- Nor darkened bj woe — ! then how serenely Life's streamlet would flow I Were pleasure less fleeting. Nor brought in its train The mem'ry of joys fled, That come not again — I then what a bright world- All gladsome and gay — Did love never languish. Nor friendship decay. THE AUTUMN WINDS ARE BLAWING. 323 The autumn winds are Hawing, red leaves are fa'ing, An' nature is mourning tlie simmer's decay; The wee birdies singing, tlie wee flowerets springing, Hae tint a' their sangs, an' withered away ! I, too, am mourning, for death has nae returning, Where are my bairnies, the young an' the gay? Why 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 cauld in the clay! nka night brings sorrow, grief comes ilk morrow — Should gowden locks fade before the auld an' grey ? 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 ; 324 GILFILLAN What now Avere pleasure, wi' a' the warld's treasure ? My heart's in the grave where mj 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 — "Happy is that land that knows no decay!" Oh ! weel I mind the days, by our ain burn side, "When we clam the sunny braes, by our ain burn side, When flowers were blooming fair, And we wandered free o' care, For happy hearts were there, by our ain burn side ! Oh ! blithe was ilka sang, by our ain burn side, Kor langest day seemed lang, by our ain burn side When we decked our woodland queen In the rashy chaplet green, And gay she looked, I ween, by our ain burn side. But the bloom hath left the flower, by our ain burn side, And gath'ring tempest low'r, by our ain burn side. OUR AIN BURN SIDE. 325 The woods — no longer green — Brave the wintry blasts sae keen, And their withered leaves are seen by our ain burn side. And the little band is gane frae our ain burn side, To meet, ah 1 ne'er again, by our ain burn side, And the winter of the year Suits the heart both lone and sere, For the happy ne'er appear by our ain burn side I 326 ' GILFILLAN The Minstrel sleeps ! — ^the cliarm is o'er, The bowl beside tbe fount is broken, And we shall hear that Harp no more, "Whose tone to every land hath spoken ! The Minstrel sleeps ! — and common clay Claims what is only common now ; His eye hath lost its kindling ray, And darkness sits upon his brow I The Minstrel sleeps !■ — the spell is past, His spirit its last flight hath taken ; The magic wand is broke at last, Whose touch all things to life could waken! The Minstrel sleeps ! — the glory's fled, The soul's returned back to the Giver, And all that e'er could die is dead, Of him whose name shall live forever ! ALEXANDER BETHUNE. Alexaxdee Bethtjxe, one of the most remarkable instances of genius strug-gling with poverty, was born in Letham, Fifeshire. He had but limited opportunities for mental improvement, having been but a few weeks at school, but his mother taught him at home to read, and his father gave him some lessons in writing and arithmetic. His boyish days and early manhood were spent in toiling for a sub- sistence and struggling with the most abject poverty. While employed in breaking stones on the road in 1835, he addressed himself to the Messrs. Chambers at Edinburgh, the ever-active patrons of youthful genius, in a most characteristic and clever letter, in which he explained his humble circumstances, and his desu-e to send some of his articles for inspection, with a view to their insertion in the "Edinburgh Jour- nal." These gentlemen sent a kind reply, and the result was, that shortly afterwards several articles from Bethune's pen appeared in the columns of that popular periodical. Thus began his literary career, lie wrote a volume of beautiful sketches, illustrative of Scottish life and manners, entitled " Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry." His days were spent in manual labor, and his nights in the composition of these stories and other literary efforts. On the death of his brother John, he prepared his memoir and edited his poems, which were pub- lished by subscription. His intense application and prolonged efforts no doubt hastened his end. He died in his thirty-ninth year, on the 13th Junp, 1843. After seclusion sad, and sad restraint, Again tlae welcome breeze comes wafted far Across the cooling bosom of tlie lake, To fan mj weary limbs and feverish brow, Where yet the pulse beats audible and quick — And I could number every passing throb, Without the pressure which physicians use, As easily as I could count the chimes By which the clock sums up the flight of time. Yet it is pleasing, from the bed of sickness, And from the dingy cottage, to escape For a short time to breathe the breath of heaven, And ruminate abroad with less of pain. Let those who never pressed the thorny pillow, To which disease oft ties its victim down For days and weeks of wakeful suffering — Who never knew to turn or be turned From side to side, and seek, and seek, in vain For ease and a short season of repose — Who never tried to circumvent a moan, And tame the spirit with a tyrant's sway, 330 B E T H U N E . To bear what must be borne and not complain — Who never strove to wring from the writhed lip And rigid brow, the semblance of a smile, To cheer a friend in sorrow sitting by, Nor felt that time, in happy days so fleet. Drags heavily along when dogged by pain. Let those talk well of Nature's beauteous face. And her sublimer scenes; her rocks and mountains; Her clustered hills and winding valleys deep ; Her lakes, her rivers, and her oceans vast. In all the pomp of modern sentiment; But still they cannot feel with half the force, Which the pale invalid, imprisoned long. Experiences upon his first escape To the green fields and the wide world abroad: Beauty is beauty — freshness, freshness, then; And feeling is a something to be felt — ■ Not fancied — as is frequently the case. These feelings lend an impulse now, and Hope Again would soar upon the wings of health: Yet is it early to indulge his flight, When death, short while ago seemed hovering near: And the next hour perhaps may bring him back, And bring me to that 'bourne' where I shall sleep — Not like the traveller, though he sleep well. Not like the artisan, or humble hind, Or the day -laborer worn out with his toil, Who pass the night, scarce conscious of its passing, Till morning with his balmy breath return. MUSINGS OF CONVALESCENCE. 33^ And tlie slirill cock-croAv warns tliem from their bed — That sleep shall be more lasting and more dreamless, Than aught which living men on earth may know. "Well, be it so : methinks my life, though short, Hath taught me that this sublunary world Is something else than Fancy wont to paint it — A world of many cares and anxious thoughts, Pains, sufferings, abstinence, and endless toil. From which it were small penance to be gone. Yet there are feelings in the heart of youth, Howe'er depressed by poverty or pain. Which loathe the oblivious grave ; and I would live. If it were only but to be convinced That 'all is vanity beneath the sun.' — Yes: while these hands can earn what nature asks, Or lessen, by one bitter drop, the cup Of woe, which some must drink even to its dregs. Or have it in their power to hold a crust To the pale lip of famished Indigence, I would not murmur or repine though care, The toil-worn, frame-tired arm, and heavy foot. Should be my portion in this pilgrimage. But when this ceases let me also cease. If such maA^ be thy will. O God of heaven! Thou knoA^est all the weakness of my heart, And it is such, I would not be a beggar JSTor ask an alms from Charity's cold hand: I would not buy existence at the price "Which the poor mendicant must stoop to pay. ^ mejjjgVB joajs Unlike all otlier tilings earth knows, (All else may fail or change,) The love in a Mother's heart that glows, Nought earthly can estrange. Concentrated and strong, and bright, A vestal flame it glows With pure, self-sacrificing light. Which no cold shadow knows. All that by mortal can be done, A Mother ventures for her son : If marked by Avorth or merit high. Her bosom beats with ecstasy ; And though he own nor worth nor charm, To him her faithful heart is warm. A MOTHER'S LOVE. Thougli wayward passions round liim close, And fame and fortune prove his foes; Through, every change of good and ill, Unchanged, a mother loves him still. Even love itself, than life more dear, — Its interchange of hope and fear ; Its feeling oft a-kin to madness; Its fevered joys, and anguish-sadness ; Its melting moods of tenderness. And fancied wrongs, and fond redress, Hath nought to form so strong a tie As her deep sympathies supply. And when those kindred chords are broken "Which twine around the heart; When friends their farewell word have spoken, And to the grave depart; When parents, brothers, husband, die, And desolation only At every step meets her dim eye, Inspiring visions lonely, — Love's last and strongest root below, Which widowed mothers only know, Watered by each successive grief. Puts forth a fresher, greener leaf: Divided streams unite in one. And deepen round her only son ; And when her early friends are gone, - She lives and breathes in him alone." 334- B E T H U N E 0i( fis noi^EWB aisjif When" evening's lengthened shadows fall On cottage roof and princelj hall, Then brothers with their brothers meet, And kindred hearts each other greet. And children wildly, gladly press. To share a father's fond caress: But home to me no more can bring Those scenes which are life's sweetening. No friendly heart remains for me, Like star to gild life's stormy sea. No brother, whose affection warm The gloomy passing hours might charm. Bereft of all who once were dear. Whose words or looks were wont to cheer; Parent, and friend, and brother gone, I stand upon the earth alone. HOBEHT NICOLL. RoBEKT XicoLL was bom in the farm house of Little Tulliebeltaiie, in the parish of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire. His father was at that time a farmer in comfortable circumstances, but shortly after the poet's birth, lost all his property through the dishonesty of a relative for whom he had become security, Eobert was, therefore, brought up in the most humble circumstances, and inured to labor from his earliest years. But we cannot do better than present the following eloquent sketch from the North British Eeview : " Perhaps the young peasant who most expressly stands out as the pupil and successor of Burns, is Eobert Kicoll. He is a lesser poet, doubtless, than his master, and a lesser man, if the size and number of his capabilities be looked at ; but he is a greater man, in that, from the beginning to the end of his career, he seems to have kept that very wholeness of heart and head which poor Burns lost. N"icoirs story is, mutatis mutandis^ that of the Bethunes, and many a noble young Scots- man more. Parents holding a farm between Perth and Dunkeld, they and theirs before them for generations inhabitants of the neighborhood, " decent, honest. God-fearing people." The farm is lost by reverses, and manfully Eobert Nicoll's father becomes a day-laborer on the fields which he lately rented ; and there begins, for the boy, from his earliest recollections, a life of steady, sturdy drudgery. But they must have been grand old folk these parents, and in nowise addicted to wringing their hands over " the great might-have-been." Like true Scots Bible- lovers, they do believe in a God, and in a will of God, underlying, abso- lute, lovinsr, and believe that the mio-ht-have-been ous-lit not to have 336 NICOLL. been ; and so they put their shoulders to the new collar patiently, cheerfully, hopefully, and teach the boys to do the same. The mother especially, like so many great men's mothers do, stands out large and heroic, from the time when, the farm being gone, she, " the ardent book woman," finds her time too precious to be spent in reading, and sets little Kobert to read to her as she works — what a picture ! — to the last sad day, when, wanting money to come up to Leeds to see her dying darling, she " shore for the siller," rather than borrow it. And her son's life is like her own — the most pure, joyous, valiant little epic. Robert does not even take to work as something beyond himself, unin- teresting and painful, which, however must be done courageously : he lives in it, enjoys it as his proper element, one which is no more a bur- den to him than the rush of the strid is to the trout, who plays and feeds in it day and night, unconscious of the amount of muscular strength which he puts forth in merely keeping his place in the stream. Whether carrying Kenilworth in his plaid to the woods, to read wliile herding, or acting as the Perth storekeeper's apprentice, or keeping his little circulating library in Dundee, tormenting his pure heart witli the thought of the twenty pounds which his mother has borrowed wherewith to start him, or editing the Leeds Times^ or lying on his earl v death bed, just as life seems to be opening clear and broad before him, he " Bates not a jot of heart or hope," but steers right onward, singing over his work, without bluster, or self- gratuiation, but for very joy at having work to do." Thy smile of beauty, star ! Brings gladness on tlie gloomy face of night— Thou comest from afar, Pale mj^stery ! so lonely and so bright, A thing of dreams — a vision from on high — A virgin spirit — flight — a type of purity ! Star ! nightly wanderest thou Companionless along thy flir, cold way : — From time's first breath till now, On thou hast flitted like an ether fay ! Where is the land from whence thou first arose ; And where the place of light to which thy pathway g- -/-es 1 Pale dawn's first messenger ! Thou prophet-sign of brightness yet to be ! Thou tellest earth and air Of light and glory following after thee ; Of smiling day 'mong wild gTeen woodlands sleeping ; And God's own sun, o'er all, its tears of brightness weep- ing ! 22 N I C L L . Sky sentinel ! when first The nomade patriarch saw thee from his hill Upon his vision burst, Thou wast as pure and fair as thou art still ; And changeless thou hast looked on race, and name. And nation, lost since then — ^but thou art yet the same ! Mght's youngest child ! fair gem ! The hoar astrologer o'er thee would cast His glance, and thy namo His OAvn would join ; then tremble when thou wast In darkness ; and rejoice when, like a bride. Thou blush'd to earth — and thus the dreamer dreamed and died ! Pure star of morning love I The daisy of the sky's blue plain art thou ; And thoughts of youth are wove Eound thee, as round the flowers that freshly blow In bushy dells, where thrush and blackbird sing — Flower-star, the dreams of youth and heaven thou back dost bring ! Star of the morn ! for thee The watcher by affection's couch doth wait ; 'Tis thine the bliss to see Of lovers fond who 'mid the broom have met ; Into the student's home thine eye doth beam ; Thou listenest to the words of many a troubled dream ! THE MORNING STAR. 339 Lone thing ! — jet not more lone Than many a heart which gazeth upon thee, With hopes all fled and gone — ■ Which loves not now, nor seeks beloved to be. Lone, lone thou art — ^but we are lonelier far, When blighted by deceit the heart's affections are ! Mysterious morning star ! Bright dweller in a gorgeous dreamy home, Than others nobler far — • Thou art like some free soul, which here hath come Alone, but glorious, pure, and disenthrall'd — A spark of mind, which God through earth to heaven hath call'd ! Pure maiden star ! shine on. That dreams of beauty may be dreamed of thee ! A home art thou — a throne- — A land where fancy ever roameth free — A God-sent messenger — a light afar — A blessed beam — a smile — a gem — ^the morning star ! 340 XI COLL. Sleep on, sleep on, je resting dead ; The grass is o'er ye growing In dewy greenness. Ever fled From joii liatli care ; and, in its stead. Peace liatb. with yon its dwelling made. Where tears do cease from flowing. Sleep on ! Sleep on, sleep on : ye do not feel Life's ever-burning fever — Nor scorn that sears, nor pains that steel. And blanch the loving heart, until 'Tis like the bed of mountain-rill "Which waves have left forever ! Sleep on ! Sleep on, sleep on : your couch is made Upon your mother's bosom ; Yea, and your peaceful lonely bed Is all with sweet Avild-flowers inlaid : THE PEOPLE'S AX THEM. ^^^ And over each earth-pillowed head The hand of Nature strews them. Sleep on ! Sleep on, sleep on : I would I were At rest within your dwelling, — Xo more to feel, no more to bear The world's falsehood and its care — The arrows it doth never spare On him whose feet are failing. Sleep on ! LoED, from thy blessed throne, Sorrow look down upon ! God save the poor ! Teach them true liberty — > Make them from tyi^ants free — Let their homes happy be ! God save the poor ! The arms of wicked men Do Thou with might restrain — God save the poor 1 342 N I C L L . Kaise Thou their lowliness — • Succor Thou their distress — Thou whom the meanest bless ! Grod save the poor ! Give them stanch honesty — Let their pride manly be — God save the poor ! Help them to hold the right ; Give them both truth and might, Lord of all life and light ! God save the poor ! The songs of nature, holiest, best are they ! The sad winds sighing through the leafy trees — The lone lake's murmurs to the mountain breeze — The stream's soft whispers, as they fondly stray Through dingles wild and over flowery leas. Are sweetly holy ; but the purest hymn — A melody like some old prophet-lay — Is thine, poured forth from hedge and thicket dim- Linnet ! wild Linnet ! THE LI X NET. 343 The poor, tlie scorned and lowlj, forth may go Into the TTOods and dells, where leaves are green, And 'mong the breathing forest flowers may lean ; And hear thy music wandering to and fro, Like sunshine glancing o'er the summer scene. Thou poor man's songster ! — ^neither wealth nor power Can match the sweetness thou around dost throw ! ! bless thee for the joy of many an hour — Linnet ! wild Linnet ! In sombre forest, gTay and melancholy, Yet sweet withal, and full of love and peace, And 'mid the furze wrapp'd in a golden fleece Of blossoms, and in hedgerows green and lowly ; On thymy banks, where wild-bees never cease Their murmur-song, thou hast thy home of love. Like some lone hermit, far from sin and folly, 'Tis thine through forest fragrances to rove — Linnet ! wild Linnet ! Some humble heart is sore and sick with grief, And straight thou comest Avith thy gentle song To wile the sufferer from his hate or wrong. By bringing Nature's love to his relief. Thou charmesi by the sick child's window long, Till cracldng pain itself be wooed to sleep ; 344 NICOLL And wlien awaj have vanislied flower and leaf, Thy lonely wailing voice for them doth weep — Linnet ! wild Linnet ! God saw how much of woe, and grief, and care, Man's faults and follies on the earth would make ; And thee, sweet singer, for his creature's sake He sent to warble wildly everywhere. And by thy voice our souls of love to wake. ! blessed wandering spirit ! tmto thee Pure hearts are knit, as unto things too fair, And good and beautiful of earth to be — Linnet ! wild Linnet LIFE'S PTLGRIJMAGE. 345 Infant ! I envy tliee Tbj serapli smile — tliy soul, without a stain, Angels around tliee hover in thy glee A look of love to gain ! Thy paradise is made Upon thy mother's bosom, and her voice Is music rich as that by spirits shed When blessed things rejoice ! Bright are the opening flowers — Ay, bright as thee, sweet babe, and innocent, They bud and bloom ; and straight their infant hours, Like thine, are done and spent ! Boy ! infancy is o'er ! Go with thy playmates to the grassy lea, Let thy bright eye with yon far laverock soar, And blithe and happy be ! 346 NICOLL. Go, crow thj cuckoo notes Till all the greenwood alleys loud are ringing — Go, listen to tlie thousand tuneful throats That 'mong the leaves are singing ! I would not sadden thee, Nor wash the rose upon thy cheeks with tears : Go, while thine eye is bright — ^unbent thy knee- Forget all cares and fears ! Youth ! is thy boyhood gone ? — ■ The fever hour of life at length has come, And passion sits in reason's golden throne, While sorrow's voice is dumb ! Be glad ! it is thy hour Of love ungrudging — faith without reserve — And from the right, 111 hath not yet the power To make thy footsteps swerve ! Now is thy time to know How much of trusting goodness lives on earth ; And rich in pure sincerity to go Eejoicing in thy birth ! Youth's sunshine unto thee — Love first and dearest, has unveil'd her face. And thou hast sat beneath the trysting tree. In love's first fond embrace ! LIFE'S PILGRIMAGE. 347 Enjoy thy happy dream, For life liath not another such to give ; The stream is flowing — ^love's enchanted stream , Live, happy dreamer, hve ! Though sorrow dwelleth here, And falsehood, and impurity, and sin, The light of love, the gloom of earth to cheer, Come sweetly, sweetly in ! 'Tis o'er — ^thou art a Man ! — The struggle and the tempest doth begin Where he who faints must fail — ^he fight Avho can A victory to win ! Say, toilest thou for gold ? Will all that earth can give of drossy hues Compensate for that land of love foretold. Which Mammon makes thee lose ? Or waitest thou for power ? A proud ambition, trifler, doth thee raise ! To be the gilded bauble of the hour That fools may wondering gaze ! But wouldst thou be a man — A lofty, noble, uncorrupted thing. Beneath whose eye the false might tremble wan, The good with gladness sing ? 348 NICOLL. Go, cleanse thy heart, and fill Thy soul with love and goodness ; let it be Like yonder lake^ so holy, calm, and still, And fall of purity ! This is thy task on earth — This is tli}^ eager manhood's proudest goal ; — • To cast all meanness and world- worship forth— And thus exalt the soul ! •Tis manhood makes tke man A kigh-soul'd freeman or a fetter'd slave, The mind a temple fit for God to span, Or a dark dungeon-grave ! God dotk not man despise, He gives liim soul — mind — heart — tliat living flame ; Nurse it, and upwards let it brightly rise To heaven, from whence it came ! Go hence, go lience, and make Thy spirit pure as morning, light and free ! The pilgrim slirine is won, and I awake — Come to the woods with me ! DEATH. 349 The dew is on the summer's greenest grass, Throngti wMcli the modest dais)^ blushing peeps ; The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass, A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps ; But I who love them all shall never be Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea ! The sun shines sweetly — sweeter may it shine — Bless'd is the brightness of a summer day ; It cheers lone hearts ; and why should I repine, Although among green fields I cannot stray ? Woods ! I have grown, since last I heard you wave, Familiar with death, and neighbor to the grave ! These words have shaken mighty human souls — Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound — E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls The ivied remnants of old ruins round. Yet wherefore tremble ? Can the soul decay ? — Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade away ? * This poem is imagined to be the last, or among tlie very last of NicoU's compositions. 350 NICOLL. Are there not aspirations in eacli heart, After a better, brighter world than this ? Longings for beings nobler in each part — Things more exalted — steeped in deeper bliss ? Who gave us these ? What are thej ? Soul ! in thee The bnd is budding now for immortality ! Death comes to take me where I long to be ; One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower ; Death comes to lead me from mortality, To lands which know not one unhappj' hour : — I have a hope — a faith ; — ^from sorrow here I'm led by death awa}^ — ^why should I start and fear ! If I have loved the forest and the field, Can I not love them deeper, better, there ? If all that power hath made, to me doth yield Something of good and beauty — something fair — Freed from the grossness of mortality. May I not love them all, and better all enjoj^ ? A change from woe to joy — from earth to heaven. Death gives me this — it leads me calmly where The souls that long ago from mine were riven May meet again ! Death answers many a prayer. Bright day ! shine on — ^be glad : — Days brighter far Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortal are ! DEATH. 351 I would be laid among tlie wildest flowers, I would be laid where bappy hearts can come : — The worthless clay I heed not ; but in hours Of gushing noontide joy, it may be some Will dwell upon my name ; and I will be A happy spirit there, affection's look to see. Death is upon me, yet I fear not now ; — Open my chamber-window — let me look Upon the silent vales — ^the sunny glow That fills each alley, close, and copsewood nook : — I know them — love them — ^mourn not them to leave, Existence and its change my spirit cannot grieve ! 352 NICOLL. will 1. B S01( 1I£J. Blind, glorious, aged martyr, saint, and sage ! The poet's mission God reveal'd to thee. To lift men's sonls to Him — ^to make them free ; — With tyranny and grossness war to wage — A worshipper of truth and love to be — To reckon all things nought but these alone ; — To nought but mind and truth to bow the knee — To make the soul a love-3xalted throne ! Man of the noble spirit ! — Milton, thou All this didst do ! A living type thou wert Of what the soul of man to be may grow — The pure j)erfection of the love-fraught heart ! Milton ! from God's right hand, look down and see For these, how men adore and honor thee ! DAVID MACBETH MOIR. n98— 185i Dr. Mom was a native of Musselburgh, a toAvn near Edinburgh. His poems over the signature of Delta in Blackwood's Magazine, to which he was a frequent contributor from its commencement, were eagerly read and extensively copied into the journals of both England and America. He was also the author of the "Autobiography of Mansie Waugh," a book of much genuine humor. It was originally published in a series of papers in the columns of Blackwood. His " Casa Wappy" is one of the most touching and tender effusions in the English language. He died in his native town, lamented by a large circle of friends and admirers. The late Lord Jeffrey, in writing to Moir, said of his "Domestic Verses" : — " 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, lettering emotions which you have excited. I am sure that what 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 recommendations indifferent." -ix ^^-'^' fitNBJ Se£l(£f^l) Receded hills afar of softened blue, Tall bowering trees, tbrougli wliich. the sunbeams slioot Down ta the waveless lake, birds ever mute. And wild flowers all around of every hue — Sure 'tis a lovely scene. There, knee-deep stand. Safe from the fierce sun, the overshadowed kine, And, to the left, where cultivated fields expand, 'Mkl tufts of scented thorn the sheep recline, Lone quiet farmsteads, haunts that ever please ; O how inviting to the traveller's eye 356 MOiR. 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 ease. 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 death, 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 unfathomed agony, Casa Wappy ! 1 Casa Wappy was the self-conferred pet-name of an infant son of the poet, snatched away after a very brief illness. CASAWAPPY. 357 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 ! Thy 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 child! Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; Yet had we hope that time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy! 358 ^^i<^i'^- Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st mj sight; There dost thou glide before me still — A form of light! I feel thy breath upon my check — I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — Till, oh I my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy! Methinks thou smil'st before me now, With glance of stealth; The hair thrown back from thy fall 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! The nursery shows thy pictured wall. Thy bat, thy bow. Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; But where art thou? A corner holds thine empty chair, Thy playthings idly scattered there. But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy ! CAS A WAPPY. 359 Even to tlie last thy every word — To glad, to grieve' — • "Was sweet as sweetest song of bird On summer's eve; In outward beauty undecayed, Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, And like the rainbow thou didst fade, Casa Wappy! We mourn for thee when blind blank night The chamber fills; We pine for thee Avhen morn's first light Eeddens the hills: The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, All, to the wall-flower and wild-pea. Are changed — we saw the world through thee, Casa Wappy ! And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth. It doth not own, whate'er may seem, An inward birth: We miss thy small step on the stair; We miss thee at thine evening prayer! All day we miss thee, everywhere, Casa Wappy ! 360 ^^^^ Snows muffled eartli when thou didst go, In life's spring bloom, ^ Down to the appointed house below, The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo and the "busy bee," Eeturn — but witb tbem bring not thee, Casa Wappy ! 'Tis so; but can it be (wbile flowers Revive again) — Man'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. Yet God forget our child to save? — Casa Wappy! It cannot be : for were it so Thus man could die, Life were a mockery, Thought were woe, And Truth a lie; Heaven were a coinage of the brain, Religion frenzy, Virtue vain, And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy! CASA WAPPY. 361 Then be to us, dear, lost cliild! Witli 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 lead thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy! Yes, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy. That heaven is Grod's, and thou art there, With Him in joy: There past are death and all its woes, There beauty's stream forever flows. And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy! 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 howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy ' 862 MoiR Bound thee, pure Moon, a ring of silvery clouds Hover, like cliildren round their mother dear In silence and in joy, forever near The footsteps of her love. Within their shrouds, Lonely, the slumbering dead encompass me! Thy silvery 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; Tranquilly, tranquilly the departed lie! — Time is an ocean, and mankind the waves That reach the dim shore of eternity; Death strikes; and Silence, 'mid the evening gloom, Sits spectre-like the guardian of the tomb I KEV. THOMAS B )SS, LL.E>. The following is extracted from a manusci'ipt translation of Ossian's Poems by Uie late Dr. Eoss, of Loclibroom, Ross-sliire, Scotland. The man- uscripts are now in possession of liis son-in-law, tlie Eev. Mr. Tliomson, of New York. Dr. Ross was regarded as the most accomplished Gaelic scholar of his day ; his translation of the Psalms of David into the Gaelic language, is now the one in general use in the churches in the Highlands of Scotland. It is not now needful to revive the old controversy respecting the Ossianic poems. That Ossian as a poet, and that Pingal? as one of his chief heroes, were "known in Scotland centuries before M'Pherson's birth, may be learned from Barbour and others of the ancient Scottish bards whose works are still extant, and that the songs of the bard should be transmitted from generation to generation, even though unwritten, is no greater wonder than that the Iliad or Odys- sey should have passed from sire to son during the four hundred years that elapsed from their first utterancs by the poet to their col- lection in their present form. Kor was M'Pherson's the first attempt to collect the poems of the immortal bard. Previous to the year 1760, Rev. John Farquharson, of Strathglati, had collected, during a residence of thirty years in that district, cc mpositions in the Gaelic language suflScient to fill a large folio three in ^hes thick. Having re- moved from Strathglass to Douay, he carried his collection with him, and while there, the first edition of M'Pherson'3 translation was pub- lished in England. Farquharson obtained a copy of the translation, and spent much of his time in comparing it with the original collection by himself. There exists no probability that M'Phi ^son ever met Farqu- 364 ROSS. harson, or that the collection of the latter was known to or seen by the former ; and yet when Farquharson compared MTherson's translation with the original in his own possession, he was never heard to im- pugn the accuracy or fidelity of the translation, although he often declared that the translation fell far short of the spirit and strength of the original. Changed as is the state of the Scottish highlands from what it was a century ago, it Avould be easy for one acquainted with the Gaelic language to collect and then translate detached poems of a very ancient caste, not inferior to any which have been already given to the public. This may seem strange to those pos- sessed of a written language and literature, and who have not consid- ered the power of memory where an active and earnest mind has no such possession, or where, though it may exist, from lack of early in- struction it cannot be enjoyed. In the highlands of Scotland, one may meet with men and women who have no English, and who cannot read the Gaelic, who are yet so thoroughly acquainted with the Holy Scrip- tures as to be able to give chapter and verse for any passage quoted, and to correct the slightest error made in quotation. Nothing to them is more distasteful than to hear misquotations, or to meet with a minis- ter who cannot quote with accuracy and readiness. It is surprising that while the translation of Ossian by M'Pherson, de- fective as it is proved to be, should have been itself translated into the different languages of continental Europe, and has been hailed as a work of highest merit, and entitled to the greatest praise, doubts should still linger in the minds of Britons, both as to the existence of Ossian the bard, and the honor and honesty of the translator. Dr. Eoss, was requested by the Highland Society of London to translate from the original Gaelic, which he had transcribed for the Society, from the first book of Eingal. And in the first volume of the edition of Ossian jnib- lished under their sanction, the reader will find his translation of the first book placed parallel to MTherson's. Concerning Dr. Ross's trans- lation, Miss BaiUie, the distinguished authoress, observes, "The lan- guage of the new translation appears less pompous, more simple, and more appropriate than that of MTherson. I am sure that a poem in imitation of MTherson's translation, would be a much more easy task to compose than one in imitation of the new translation." FIXGAL. Ye voices of loud-sounding Cona, Ye bards wlio speak of the past, In whose souls ascend on high The illustrious deeds of blue-armed heroes ; Cronan, son of gentle sounds, O Minon, who lightly touchest the harp, Eaise a tale concerning dark -brown Shilric To the king of hills and deserts. Let the lovely Ninvela come, Like the showery bow along the vale, When it shews its arch on high. And the sun is retiring behind the hills. But yonder is the maid, O king of spears, With feeble voice immersed in grief. XIXVELA. My love is of the race of the hills ; A great hunter of the dusky mountains : His stag-hounds pant by his side ; His slender bow-string sounds in the wi^-d. 366 ROSS. Hast tliou sat by tlie fountain of tlie rocks, Or bj the great swoln stream of tlie bill ? Observed the rusb bending beneatb the breeze And tlie mist rising on tlie mountain side ? But I will approach mj love in secret ; I shall scan mj hero from the rock. O, when I saw the jouths on high Bj the oak of the loud streaming Branno, Thou wast returning stately from the hill, Far surpassing in comeliness thy people. SHILEIC. What voice is this so sweet in my ear, A voice sweet as the summer breeze ? But far^ Ninvela, far away Is my course, to the war with Fingal. There shall I not see from the heights of the hills My fair maid of the locks on the plain ; But by the falling stream alone ; Like the bow bending in the skies, Or the moon on the western wave. NINVELA. Thou art gone ! Shilric, thou art gone I And I am alone on the hill ! The deer is seen on the mountain brow. Without a man to chase him from the grass. The mighty hunter is departed from the wood ; CARKIC-THURA. 367 He is in the field of graves. je strangers, race of the waves, Spare, spare the hero in the field I SHILRIC. If I fall in the plain, Ninvela, Kindl}^ do thou raise high my tomh — Gray stones and a heap of dust, To point out thy lover Ninvela. That when the hunter sits by my side, He will say, " A hero is in the heath. Some man of renown, not feeble in battle." Eemember thy warrior, Ninvela When in thy narrow house of death. NESrVELA. Yes, thou shalt be remembered I If my brave Shilric shall fall on the field ? Where, my love, shall I be found on the hill. If thou return not from the stroke of death ! My wanderings shall be among the rocky deus : My steps shall be far from the abodes of men, Languid and solitary among the hills. Sure Shilric will fall on the field. But I will remember the hero. " I too remember the chief," Said the king of the lofty woods and hills ; He consumed the battle in his rage ; He is not beneath my eye in the chase. 868 ROSS. Once I saw liim on the plain, The hero's cheek was clouded and pale ; His brow was dark, the heaving of his breast Was frequent, and his steps were towards the hill. Among the chiefs he shall not be seen When the sound rises from the shield. He lies in the dark and narrow house Great chief of the gloomy mountains ! CEONA^. 0, I perceive Ninvela afar, Like a sunbeam on a heathj rock. Mild as the sun in a summer storm. And like the full moon of harvest. Dost thou come, maid of the fairest locks, Over rocks and hills to my presence ? Feeble is thy voice, daughter of chiefs ! As a reed with the wind about its head ! She cried, "Has my hero returned from the fields? Where hast thou left thy friends my love ? I have heard of thy death on the hill, I heard, and my soul was in grief." " I have returned, maid of the gentle age ; I have returned, of chiefs alone, No more shall they be seen on the hill ; I have raised their tombs on the field. But why art thou alone on the height ? By thyself on the sides of the mountain ?" CARRIC-THURA. 369 " Alone am I, O Shilric ; Alone and low in the house of winter. With grief for mj love, I fell, Pale into the grave, Shilric." She fled like a shadow before the wind. Like a mist on the mountain in sadness, " Wilt thou not stay empty form of Ninvela ? Stay and behold the tears of my sorrow. Lovely is thy form in mist ; Lovely thou wast when alive, Ninvela. I will mourn by a fountain cool, On the top of the hill, in the wind At mid-day, when there is no sound Speak thou, my love, among the heath ; Come thou, Mnvela, on the breeze. On the light breeze from the woody rock , Let me hear thy voice by my side, At mid-day, in surrounding silence." Thus did Oronan raise the song. Midst joy, in the hall of the brave. 370 ROSS. A SPEECH OF FIN gal's IX THE OEIGIXAL GAELIC. Tbe Translation is -on pnge 365. A GHUTHA Cliona, 's airde fuaim, A bliarda, tlia luaidh mii li-aois, Dlia 'n eiricli, air ar n-anam suas, Feaclida mor nan gorm-cliruaidli laocli. A Chronain, a mliic nan caoin flionn, A Mhinf lionn nacli troni air clarsaicli, Togaibh sgeul air Silric donn, Do rigli nam mor-tliom 's nam fasacli. Thigeadh a Bliinnblieul, a's aillidli, Mar blioglia braoin, anall sa' gbleann, Nuair dli'flieuclias e clieann san airde, 'S a gbrian a' dol air cliiil nam beann. Sud an oigb, a rigli nan lann, Le guth fann, is i fo bliron. JAMES MONTaOMERY. James Moxtgomeey was born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, in 1771. His father was a Moravian missionary, who died whilst laboring for the pro- pagation of Christianity in the island of Tobago. In 1792 he established himself in Sheffield (Avhere he stiU resides) as an assistant in a news- paper office. In a few years the paper became his OAvn property, and he continued to conduct it up to 1825. Mr. Montgomery's first volume of poetry appeared in 1806, and was entitled the Wandei^er of Switzerland^ and other poems. The Edinburgh Review of January, 1807, denounced the unfortunate volume in a style of such authoritative reprobation as no mortal verse could be expected to sm-vive. Notwithstanding this, Avithin eighteen months of its first issue, the fourth edition (1500 copies each) was printed. The next work of the poet was TTie West Indies^ a poem in four parts, written in honor of the abolition of the African slave trade by the British legisla- ture, in 1807. Shortly after this Mr. Montgomery published a volume entitled Prison Amusements. In 1813 he came forward with a more elaborate performance. The World lyefore the Flood^ a poem in the heroic couplet, and extending to ten short cantos. Thoughts on Wheels^ The Climbing Boy''s Soliloquy, The Pelican Island, Greenland^ and his Songs of Zion^ which have cheered many a Christian heart, constitute his re- maining works. From his long residence in England, he has generally been viewed as an Englishman, but there can be no doubt that much of his inspiration has been drawn from the romantic scenery and poetical associations of his boyhood, spent as it was amid Scotia's rugged hills. Once in the fliglit of ages past, There lived a man ! and who was he ? Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown ; His name has perished from the earth, This truth survives alone! That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, Alternate triumphed in his breast; His bless and woe — a smile, a tear! Oblivion hides the rest. The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits' rise and fall ; We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all. 374 MONTGOMERY. He suffered — but his pangs are o'er ; Enjoyed — ^but his delights are fled ; Had friendS' — ^his friends are now no more, And foes — his foes are dead. He loved — ^but whom he loved the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb: 0, she was fair! but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb. He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encountered all that troubles thee: He was — whatever thou hast been; He is — what thou shalt be. The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light, To him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race. Their ruins, since the world began, Of him afford no other trace Than this — there lived a man. LOVE OF COUNTRY AND HOME. 375 There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; — ■ There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride. While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend; — "Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?" Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — ^look around ! O, thou shalt find, howe'er, thy footsteps roam. That land thy country, and that spot thy home! On Greenland's rocks, o'er rude Kamschatka's plains, In pale Siberia's desolate domains; When the wild hunter takes his lonely way. Tracks through tempestuous snows his savage prey, Or, wrestling with the might of raging seas, Where round the Pole the eternal billows freeze. Plucks from their jaws the stricken whale, in vain Plunging down headlong through the whirling main, 376 MONTGOMERY. His wastes of snow are lovelier in his eye Than all the flowery vales beneath the sky; And dearer far than Csesar's palace-dome, His cavern-shelter, and his cottage-home. O'er China's garden-fields and peopled floods, In California's pathless world of woods ; Round Andes' heights, where Winter, from his throne, Looks down in scorn upon the summer zone ; By the gay borders of Bermuda's isles, "Where Spring with everlasting verdure smiles; On pure Madeira's vine-robed hills of health ; In Java's swamps of pestilence and wealth; Where Babel stood, where wolves and jackals drink, 'Midst weeping willows, on Euphrates' brink; On Carmel's crest; by Jordan's reverend stream, Where Canaan's glories vanished like a dream; Where Greece, a spectre, haunts her heroes' graves, And Rome's vast ruins darken Tiber's waves; Where broken-hearted Switzerland bewails Her subject mountains and dishonored vales; Where Albion's rocks exult amid the sea, Around the beauteous isle of Liberty; — Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride. Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. JOHN WILSON Peofessoe Wilson, so long the distinguislied occupant of the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, earned his first laurels by his poetry. He was born in the year 1788, in the town of Paisley, where his father carried on business and attained to opulence as a manufacturer. At thirteen he entered Glasgow University, from which in due time he was transferred to Magdalene College, Oxford. A notable capacity for knowledge and remarkable literary powers were at the same time united to a singular taste for Gymnastic exercises and rural sports. After four years' residence at Oxford, the poet purchased a small but beautiful estate on the banks of Lake Windermere. He married — ^built a house and a yacht — enjoyed himself among the magnificent scenery of the lakes — wrote poetry — and cultivated the society of Wordsworth. These must have been happy days. With youth, robust health, fortune, and an exhaustless imagination, Wilson must, in such a spot, have been blest even up to the dreams of a poet. Some reverses, however, came, and, after entering himself of the Scottish bar, he sought and obtained his Moral Philosophy chair. He connected himself with Blackwood's Magazine, and in this mis- cellany poured forth the riches of his fancy, learning, and taste. The poetical works of Wilson have been collected in two volumes. They consist of the "Isle of Palms," "City of the Plague," and several smaller pieces. His prose works have been more popular than his poems. "The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," a collection of beautiful stories 378 WILSON. illustrative of Scottish manners, scenery, and ?iistory, has had an im- mense sale, and an unbounded popularity. Gilfillan, in his "Literary Portraits," says: — "It is probable that the very variety and versatility of Wilson's powers have done him an injury in the estimation of many. They can hardly belive that an actor, who can play so many parts, is perfect in all. Because he is, confessedly, one of the most eloquent of men, it is doubted whether he can be profound: because he is a fine poet, he must be a shallow metaphysician ; — ^iDecause he is the Editor of Black- icood^ he must be an inefficient professor. There is such a thing on this round earth, as diffusion along Avith depth, as the versatile and vigorous mind of a man of genius mastering a multitude of topics, while others are blunderingly acquiring one, or as a man ' multiplying himself among mankind, the Proteus of their talents,' and proving that the Voltairian activity of brain has been severed, in one splendid instance, at least, from the A'oltairian sneer and the Voltairian shallowness. Such an instance as that of our illustrious Professor, who is ready for every tack, — who can, at one time, scorch a poetaster to a cinder, at another cast illumination into the ' dark deep holds' of a moral question by a glance of his genius ; at one time dash off the picture of a Highland glen with the force of a Salvator, at another lay bare the anatomy of a passion with the precision and force of an Angelo, — write now the sweetest verse, and now the most energetic prose, — now let slip, from his spirit, a single star, like the ' evening cloud,' and now unfurl a N'octes upon the wondering world, — now paint Avarice till his audience are dying with laughter, and now Emulation and Sympathy till they are choked with tears, — write now 'the Elder's Deathbed,' and now the ' Address to a Wild Deer,' — ^be equally at home in describing the Sufferings of an Orphan girl, and tlie undressing of a dead Quaker, by a congregation of ravens, under the brow of Helvellyn." It is upon the Sabbath-day, at rising of the sun, That to Glenmore's black forest-side a Shepherdess 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; 380 WILSON. And thouglit, " wMle thou art praising God amid the hills so calm, Far off this broken voice, my child! will join the morn- ing psalm." So down npon 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 dewj^ 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: A LAY OF FAIRY LAND. 331 Round her white brows so innocent, and her blue qnict eyes, That looks out bright, in smiling light, beneath the flowery dies. These flowers hy 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 moorlands all alone ? And where got she 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 wondrous 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 gracious sunshine fell On me, and on my sheep and lambs, and our ovvn little delL 382 WILSON Some lay down in the warmth, and some began to feed, And I took out the Holy Book, and thereupon did read. " And while that I was reading of Him who for us died, And blood and water shed for us from out his blessed side, An angel's voice above my head came singing o'er and o'er. In Abernethy-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, Must 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 word of fear, For a dau.ghter had been lost to her for many a hopeless year; A LAY OF FAIRY LAND. 333 The cliild 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 Fhanm, the Savage shape that on the mountains 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 dancing 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 stoop' d down and left a kiss upon my brow. 384 WILSON. 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. " Ko 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 Eainbows 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 be- neath, 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 Kainbow, 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. A LAY OF FAIRY LAND. 385 " Soft the music rose again — ^but we left it far behind, Though strains o'ertook us now and then, on some small breath of wind ; Our guide into that brightning bliss was aye that b right - ning 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 j^oung 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 1 — But the gates of that bright Palace did suddenly 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. " Round her in happy heavings, flowed that bright ghs- tering crowd. Yet though a thousand voices hailed, the murmur was not loud, And o'er their plumed and flower}^ heads there sang a whispering breeze, When as before their Queen all sank, down slowly on their knees. 25 386 wiLso]^. " ' Tlien,' said the Queen, ' seven years to-dav since mine own infant's birth — And we must send lier Xourice 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 her in her bliss. ^' ' Luhana ! bind thj frontlet upon my Mhairi's brow, That she on earth may show the flowers that in our gar- dens grow.' And from the heavenly odors breathed around my head I kneY,r How dehcate must be their shape, how beautiful their hue! " Then near and nearer still I heard small peals of laugh- ter sweet, And the infant Fay came dancing in with her white-twin- Ming feet, While in green rows the smiling Elves fell back on either side, And up that avenue the Fay did like a sunbeam glide. "But who came then into the Hall? One long since mourned as dead ; Oh ! never had the mould been strown o'er such a star- like head ! A LAY OF FAIRY LAND. , gg? On me alone sTie poured her voice, on me alone her eyes, And, as she gazed, I thought upon the deep-blue cloud- less skies. " Well knew I my fair sister ! and her unforgotten face ! Strange meeting one so beautifal in that bewildering place ! And hke two sohtary rills that by themselves flowed on. And had been long divided — we melted into one. " When that the shower was all wept out of our delight- ful tears. And love rose in our hearts that had been buried there for years, You well may think another shower straightway began to fall, Even for our mother and our home to leave that heavenly Hall ! '' I may not teU the sobbing and weeping that was there. And how 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 were embracing, the Palace it was gone, And I and my dear sister stood by the Grreat Burial-stone ; While both of us our river saw in twilight glimmering by, And knew at once the dark Cairngorm in his own silent sky." 388 WILSON. The Child hath long been speaking to one who may not hear, For a deadly Joy came suddenly upon a deadly Fear, And though the Mother fell not down, she lay on Mhain's breast. And her face was white as that of one whose soul has gone to rest. She sits beneath the Elder-shade in that long mortal swoon, And piteously on her wan cheek looks down the gentle Moon ; And w^hen her senses are restored, whom sees she at her side, But Her believed in childhood to have wandered off and died! In these small hands, so lily-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, TVhile 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 — A LAY OF FAIRY LAND. 389 No voice liatli she to bless lier child, till that strong fit go by, But gazeth on the long-lost face, and then upon the sky. The Sabbath morn was beautifal — and the long Sabbath day— The Evening star rose beautiful when day-light died away ; Morn, day, and twilight, this lone Grien flowed over with delight. But the fulness of all mortal Joy hath blessed the Sab- bath night. 390 WILSON. IN THE FOREST OF DALXESS, GLEN-ETIVE, ARGYLLSHIRE. Magnificent Creature ! so stately and briglit ! Ill the pride of tlij 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 hath borne O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the morn, Whom 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 depth of the sky are at rest ; ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 391 And tlie race of tlie wild winds is o'er on tlie 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. Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth, The wild spirit hung in majestical mirth : In dalliance with danger, he bounded in bliss, O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss ; O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous motion, Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean ! Then proudly he turned ere he sank to the dell, And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell, While his horns in a crescent of radiance shone. Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone. The ship of the desert hath pass'd on the wind. And left the dark ocean of mountains behind ! But my spirit will travel wherever she flee. And behold her in pomp o'er the rim of the sea — Her voyage pursue — ^till her anchor be cast In some cliff-girdled haven of beauty at last. What lonely magnificence stretches around ! Each sight how sublime ! and how awfal each sound ! 392 WILSON. All husli'd and serene, as a region of dreams, The mountains repose 'mid the roar of the streams, Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven, But calm their blue tops in the beauty of Heaven. Here the glory of nature hath nothing to fear — ■ — 'Aye ! Time the destroyer in power hath been here , And the forest that hung on yon mountain so high, Like a black thunder cloud on the arch of the sky, Hath gone like that cloud, when the tempest came by. Deep sunk in the black moor, all worn and decay 'd "Where the floods have been raging, the limbs are display' d Of the Pine-tree and Oak sleeping vast in the gloom, The kings of the forest disturb'd in their tomb. E'en now, in the pomp of their prime, I behold O'erhanging the desert the forests of old ! So gorgeous their verdure, so solemn their shade. Like the heavens above them, they never may fade. The sunlight is on them — in silence they sleep — • A glimmering glow, like the breast of the deep. When the billows scarce heave in the calmness of morn. — ^Down the -pass of Glen-Etive the tempest is borne. And the hill side is swinging, and roars with a sound In the heart of the forest embosom'd profound. Till all in a moment the tumult is o'er. And the mountain, of thunder is still as the shore When the sea is at ebb ; not a leaf nor a breath To disturb the wild solitude, steadfast as death. ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 393 From Ms eyrie the eagle liatli soar'd with a scream, And I wake on the edge of the chff from my dream ; — Where now is the light of thy far-beaming brow ? Fleet son of the wilderness ! where art thou now ? — Again o'er yon crag thou retnrn'st to my sight, Like the horns of the moon from a cloud of the night ! Serene on thy travel — as soul in a dream — Thou needest no bridge o'er the rush of the stream. With thy presence the pine-grove is fill'd, as with light. And the caves, as thou passest, one moment are bright. Through the arch of the rainbow that lies on the rock 'Mid the mist stealing up from the cataract's shock, Thou fling'st thy bold beauty, exulting and free. O'er a pit of grim blackness, that roars like the sea. His voyage is o'er I — As if struck by a spell He motionless stands in the hush of the dell, There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast. In the midst of his pastime enamor'd of rest. A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race — A dancing ray chain'd 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 enclosing the free ! With rock-wall encircled — with precipice crown'd — ■ Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound. 394 WILSON. 'Mid tlae fern and tlie heatlier kind Nature doth keep One bright spot of green for her favorite'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 ! How lonesome ! how wild ! — ^yet the wildness is rife With the stir of enjoyment — ^the spirit of life. The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake, Whose depths at the sullen plunge, sullenly quake ! Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopper sings. And away in the midst of his roundelay springs ; 'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright than himself, The wild-bee is busy, a musical elf — ■ Then starts from his labor unwearied and gay, And circling the antlers, booms far far away. While high up the mountains, in silence remote, The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note. And mellowing echo, on watch in the skies, Like a voice from some loftier climate replies. With wide-branching antlers, a guard to his breast. There lies the wild Creature, even stately in rest ! 'Mid the grandeur of nature, compos'd and serene, And proud in his heart of the mountainous scene, He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven. At noon sinking down on smooth wings to their haven, As if in his soul the bold Animal smil'd To his friends of the sky, the joint-heirs of the wild. ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 395 Yes ! fierce looks thy nature, ev'n husli'd in repose — In the depth 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 like thee! The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind, 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 roar, — 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! 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 spurn'd from his furious feet : And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. High life of a hunter! he meets on the hill The new waken'd daylight, so bright and so still; And feels, as the clouds of the morning unroll, The silence, the splendor, ennoble his soul. 'Tis his o'er the mountains to stalk like a ghost. Enshrouded with mist, in which nature is lost, Till he lifts up his eyes, and flood, valley, and height, In one moment all swim in an ocean of light; WILSON. While the sun, like a glorious banner unfarl'd, Seems to wavx o'er a new, more magnificent world. 'Tis his — by the rncnth of some cavern his, seat — • The lightning of heaven to hold at his feet, While the thunder below him that growls from the cloud, To him comes on echo more awfally loud. When the clear depths of noon-tide, with glittering motion, O'erflows the lone glens — an aerial ocean — When the earth and the heavens, in union profound, Lie blended in beauty that knows not a sound — As his eyes in the sunshiny solitude close "Neath a rock of the desert in dreaming repose, Ee sees, in his slumbers, such visions of old As his wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told ; O'er the mountains a thousand plum'd hunters are borne, And he starts from his dream at the blast of the horn. Yes! child of the desert! fit quarry were thou For the hunter that came with a crown on his brow, — By princes attended with arrow and spear, In their white-tented camp, for the w^arfare of deer. In splendor the tents on the green summit stood. And brightly they shone from the glade in the wood, And, silently built by a magical spell. The pyramid rose in the depth of the dell. All mute was the palace of Lochy that day, When the king and his nobles — ^a gallant array — To Gleno or Glen-Etive came forth in their pride. And a hundred fierce stags in their solitude died. ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 397 Not lonely and single they pass'd o'er the height — But thousands swept by in their hurricane-flight ; And bow'd to the dnst in their trampling tread Was the plumage on many a warrior's head. — "Fall down on your faces! — the herd is at hand!" — And onwards they came like the sea o'er the sand ; Like the snow from the mountain when loosen'd by rain, And rolling along with a crash to the plain; Like a thunder-split oak-tree, that falls in one shock With his hundred wide arms from the top of the rock, Like the voice of the sky, when the black cloud is near, So sudden, so loud, came the tempest of Deer. Wild mirth of the desert ! fit pastime for kings 1 Which still the rude Bard in his solitude sinsfs. Oh reign of magnificence! vanished forever! Like music dried up in the bed of a river, Whose course hath been chang'd ! yet my soul can survey The clear cloudless mom of that glorious day. Yes! the wide silent forest is loud as of yore, And the far-ebbed grandeur rolls back to the shore. I wake from my trance! — ^lo! the Sun is declining! And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is shining, — One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail! Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale. Where sings the fair maid to the viol so sweet, Or the floor is alive with her white twinkling feet. Down, down like a bird to the depth of the dell! — ^Yanish'd Creature! I bid thy fair image farewell! if y iri j0 s??i JI6. How beautiful the pastime of the Spring! Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream, She, iike a smiling infant, timid plays On the green margin of this sunn}^ lake, Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves (If riplings rather known by sound than sight May haply so be named) that in the grass Soon fade in murmuring mirth ; now seeming proud To venture round the edge of yon fair point. That from an eminence softl}^ sinking down, HYMN TO SPRING. 399 Doth from the wide and homeless waters shape A scene of tender, delicate repose, *Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy, Delightful Spring! — nor less an emblem fair, Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth. On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this, Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns Have sung thy reign, sweet Power, and wished it long, In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies That, lending to the world inanimate A pulse and spirit of hfe, for aye preserve The sanctity of Nature, and embalm Her fleeting spectacles in memory's cell In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll The circling seasons, and as each gives birth To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours. But Nature calls the poet to her aid, And in his lays behold her glory live Forever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom, When all is dim before the outward eye. Nor the ear catches one delightful sound, They who have wander' d in their musing walks With the great poets, in their spirits feel No change on earth, but see the unalter'd woods Laden with beauty, and inhale the song Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers. 400 WILSON. So hath it been with me, delightful Spring! And now I hail thee as a friend who paN's An annual \dsit, jet whose image lives From parting to return, and who is blest Each time with blessings warmer than before. Oh ! gracious Power ! for thy beloved approach The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles, Struggling with tears, and often overcome. A blessing sent before thee from the heavens, A balmy spirit breathing tenderness. Prepared thy way, and all created things Felt that the angel of delight was near. Thou earnest at last, and such a heavenly smile Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-born Of Nature's guardian spirits. The great Sun, Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile. Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn Was by the low Winds chanted in the sky; And w^hen thy feet descended on the earth, Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field, To hail her blest deliverer ! — Ye fair Trees, How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze ! It seems as if some gleam of verdant light Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds, nYMN TO SPRING. 401 Were you asleep through all the wintry hours, Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves ? There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the spring, Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep Abide her annual reign, when forth they come With freshen'd plumage and enraptured song. As ye do now, unwearied choristers, Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not, Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful Than the young lambs, that from the valley-side Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice, Half happy, half afraid 1 blessed things 1 At sight of this your perfect innocence, The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away Into a mood as wild as woman's dreams. The strife of working intellect, the stir Of hope's ambitious ; the disturbing sound Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry That ardent spirits burn for in their pride, Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven. Now is the time in some meek solitude To hold communion with those innocent thoughts That bless'd our earlier days ; — to list the voice Of conscience murmuring from her inmost shrine. And learn if still she sing the quiet tune That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel, 26 402 WILSON. That 'mid tlie powers, the passions, and desires Of riper age, we still have kept our hearts Free from pollution, and 'mid tempting scenes Walk'd on with pure and unreproved steps. Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not ; Ah me ! with what a new sublimity Will the green hills lift up their sunny heads, Ourselves as stately: smiling will we gaze On the clouds whose happy home is in the heavens ; Nor envy the clear streamlet ,that pursues His course 'mid flowers and music to the sea. But dread the beauty of a vernal day. Thou trembler before memory ! To the saint What sight so lovely as the angel form That smiles upon his sleep ! The sinner veils His face ashamed, — unable to endure The upbraiding silence of the seraph's eyes ! — Yet awful must it be, even to the best And wisest man, when he beholds the sun Prepared once more to run his annual round Of glory and of love, and thinks that Grod To him, though, sojourning in earthly shades, Hath also given an orbit, whence his light May glad the nations, or at least diffuse Peace and contentment over those he loves'! His soul expanded by the breath, of Spring, With holy confidence the thoughtful man HYMN TO SPRING. 403 Keiie\Ys his vows to virtue, — vows that bind To purest motives aud most useful deeds. Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day, In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts ; Lofty disdainings of all trivial joys Or sorrows ; meditations long and deep On objects fit for the immortal love Of souls immortal ; weeping penitence For duties (plain though highest duties be) Despised or violated ; humblest vows, Though humble strong as death, henceforth to walk Elate in innocence ; and, holier still, Warm gushings of his spirit unto Grod For all his past existence, whether bright As the spring landscape sleeping in the sun, Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea Stormy and boding storms ! Oh ! such will be Frequent and long his musings, till he feels As all the stir subsides, like busy day Soft melting into eve's tranquillity, How blest is peace when born within the soul. And therefore do I sing these pensive hymns, Spring ! to thee, though thou by some art call'd Parent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd best With festive dances and a choral song. No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring ! Who, filling all things with his own poor griefs. 404 WILSON. Soes nought but sadness in the character Of universal Nature, and who weaves Most doleful ditties in the midst of joy. Yet knowing something, dimly though it be. And therefore still more awful, of that strange And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man, It chanceth oft, that mix'd mth Nature's smiles My soul beholds a solemn quietness That almost looks like grief, as if on earth There were no perfect joy, and happiness Still trembled on the brink of misery ! Yea ! mournful thoughts like these even now arise, While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy. Sports round me, and all images of peace Seem native to this earth, nor other home Desire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain Link in our hearts foreboding fears of death With every loveliest thing that seems to us Most deeply fraught with life. Is there a child More beauteous than its playmates, even more pure Than they? while gazing on its face, we think That one so fair most surely soon will die ! Such are the fears now beating at my heart. Ere long, sweet Spring ! amid forgotten things Thou and thy smiles must sleep : thy little lambs Dead, or their nature changed ; thy hymning birds Mute ; — faded every flower so beautiful ; — HYMN TO SPRING. 405 And all fair symptoms of incipient life To fulness swollen, or sunk into decaj^ ! Such are the melancholy dreams that filled In the elder time the songs of tenderest bards, Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and fears Of what might be the final doom of man ; Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls The language of despair ; and, mournful sight ! Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave ! — Vain fears of death ! breath'd forth in deathless lays ! foolish bards, immortal in your works, Yet trustless of your immortahty ! Not now are they whom Kature calls her bards Thus daunted by the image of decay. They have their tears, and oft they shed them too, By reason unreproach'd ; but on the pale Cold cheek of death, they see a spirit smile. Bright and still brightening, even like thee, O Spring 1 Stealing in beauty through the winter snow ! — Season, beloved of Heaven ! my hymn is closed ! And thou, sweet Lake ! on whose retired banks 1 have so long reposed, yet in the depth Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves, Farewell ! — the voice of worship and of praise Dies on my hps, yet shall my heart preserve 406 WILSON. Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung ! Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strain Goes with the hand that touched it, still retains The soul of music sleeping in its strings. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I w^atched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ! Even in its very motion there was rest : While 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 bliss 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 tells to man his glorious destinies. s eiftfi^eifysii^ seiKi How sweet and solemn, all alone, With reverend steps, from stone to stone In a small village churchyard lying, O'er intervening flowers to move! And as we read the names unknown Of old and young to judgment gone, And hear in the calm air above Time onwards softly flying, 408 WILSON. To meditate, in Christian love, Upon the dead and dying ! Across the silence seem to go With dream-like motion, wavering, slow, And shrouded in their folds of snow, The friends we loved long long ago. Griiding across the sad retreat, How beautiful their phantom feet! What tenderness is in their eyes. Turned where the poor survivor lies 'Mid monitory sanctities! What years of vanished joy are fanned From one uplifting of that hand In its white stillness! when the Shade Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade From our embrace, how dim appears This world's life through a mist of tears! Yain hopes ! blind sorrows ! needless fears ! Such is the scene around me now: A little Churchyard on the brow Of a green pastoral hill; Its sylvan village sleeps below, And faintly here is heard the flow Of Woodburn's summer rill; A place where all things mournful meet, And yet the sweetest of the sweet, The stillest of the still! A CHURCH -YARD SCENE. 4Q9 With wliat a pensive beauty fall Across tlie mossy mouldering wall That rose-tree's clustered arches! See The robin-redbreas'] warily, Bright through, the blossoms, leaves bis nest : Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest At the firesides of men — but shy Through all the sunny summer hours He bides himself among the flowers In bis own wild festivity. What lulling sound, and shadow cool Hangs balf the darkened Churchyard o'er, From thy green depths so beautiful Thou gorgeous sycamore! Oft hath the holy wine and bread Been blest beneath thy murmuring cent, Where many a bright and hoary head Bowed at that awful sacrament. "N'ow all beneath the turf are laid On which they sat, and sang, and prayed. Above that consecrated tree Ascends tbe tapering spire that seems To lift the soul up silently To heaven with all its dreams, While in the belfry, deep and low, From his heaved bosom's purple gleams The dove's continuous murmurs flow, A dirge-like song, half-bliss, half-woe, The voice so lonely seems! 410 WILSON WllITTEN AT A LITTLE WELL Bl' THE ROADSIDE, LAXGDALE. Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled ! Silently slumbering in tliy mossy cell- Yea, moveless as tlie hillock's verdant side From whicli thou hadst thy birth, I bless th}^ gleam Of clearest coldness, mth as deep-felt joy As pilgTim kneeling at his far-sought shrine ; And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heart In thy restoring radiance from my lips A breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleep A gentle tremor ! Nor must I forget A benison for the departed soul Of him, who, many a year ago, first shaped This little Font, — imprisoning the spring Kot wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone, Now in the beauteous coloring of age Scarcely distinguished from the natural rock. In blessed hour the solitary man LINES WRITTEN AT A WELL. 411 Laid tlie iirst stone, — and in liis native vale It serves Jiim for a peaceful monument, 'Mid the Hll silence. Eenovated life Now flows througli all my veins : — old dreams revive ; And while an airy pleasure in my brain Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze, Even with a happy lover's kindest looks, On Thee delicious Fountain ! Thou dost shed (Though sultry stillness fill the summer air And parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave, A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring Breathes with his April showers, The narrow lane On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks, That from the roadside gently lead the eye Up to thy bed, — Ah me ! hoAv rich a green. Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd grass ! With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze, Now that my thirsty soul is gratified. Live on the little cell ! The water there. Variously dappled by the wreathed sand That sleeps below in many an antic shape. Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand 412 WILSON. Yaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse Tells of tlie living principle within, — A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild. Yea, seldom heard : there is but one lone cot Beyond this well : — it is inhabited By an old shepherd during summer months, And haply he may drink of the pure spring, To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath morn Going to pray, — or as he home returns At silent eve : or traveller such as I, Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills, ThankfuU}^ here may slake his burning thirst Once in a season. Other visitants It hath not ; save perchance the mountain-crow, When ice hath locked the rills, or wandering colt Leaving its pasture for the shady lane. Methinks, in such a solitary cave, The fairy forms belated peasant sees, Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe Their tiny limbs in this transparent well. A fitter spot there is not : flowers are here Of loveliest colors, and of sweetest smell, Native to these our hills, and ever seen A fairest family by the happy side LINES WRITTEX AT A WELL. 413 Of tlieir own parent spring ; — and others too Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joj, Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth, Here smile like strangers in a novel scene. Lo ! a tall rose-tree wdth its clustering bloom, Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness, Like some fair virgin at the humble door Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet The way-bewildered traveller. But my soul Long pleased to linger by this silent cave. Nursing its wild and playful fantasies. Pants for a loftier pleasure, — and forsakes, Though surely with no cold ingratitude. The flow^ers and verdure round the sparkling w^ell. A voice calls on me from the mountain depths, And it must be obey'd : Yon ledge of rocks. Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow". Is ready for my footsteps, and even now, Wastwater blackens far beneath my feet, She the storm-loving Lake. Sweet Fount !— Farewell ! 414 WILSON. Iif£ £SST. How wild and dim tliis Life appears ! One long, deep, lieav}' sigh. ! When o'er our eyes, half-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 moon-beams 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 w^e wish they ne'er may fade — They cease ! and the soul is a silent cell, Where music never played. TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 415 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. 10 S SJL£££Jl(a 6&I3LS. Art thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth ? Does human blood with life embue. Those wandering veins of heavenly blue. That stray along thy forehead fair, Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair ? 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? 416 WILSON. A human shape I feel thou art, I feel it at my beating heart, Those tremors both of soul and sense Awoke by infant innocence ! Though dear the forms by fancy wove, We love them with a transient love ; Thoughts from the living world intrude Even on her deepest solitude : But, lovely child ! thy magic stole At once into my inmost soul, With feelings as thy beauty fair. And left no other vision there. To me thy parents are unknown ; Glad would they be their child to own ! And well they must have loved before, If since thy birth they loved not more. Thou art a branch of noble stem, And seeing thee I figure them. What many a childless one would give, If thou in their still home wouldst live ! Though in thy face no family-line Might sweetly say, ''This babe is mine !" In time thou wouldst become the same As their own child, — all but the name! * -jf ^ * * WILLIAM EIDMONDSTONE AYTOUN. Prof. AYxorx, editor of "Blackwood's Magazine," and author of " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," is a member of the Edinburgh bar, but has never, we believe, devoted himself to any extent to the severer duties of his profession. Some five or six years ago he succeeded Mr. Moir as professor of literature and belles-lettres in the University of Edinburgh, Avhere his lectures — ^full of pith, energy, and distinguished by fine literary taste — are in great vogue. Professor Aytoun has been for some years one of the chief contributors to " Blackwood's Maga- zine," and few numbers appear from which his hand is absent. At the time of the railway mania, he flung ou a series of papers — the first enti- tled, " How we got up the Glen Mutchkin Eailway," descriptive of the doings in the Capel Court of Edinburgh and Glasgow — ^papers which, for broad, vigorous humor, and felicitous setting forth of genuine Scot- tish character, are almost unrivalled. Under the nom de guerre of Augustus Dunshunner, then first adopted — the professor frequently con- tributes pieces of off'-hand criticism on books and men to "Blackwood," taking especial delight in showing up what he conceives to bo the weak points of the Manchester school; and humorous though the general tone of the papers be, hesitates not to dash headlong at piles of statis- tics intended to prop up the fallen causes of protection. Mi*. Aytoun's politics, as may be inferred from his sole work, published inv^> iude- pendent form, the "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," are high tory, or rather thev amount to a sort of poetic and theoretical Jacobitism. 27 EUINBIJKaH AFTER FLODDEN. The great battle of Flodden was fought upon the 9lh of September, 1513. The defeat of the Scottish army, resulting mainly from the fantastic ideas of chivalry entertained by James IV., and his refusal to avail himself of the natural advantages of his position, was by far the most disastrous of any recounted in the history of the northern Avars. The whole strength of the kingdom, both Lowland and Highland, was assembled, and the contest was one of the sternest .'Hid most desperate upon record. For several hours the issue seemed doubtful. On the left the Scots obtained a decided ad- vantage ; on the right wing they were broken and overthrown ; and at last the whole weight of the battle was brought into the centre, where King James and the Earl of Surrey commanded in person. The determined valor of James, imprudent as it was, had the effect of rousing to a pitch of desperation the courage of the meanest soldiers ; and the ground becoming soft and slippery from blood, they pulled off their boots and shoes, and secured a firmer footing by fighting in their hose. The combat was maintained with desperate fury until nightfall. At the close, according to Mr. Tytler, " Surrey was uncertain of the result of the battle : the remains of the enemy's centre still held the field ; Home, with his Borderers, still hovered on the left ; and the commander wisely allowed neither pursuit nor plunder, but drew off his men, and kept a strict watch during the night. When the morning broke, the Scottish artillery were seen standing deserted on the side of the hill : their defenders had disappeared ; and the Earl ordered thanks to be given for a victory which was no longer doubtful. Yet, even after all this, a body of the Scots appeared unbroken upon a hill, and were about to charge the Lord Admiral, when they were compelled to leave their position by a discharge of the English ordnance. "The loss of the Scots in this fatal battle amounted to about ten thousand men. Of these, a great proportion were of high rank ; the remainder being composed of the gentry, the farmers, and landed yeomanry, who disdained to fly when their sovereign and his nobles lay stretched ill heaps around them." The loss to Edinburgh on this occasion was peculiarly great. All the magistrates and able- bodied citizens had followed their King to Flodden, whence very few of them returned. It is impossible to describe the consternation which pervaded the whole of Scotland when the intelligence of the defeat became known. In Edinburgh it was excessive. Mr. Arnot, in the history of that city, says, — "The news of their overthrow in the field of Flodden reached Edinburgh on the day after the battle, and overwhelmed the inhabitants with grief and confusion. The streets were crowded with women seeking intelligence about their friends, clamoring and weeping. Those who (Officiated in absence of the magistrates proved themselves worthy of the trust. They issued a proclamation, ordering all the inhabitants to assemble in military array for defence of the city on the tolling of the bell ; and commanding, 'that all women, and especially strangers, do vepair to their work, and not be seen upon the street clamorand and cryand; and that women >f the better sort do repair to the church and offer up prayers, at the stated hours, for our Sover- eign Lord and his army, and the townsmen who are with the army.' " I. News of battle ! — news of battle ! Hark ! 'tis ringing down tlie street ; And tlie arcliways and tlie pavement Bear the clang of hnrrjing feet. News of battle ! who bath bronglit it ? News of triumph ? Who should bring Tidings from our noble arm}^, Greetings from our gallant King ? All last night we watched the beacons Blazing on the hills afar, Each one bearing, as it kindled. Message of the opened war. All night long the northern streamers Shot across the trembling sky : Fearful lights that never beckon Save when kings or heroes die. II. News of battle ! Who hath brought it ? All are thronging to the gate ; i20 A Y T U X . " Warder — warder ! oj)en quickly ! Man — is this a time to wait ?" And the heavy gates are opened : Then a murmur long and loud, And a cry of fear and wonder Bursts from out the bending crowd. For they see in battered harness Only one hard-stricken man ; And his weary steed is wounded, And his cheek is pale and wan: Spearless hangs a bloody banner In his weak and drooping hand — God ! can that be Eandolph Murray, Captain of the city band ? III. Eound him crush the people, crying, " Tell us all— oh, tell us true ! Where are they who went to battle, Eandolph Murray, sworn to you ? Where are they, our brothers — children ? Have they met the English foe ? Why art thou alone, unfollowed ? Is it weal or is it woe ?" Like a corpse the grisly warrior Looks from out his helm of steel ; But no word he speaks in answer — Only with his armed heel EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. 421 Chides bis wearj steed, and onward Up tlie city streets tliej ride ; Fathers, sisters, mothers, children. Shrieking, praying by his side. " By the God that made thee, Eandolph ! Tell us what mischance hath come." Then he lifts his riven banner. And the asker's voice is dumb. ly. The elders of the city Have met within their hall — The men whom good King James had charged To watch the tower and wall. " Your hands are weak with age," he said, *' Your hearts are stout and true ; So bide ye in the Maiden Town, While others fight for you. My trumpet from the Border-side Shall send a blast so clear. That all who wait within the gate That stirring sound may hear. Or, if it be the will of heaven That back I never come. And if, instead of Scottish shouts. Ye hear the English drum, — Then let the warning bells ring out. Then gird you to the fray, 422 A Y T U N . Then man tlie walls like burghers stout And figlit while fight you may. 'Twere better that in fiery flame The roofs should thunder down, Than that the foot of foreign foe Should trample in the town I" V. Then in came Eandolph Murray. — His step was slow and weak, And as he doffed his dinted helm, The tears ran down his cheek : They fell upon his corslet And on his mailed hand, As he gazed around him wistfully, Leaning sorely on his brand. And none who then beheld him But straight were smote with fear For a bolder and a sterner man Had never couched a spear. They knew so sad a messenger Some ghastly news must bring ; And all of them were fathers. And their sons were with the King VI. And up then rose the Provost — A brave old man was he, EDINBUEGH AFTER FLODDEN 428 Of ancient name and kniglatlj fame, And chivalrous degree. He ruled our city like a Lord "Who brooked no equal here, And ever for the townsman's rights Stood up 'gainst prince and peer. And he had seen the Scottish host March from the Borough-muir, With music-storm and clamorous shout, And all the din that thunders out "When youth 's of victory sure. But yet a dearer thought had he, — For, with a father's pride, He saw his last remaining son Go forth by Kandolph's side, With casque on head and spur on heel. All keen to do and dare ; And proudly did that gallant boy Dunedin's banner bear. Oh ! woful now was the old man's look, And he spake right heavily — "Now, Eandolph tell thy tidings. However sharp they be ! Woe is written on thy visage, Death is looking from thy face: Speak ! though it be of overthrow — It cannot be disgrace !" 424 A Y T U N , vn. Eiglit bitter was tlie agony That wrung tliat soldier proud : Thrice did he strive to answer, And thrice he gToaned aloud. Then he gave the riven banner To the old man's shaking hand, Saying — '• That is all I bring ye From the bravest of the land ! Ay ! ye may look upon it^ — It was guarded well and long, By your brothers and your children^ By the valiant and the strong. One by one they fell around it, As the archers laid them low, Grimly dying, still unconquered, With their faces to the foe. Ay! ye may well look upon it — There is more than honor there. Else, be sure, I had not brought it From the field of dark despair. Xever yet was royal banner Steeped in such a costly dye ; It hath lain upon a bosom Where no other shrouds shall lie. Sirs ! I charge }-ou keep it holy, Keep it as a sacred thing, EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. 425 For the stain ye see upon it Was tlie life-blood of your King 1" VIII. Woe, woe, and lamentation! What a piteous cry was there! Widows, maidens, mothers, children, Shrieking, sobbing in despair! Through the streets the death-word rushes. Spreading terror, sweeping on — "Jesu Christ! our King has fallen — Great God, King James is gone! Holy Mother Mary, shield us. Thou who erst didst lose thy Son! O the blackest day for Scotland That she ever knew before! O our King — the good, the noble, Shall we see him never more? Woe to us, and woe to Scotland ! O our sons, our sons and men! Surely some have 'scaped the Southron, Surely some will come again!" Till the oak that fell last winter Shall uprear its shattered stem — Wives and mothers of Dunedin — Ye may look in vain for them ! 426 AYTOUN. IX. But within tlie Council Chamber All was silent as the grave, Whilst the tempest of their sorrow Shook the bosoms of the brave. Well indeed might they be shaken With the weight of such a blow : He was gone — their prince, their idol, Whom they loved and worshipped so ! Like a knell of death and judgment Eung from heaven by angel hand. Fell the words of desolation On the elders of the land. Hoary heads were bowed and trembling, Withered hands were clasped and \vrrun( God had left the old and feeble. He had ta'en away the young. X. Then the Provost he uprose. And his lip was ashen white ; But a flush was on his brow, And his eye was full of light. •'Thou has spoken, Eandolph Murray, Like a soldier stout and true; Thou hast done a deed of daring Had been perilled but by few. EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. 427 For thou liast not sliamed to face us, Kor to speak thy ghastly tale, Standing — thou a knight and captain — Here, alive within thy mail! Now, as my God shall judge me, I hold it braver done. Than hadst thou tarried in thy place, And died above my son! Thou need'st not tell it: he is dead. God help us all this day ! But speak — how fought the citizens • Within the furious fray ! For, by the might of Mary! 'Twere something still to tell That no Scottish foot Avent backward When the Eoyal Lion fell !'^ XI. "No one failed him! He is keeping Eoyal state and semblance still; Knight and noble lie around him, Cold on Flodden's fatal hill. Of the brave and gallant-hearted, Whom ye sent with prayers away, Not a single man departed From his Monarch yesterday. Had you seen them, O my masters! When the nig^ht beean to fall. 428 A Y T U N . And the Englisli spearmen gathered Bound a grim and ghastly wall ! As the wolves in winter circle Eound the leaguer on the heath. So the greedy foe glared upward, Panting still for blood and death. But a rampart rose before them, Which the boldest dare not scale; Every stone a Scottish body, Every step a corpse in mail! And behind it lay our Monarch, Clenching still his shivered sword: By his side Montrose and Athole, At his feet a Southron lord. All so thick they lay together, When the stars lit up the sky, That I knew not who were stricken, Or who yet remained to die. Few there were when Surrey halted, And his wearied host withdrew; None but dying men around me, When the English trumpet blew. Then I stooped, and took the banner, As you see it from his breast. And I closed our hero's eyelids. And I left him to his rest. In the mountains growled the thunder, As I leaped the woeful wall, EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. 4-20 And the heavy clouds were settling Over Flodden, like a palll" XII. So he ended. And the others Cared not any answer then; Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow, Sitting anguish-struck, like men Who have seen the roaring torrent Sweep their happy homes away, And yet linger by the margin, Staring wildly on the spray. But, without, the maddening tumult Waxes ever more and more. And the crowd of wailing women Gather round the council door. Every dusky spire is ringing With a dull and hollow knell. And the Miserere's singing To the tolling of the bell. Through the streets the burghers hurry, Spreading terror as they go; And the rampart's thronged with watchers For the coming of the foe. From each mountain-top a pillar Streams into the torpid air. Bearing token from the Border That the English host is there. 430 A Y T U N , All without is flight and terror, All within is woe and fear — God protect thee, Maiden Citj, For thy latest hour is near! XIII. No! not yet, thou high Dunedin! Shalt thou totter to thy fall ; Though thy bravest and thy strongest Are not there to man' the wall. No, not yet ! the ancient spirit Of our fathers hath not gone; Take it to thee as a buckler Better far than steel or stone. Oh, remember those who perished For thy birthright at the time When to be a Scot was treason, And to side with Wallace, crime! Have they not a voice among us. Whilst their hallowed dust is here? Hear ye not a summons sounding From each buried warrior's bier? Up! — they say — and keep the freedom Which we won you long ago: Up! and keep your graves unsullied From the insults of the foe! Up ! and if ye cannot save them. Come to us in blood and fire: EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. 431 Midst the crash of faUing turrets, Let the last of Scots expire! XIV. Still the bells are tolling fiercely, And the cry comes louder in; Mothers wailing for their children, Sisters for their slaughtered kin. All is terror and disorder, Till the Provost rises up, Calm, as though he had not tasted Of the fell and bitter cup. All so stately from his sorrow, Eose the old undaunted Chief, That you had not deemed, to see him, His was more than common grief. "Eouse ye, Sirs!" he said; "we may not Longer mourn for what is done; If our King be taken from us, We are left to guard his son. We have sworn to keej) the city From the foe. what'er they be. And the oath that we have taken Never shall be broke by me. Death is nearer to us, brethren, Than it seemed to those who died, Fighting yesterday at Flodden, Bt their lord and master's side. 482 A Y T U N Let us meet it then in patience, Not in terror or in fear; Thougli our hearts are bleeding yonder, Let our souls be steadfast here. Up, and rouse ye! Time is fleeting, And we yet have much to do; Up, and haste ye through the city. Stir the burghers stout and true! Gather all our scattered people. Fling the banner out once more, — Eandolph Murray ! do thou bear it. As it erst was borne before: ISTever Scottish heart will leave it, When they see their Monarch's gore! XY. "Let them cease that dismal knelling! It is time enough to ring, When the fortress-strength of Scotland Stoops to ruin like its King. Let the bells be kept for warning, Not for terror or alarm ; When they next are heard to thunder, Let each man and stripling arm. Bid the women leave their wailing — • Do they think that woeful strain, From the bloody heaps of Flodden, Can redeem their dearest slain? EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. 433 Bid them cease — or rather hasten To the churches, every one ; There to pray to Mary Mother, And to her anointed Son, That the thnnderbolt above ns May not fall in ruin yet; That in fire and blood and rapine Scotland's glory may not set. Let them pray, — for never women Stood in need of such a prayer! — England's yeomen shall not find them Clinging to the altars there. No ! if we are doomed to perish, Man and maiden, let us fall. And a common gulf of ruin Open wide to whelm us all! Never shall the ruthless spoiler Lay his hot insulting hand On the sisters of our heroes. Whilst we bear a torch or brand J Up ! and rouse ye, then, my brothers— - But w^hen next ye hear the bell Sounding forth the sullen summons That may be our funeral knell, Once more let us meet together. Once more see each other's face ; Then, like men that need not tremble, Go to our appointed place. 28 434 A Y T U N . God, our Father, will not fail "as In tliat last tremendous hour, — If all other bulwarks crumble, He will be our strength and tower: Though the ramparts rock beneath us. And the walls go crashing down, Though the roar of conflagration Bellow o'er the sinking town; There is yet one place of shelter, Where the foeman cannot come. Where the summons never sounded Of the trumpet or the drum. There again we'll meet our children. Who, on Flodden's trampled sod, For their king and for their country Eendered up their souls to God. There shall we find rest and refuge, With our dear departed brave; And the ashes of the city Be our universal grave!" WILLIAM THOM. '"The Ehymes and EecoUections of a Hand-loom Weaver, by "William Thorn, of Inveraiy," published about ten years ago, comprise some pieces Avorthy the genius of Burns. His history is a very remarkable one, which our space will only allow us to glance at. He was a weaver, as the title of his poems indicate, and lived in the little village of Newtyle, near Cupar Angus. The failure of a great commercial house in Amer- ica, silenced, in one week, 6000 looms in Scotland, and spread dismay through the whole country. Thom's earnings had been always small, and out of employment with a family to maintain, he was soon at his wit's end to obtain bread. At a pawnbroker's shop he exchanged the only remaining article of value he had for ten shillings, four of which he expended in books, that he hoped to sell at a profit, and four in arti- cles for his wife to sell, while he retained two for current expenses. Locking up his house, the whole family, consistiug of himself, Avife, and four childi-en, set forth upon the world to seek a living. They suc- ceeded ill in their attempts at trade, and were soon reduced to absolute starvation. One night about nine o'clock, after a hard day's travel, they found themselves without any means to obtain a night's lodging. Leav- ing his family on the roadside, Thom applied at several places for shel- ter, but no one would take them in. Of one of these applications the poet says, " I pleaded the infancy of my family and the lateness of the hour, but 'N'o, no,' was the cruel reply. I returned to my family by the Avayside. They had crept closer together, and all, except the mother, was fast asleep. ' Oh, Willie, Willie, what keepit ye V inquired the trembling Avoman ; ' I'm dootfu o' Jeanie,' she added ; ' is na she Avaesome like ? Let's in frae the cauld.' ' We've nae way to gang lass,' said I, 'whate'er come o' us. Your folk winna hae us.' FeAv more 436 T H M . words passed. I drew her mantle over the wet and chilled sleepers, and sat down beside them." At length a poor man passing by took pity upon them, and though all the accommodation he could offer was an outhouse, they were glad to avail themselves of it. We again quote his own narrative: " I think it must have been between three and four o'clock, when Jean (his wife) awakened me. Oh, that scream ! I think I hear it now. The other children, startled from sleep, joined in fright- ful wail over their deadi sister. Our poor Jeanie had, unobserved by us, sunk, during the night, under the effects of the exposure of the pre- ceding evening, following, as it did, a long course of hardship, too great to be borne by a young frame. I proceeded to awaken the people in the house, who entered at once into our feelings, and did everything which Christian kindness could dictate as proper to be done on the occasion. In an obscure corner of Kinnaird churchyard lies our favorite, little Jeanie." For some months his hardships continued, and his devoted wife sank under the privations to which she was exposed. This was a severe blow, and affected him deeply. During this period of distress and suffering, he had much leisure time, part of which, as a kind of re- lief from its tedium, he spent in writing verses. One of these pieces he sent to the Aberdeen Herald^ which at once attracted attention. He Avas sought out, and his necessities were soon amply relieved. His vol- ume of poems, subsequently published, drew forth the most flattering notices, and had a large sale. It is, perhaps, necessary to add a word of explanation to this rem^ark- able narrative. It may well excite surprise that any family, in a land like Scotland, should be reduced to such a state of suffering ; and still more, that the cause of this suffering should not have been more quickly removed. It must, however, be borne in mind, that this was a time of unusual commercial distress — that the household from whom he so ear- nestly besought a night's lodging for his wretched family, had alread}' sheltered a number, and could not accommodate any more — that his was an extreme case — one perhaps not equalled in suffering by any that ever occurred. It is true that the Scottish peasantry are not a wealthy class, but the industrious and temperate portion live in much simple comfort, and have that " contentment with godliness" which the Apostle Paul pronounces ''great gain." I SAW my true love first on tlie banks of qneenlj Tay, Nor did I deem it yielding mj trembling heart away ; I feasted on lier deep dark eye, and loved it more and more, For oil ! I tliongiit I ne'er liad seen a look so kind before ! I lieard 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 unchanged to me. I saw my true love fade — I heard her latest sigh — I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye ; Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave The markless spot where JJtj creeps around my Jeanie's grave. Move noiseless, gentle Ury ! 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 j^onder sea. Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me. 438 T H M When a' ither bairnies are liiisli'd to tTieir hame, By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand- dame, Wlia stands last an' lanelj, an' sairlj forfairn ? Tis the puir dowie laddie — tlie mitlierless bairn ! The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed, Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head ; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn ! Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there, 0' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair! But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e na the looks o' the mitherless bairn ! The sister wha sang o'er his saftly rock'd bed, Xow rests in the niools where their mamniie is laid; While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn, An' kens no the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour of his birth, Still watches his lone lorn wand'rings on earth, LINES. 439 Eecording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha conthihe deal wi' the mitheiiess bairn ! Oh! speak him na harshly — he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, he blesses your smile: — In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn, That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn ! On hearmg of a ?7cra.an found dead in a ■wretclied liovel, lier child, a 'bey seven years old, sleeping beside lier. ITot a morsel of feed was in the house, "but every mark of suffering and starvation. 'Tis the lone wail of woman, a mother's last woe, And tearless the eye when the soul weepeth so — Xor fuel nor food in yon windowless lair. The sleeping is watched by the dying one there. " Oh, wauken nae, wauken nae, my dowie dear 1 My dead look would wither your wee heart wi' fear : Sleep on till yon cauld moon is set in the sea, Grin mornin', hoo cauld will your wauk'nin' be ! "Ye creep to a breast, Jamie, cauld as the snaw. Ye hang roun' a heart, Jamie, sinkin' awa' ; 440 THOM. I'm laitL, laitb to leave ye. thougli fain w<:^aid T dee Gin Heaven vrould lai mj lost laddie m me !" Awaken, lone trembler, tlie moon lias no light. And tlie gray glint of morning drives back the fell niglil Her last look is fixing in jon frozen tear — Awaken, lone trembler, tlij home is not here ! Tlie deatk-grasj) awoke him — the strn.ggle is o'er, He moans to tlie ear tliat will listen no more : " You're canlder than me, mitker, cauld tkougk I be. And that look is nae like jour ain look to me. " I dreamt bow my father came back fra the deid. An waesome an' eerie the looks that he gied ; He wjled ye awa' till ye sindered frae me — Oh, hap me, my mither, I'm canld — ^like to dee !" The morning breaks bonnie o'er mountain an' stream. An' troubles the hallowed breath o' my dream ; The good light of morning is sweet to the ee ; But ghost-gathering midnight, thon'rt dearer to me : The dull common world then sinks from my sight, An' fairer creations arise to the night ; D R E A M I X G S OF THE BEREAVED. j.^^ Wlien drowsy oppression has sleep -sealed my ee, Then bright are the yisions awaken'd to me ! • O ! come Spirit-Mother — discourse of the hours, My 3'oung bosom beat all its beatings to yours ; When heart-TToyen wishes in soft counsel fell On ears — ^how unheedfal proy'd sorrow might tell ! That deathless affection — nae trial could break, When a' else forsook me ye wouldna forsake ; Then come, O my mother ! come often to me, An' soon an' foreyer I'll come unto thee. An' thou shrouded loyeliness ! soul- winning Jean, How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen ! 'Twas kind — ^for the lowe that your ee kindled there. Will burn — ay an' burn — 'till that breast beats nae mair. Our bairnies sleep round me, bless ye their sleep ! Your ain dark-ee'd Wilhe will wauken an' weep ; But blithe in his weepin', hell tell me how you His heayen-hamed mammie was " dawtin' his brou/' Tho' dark be our dwelhng — our happing tho' bare, And night creeps around us in cauldness and care. Affection will warm us ; for bright are the beams That halo our hame in 3'on dear land of dreams : Then weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign — Wi' soids of the dearest I mingle me then ? The goud light of morning is lightless to me, But O for the nio-ht wi' its o;host reyelrie ! TO J. KOBERTSOX, ESQ. London, June^ 1843. '•Instantly ou receipt of yours, expressing a wish to see some of my pieces, I made search and recovered copies of a few which had been printed by friends for private circulation. En- closed is one piece written about two years ago, my wife lately before having died in childbed. At the time of her decease, although our dwelling was at Inverury, my place of employment was in a village nine miles distant, whence I came once 'a, fortnight, to enjoy the inefifable couthie- ness that swims around " ane's ain fireside," and is nowhere else to be found. For many months, in that we knew comfort and happiness — our daughter Betsy, about ten years of age, was in country service ; two boys, younger still, kept at home with their mother. The last Sabbath we ever met, Jean spoke calmly and earnestly of matters connected with our little home and family — bade me remain a day or two with them yet, as she felt a foreboding that the approaching event would be too much for her enfeebled constitution. It was so. She died two days thereafter. Ou returning from the kirkyard, t shut up our desolate dwelling, and never more owned it as a home. We were but as strangers in the village, so the elder boy and I put over that night in a common tramp house. A neighbor undertook to keep the other little fellow, but he, somehow, slipped away tmobscrved, and was found fast asleep at the door of our lenantless home. Next morning, having secured a boarding-house for him (the youngest), I took the road to resume labor at the usual place— poor, soft-hearted Willie by ray side — a trifle of sad thinking within, and the dowie mists of Benachie right before me. We travelled off our road some miles to the glen where Betsy was ' herdin'." Poor Bet knew nothing of what had happened at Inverury. Her mother had visited her three weeks before — had promised to return with some wearables, for winter was setting in fast and bitterly. The day and verj" hour we approached her bleak residence, that was their trysted time. She saw us as we stood on the knowe hesitating — ran towards us—" Oh ! whaur is my milher ? foo is nae she here ? Speak, father ! speak, Willie !" Poetry, indeed ! Poetry, I fear, has little to do with moments like these. Oh, no ! When the bewildering gush has passed away, and a kind of gray light has settled on the ruin, one may then number the drops as they fall, but the cisterns of sorrow echo not when full — hence my idealized address to Willie was written long after the event that gave it existence. With feelings more tranquil, and condition every wav better, it came thus : — '* The ae dark spot in this loveless "world, That spot maun ever be, Willie, Whaiir slie sat an' danted jonr bonnie brown hair, An' lithely looket to me, Willie ; An' oh ! my heart owned a' the power Of your mither's gifted e'e, Willie. LETTER TO MR. ROBERTSOJs. 443 There's now nae blink at our slacken'd hearth, Nor kindred breathing there, WiUie ; But cold and still our hame of death, Wi' its darkness evermair, Willie ; For she wha Hved in our love, is cauld, An' her grave the stranger's lair, "Willie The sleepless nicht, the dowie dawn, A' stormy though it be, Willie, Ye'll buckle ye in your weet wee plaid, An' wander awa' wi' me, Willie ; Your lanesome sister little kens Sic tidings we hae to gie, Willie. The promised day, the trysted hour. She'll strain her watchfii' e'e, Willie ; Seeking that mither's look of love, She never again maun see, Willie ; Kiss ye the tear frae her whitening cheek, An' speak awhile for me, Willie. Look kindly, kindly when ye meet. But speak nae of the dead, Wilhe ; An' when your heart would gar you greet Aye turn awa' your head, Willie ; That waesome look ye look to me Would gar her young heart bleed, Willie. 444 T H M . Whane'er she names a mither's name, All' sairly pressetli tliee, Willie, Oil ! tell lier of a liappy liame Far, far o'er eartli an' sea, Willie ; All' ane that waits to welcome them, Her hameless bairns, an' me, Willie. ROBERT CHAMBERS. Few inen ]iave done so much for their native land as William and Robert Chambers. Rarely, too, do we meet literary talent and business skill combined in the same individuals to the extent that is in their case. Though Robert is the poet, and, in fact, the most eminent as a literary man, yet they have both labored successfulh^, and their labors having been generally combined, it is difficult to separate them. Their opera- tions as booksellers commenced in Leith about thirty-five years ago, from which place they subsequently removed into Edinburgh. To eke out the profits of bookselling, William taught himself the art of printing, and not only printed, but bound, with his own hands, the entire edition of the first publication they undertook. They were remarkably indus- trious, toiling late and early at their business. Robert's first work was the " Traditions of Edinburgh," the best work ever wTitten on the subject. This was followed by the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," "The Picture of Scotland," the "Histories of the Scottish RebeUions," in three volumes, a "Life of James I.," and a "Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Scotchmen," in four large volumes ; and at a later period his great work the "Encyclopaedia of English Literature." William, in the meantime, was not idle. He was engaged on the "Book of Scotland," a w^ork of great value, and a "Gazetteer of Scotland," decidedly the best ever prepared. Their great enterprise, a joint one, the publication of the "Edinburgh Journal," is their most useful as well as most successful woi'k. After an existence of more than twenty years, this periodical, notwithstanding the appearance of many rivals and imitators, has now a circulation of more than sixty thousand copies weekly. In connection with this, their various publi- cations all issued at a very low rate, and thus adapted to the means 446 CHAMBERS. of tlie Iminblest individuals, have been unprecedentedly popular. Of the "-Information for the People," one of their most useful publications, thirty thousand of each number was sold as it appeared, and it has had a large sale since it was completed. They now employ one hundred and eighty persons, and have ten printing presses in their mammoth establishment. This forms a curious contrast with the little shop and the hand press of William Chambers thirty years ago. A strong love of their native country characterizes both brothers, as evidenced in their writings. "William has recently pm-chased the house in which they spent their boyhood in Peebleshire, and an adjoining estate where he resides during the summer. Eobert still lives in Edin- burgh. They have assisted many a youthful genius struggling with poverty, and been the means, by their Journal, of developing much latent talent among the Scottish peasantry. Scotland! tlie land of all I love, The land of all that love me; Land, whose green sod my youth has trod, Whose sod shall lie above me. Hail, country of the brave and good; Hail, land of song and story; Land of the nncorrupted 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 nourished; Land of anticipated joy, And all by memory cherished! Oh Scotland, through thy wide domain What hill, or vale, or river, 448 C II A M B E R S . But in this fond enthusiast heart Has found a place forever? Nay, hast thou but a glen or shaw, To shelter farm or shelling, That is not fondly garnered 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 childhood plays and ponders. Is freshened by the lightsome 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 "bonny broom." The thistle, and the heather; The blue-bell, and the gowan fair, Which childhood likes to gather. Oh for that pipe of silver sound. On which the shepherd lover, SCOTLAND. 449 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! And 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 thing Has taken consecration! Scotland! the land of all I love, The land of all that love me; Land, whose green sod ray youth has trod, Whose sod shall lie above me Hail, country of the brave and good; Hail, land of song and story; Land of the uncorrupted heart, Of ancient foith and glory ! 29 450 CHAMBERS. 10 fl lUIlg S0l!.-a.l £xtnct. My winsome one, my gallant one, so fair, so liappj now, With thy bonnet set so proncUy npon tliy shining brow, With thy fearless bounding motions, and thy laugh of thoughtless glee, So circled by a father's love Avhich wards each ill from thee ! Can I suppose another time, when this shall all be o'er, And thy cheek shall wear the ruddy badge of happiness no more ; When all who now delight in thee, far elsewhere shall have gone. And thou shalt pilgrimize through life, unfriended and alone. Without an aid to strengthen or console thy troubled mind, Save the memory of the love of those who left thee thus behind ? CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D CiiAELEs !Mackay, a British poet and journalist, was born in Pertli in 1812, and gained a valuable portion of his education in Belgium, Avbere, in 1830, be was a witness of the startling events of tbe revolution there. In 1834, he published a small volume of poems, which was the means of introducing him to the notice of John Black, the editor of the " horn- ing Chronicle," through whose instrumentality he became connected with that paper. After being connected with the "AEorning Chronicle" for about nine years, during which time he published a small volume of poems, the principal of which was " The Hope of the 'World," he be- came editor of the "Glasgow Argus," entering upon his duties in Sep- tember, 1844:. He relinquished the conduct of that paper at the general election in 1847. In 1846, the Glasgow University conferred the title of doctor of laws upon Mi*. Mackay by unanimous vote. He now writes the chief leading articles for the '"Illustrated London Xews." Mr. Mackay has published several volumes of poems— '• The Salamandrine ;" " Legends of the Isles ;" " Egeria ;" " Town Lyi-ics ;" " Voices from the Crowd;" "Voices from the Mountains," &c., &c., and also several works in prose, the best knoAvn of which is, his " Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions." Mex of tliouglit ! be up, and stirring Niglit and day: Sow tlie seed — withdravv^ tlie curtain — • Clear the way! Men of action, aid and clieer tliem, As ye may ! There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow. There's a flower about to blow ; There's a midnight blackness changing Into gray. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way! Once the welcome light has broken, Who shall say What the unimagined glories Of the day ? What the evil that shall perish Tn its ray? 454 M A C K A Y . Aid tlie dawning, tongue and pen ; Aid it, hopes of lionest men ; Aid it, paper — aid it, type — Aid it, for the hour is ripe, And our earnest must not slacken Into play. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way! Lo ! a cloud's about to Vanish From the day ; xlnd a brazen wrong to crumble Into clay. Lo ! the right's about to conquer : Clear the way ! With the right shall many more Enter smiling at the door ; With the giant wrong shall fall - Many others great and small. That for ages long have held us For their prey. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way ! THE LIGHT IX T U E WINDOW. ^q-j Late or early liome returning, In tlie starlight or tlie rain, I beheld that lonely candle Shining from his window-pane. Ever o'er his tattered curtain, Kightly looking, I could scan. Aye inditing — ^writing — writing. The pale figure of a man ; Still discern behind him fall The same shadow on the wall. Far beyond the murky midnight, By dim burning of my oil, Filling aye his rapid leaflets, I have watched him at his toil ; "Watched his broad and sunny forehead. Watched his w^hite industrious hand, Ever passing and repassing : Watched and strove to understand What impelled it — gold, or fame — Bread, or bubble of a name. 456 M A C K A Y . Oft I've asked, debating vainly In tlie silence of my mind, What the services he rendered To his country or his kind ; Whether tones of ancient music, Or the sound of modern gong. Wisdom holy, humors lowly. Sermon, essay, novel, song, Or philosophy sublime, Filled the measure of his time. Of the mighty world of London He w^as portion unto me. Portion of my life's experience, Fused into my memorj^ Twilight saw him at his folios Morning saw his fingers run. Laboring ever, wearying never Of the task he had begun ; Placid and content he seemed, Like a man that toiled and dreamed. No one sought him, no one know him Undistinguished was his name ; Never had his praise been uttered By the oracles of fame. Scanty fare and decent raiment, Humble lodging, and a fire — THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 457 These he sought for, these he w^rought for, And he gained his meek desire ; Teaching men b}" written word — Clinging to a hope deferred. So he lived. At last I missed him ; Still might evening twdlight fall, But no taper lit his lattice — Laj no shadow on his w^all. In the winter of his seasons, In the midnight of his day, 'Mid his writing, and inditing, Death had beckoned him away, Ere the sentence he had planned Found completion at his hand. But this man so old and nameless Left behind him projects large. Schemes of progress undeveloped. Worthy of a nation's charge ; Noble fancies uncompleted. Germs of beauty immatured, Only needing kindly feeding To have flourished and endured ; Meet reward in golden store To have lived for evermore. Who shall tell w^hat schemes majestic Perish in the active brain ? 458 M A C K A Y What humanity is robbed of, Ne'er to be restored again ? What we lose because we honor Overmuch the mighty dead, And dispirit living merit, Heaping scorn upon its head ? Or perchance, when kinder grown. Leaving it to die — alone ? A TRAVELLER through a dusty road. Strewed acorns on the lea, And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening time, To breathe its early vows. And Age was pleased, in heats of noon. To bask beneath its boughs : The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore ; It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore ! LITTLE AT FIRST — BUT GREAT AT LAST. 459 A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern ; A passing stranger scoop' d a well, Where weary men might turn ; He wall'd it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink — He thought not of the deed he did, But judg'd that toil might drink. He pass'd again — and lo ! the well. By summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside ! A dreamer dropp'd a random thought ; 'Twas old, and yet was new — A simple fancy of the brain. But strong in being true ; It shone upon a genial mind, And lo ! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame. The thought was small — ^its issue gTeat: A watch-fire on the hill, It sheds its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still ! A nameless man, amid a crowd That throng'd the daily mart, 4t)0 M A C K A Y . Let fall a word of Hope and Love, Unstudied, from the lieart ; A whisper on the tumult thrown — A transitory breath — It raised a brother from the dust. It saved a soul from death. O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! thought at random cast ! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last ! ALEXANDER SMITH As tliis voliime was going throiigli tlie press, a new and brilliant star in the poetical firmament has appeared, one, too, which fairly dazzles with its brightness. Smith (dubious name) is, we understand, a clerk in a mercantile house In Glasgow, but it is not likely that a person of such marked genius will long continue a business man. The volume now published consists of one long poem, full of passages of I'are beauty, entitled the "Drama of Life," and a few short poems and son- nets. The press, both of Britain and America, have been enthusiastic in its praise. The London "Leader," in a recent number, says: — " Our readers know the chariness with which we use the terms genius and poet, terms so prodigally scattered through the periodicals of the day that they almost lose their significance — like an old piece of money fingered through miscellaneous commerce till the e-ffigies be scarcely ti-aceable — when, therefore, we say that Alexander Smith is a poet and a man of unmistakable genius, we are giving praise beyond the power of epithets. That he has many faults and shortcomings we admit; but these are so obvious, they lie so on the surface of his writing, that we do not care to dwell on them; and we shall better consult the reader's [deasure by reserving our space for extracts that will display the luxu- riant imagery and exquisite felicity of expression which herald in him the great poet he will be when age and ripe experience lend their graver accents to his verse. "At present the subjects he delights to paint are the stars, the sea, the rivulets, and boyish love. Full as his poems are of love, however, the love is only that of young desire quickened by an aesthetic sen^e of beauty ; companionship of spirits he does not yet conceive. This it is 462 SMITH. which the young poet sings of, because this, and this only has he felt. He is but one-and-twenty ! " One cannot say much for the substance of his poems; but their form is exquisitely poetical. He has nothing to sing of but N'ature and his own emotions. He makes his Muse a harpsichord whereon he plays fragments of melody, practising his hand till some great ' symphony of song be born within him' " The fierce exulting worlds, tlie motes in rajs, The cliurlisli thistles, scented briars, The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes, Down to the central fires, Exist ahke in Love. Love is a sea. Filling all the abysses dim Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally Suns and their bright broods swim. This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides, Is sternly just to sun and grain ; 'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides, — 'Tis in my blood and brain. All things have something more than barren use; There is a scent upon the briar, A tremulous splendor in the autumn dews. Cold morns are fringed with fire ; The clodded earth goes up in sweet breathed flowers In music dies poor human speech. 46J: S M I T IJ . And into beauty blow tliose hearts of ours, When Love is born in each. Life is transfigured in the soft and tender Light of Love, as a volume dun Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathed splendor In the declining sun. Driven from cities by his restless moods, In incense glooms and secret nooks, A miser o'er his gold — ^the lover broods O'er vague words, earnest looks. Oft is he startled on the sweetest lip: Across his midnight sea of mind A thought comes streaming, like a blazing ship Upon a mighty wind. A Terror and a Griory! shocked with light. His boundless being glares aghast; Then slowly settles down the wonted night. All desolate and vast. Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears, the clouds lean down and give. This world is very lovely. my God, I thank Thee that I live! LOVE. 4,Qo Ringed with liis flaming guards of many kinds, The proud Sun stoops his golden head, Gray Eve sobs crazed vith grief; to her the winds Shriek out, "The Day is dead." I gave this beggar Day no alms, this Xight Has seen nor work accomplished, planned, Yet this poor Day shall soon in Memory's light A Summer rainbow stand! There is no evil in this present strife; From the shivering Seals low moans. Up through the shining tiers and ranks of life; To stars upon their thrones. The seeming ills are Loves in dim disguise ; Dark moral knots, that pose the seer. If we are lovers, in our wider eyes Shall hang like dew-drops clear. Ye are my menials, ye thick crowding years ! Ha ! yet with a triumphant shout My spirit shall take captive all the spheres, And wring their riches out. God! what a glorious future gleans on me, With nobler senses, nobler peers, 30 466 SMITH. Til wing me tlirougli Creation like a bee, And taste the gleaming spheres ! While some are trembling o'er the poison cup, While some grow lean with care, some weep. In this luxurious faith I'll wrap me up, As in a robe, and sleep. Like a wild lover, who has found his love Worthless and foul, our friend, the sea, has left His paramour the shore; naked she lies, Uglj and black and bare. Hark how he moans I The pain is in his heart. . Inconstant fool ! He will be upon her breast to-morrow As eager as to-day. Better for man. Were he and Nature more familiar friends ! His part is worst that touches this base world. Although the ocean's inmost heart be pure, Yet the salt fringe that daily licks the shore Is gross with sand. THE SEA 457 Love lights upon the heart, and straight we feel More worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eje, Than in the rich heart of the miser sea. I am alone. The past is past. / see the future stretch All darh and barren as a rainy sea. He was unlanguaged, like the earnest sea, Which strives to gain an utterance on the shore. But ne'er can shape unto the listening hills The love it gathered in its awful eje. We twain have met like ships upon the sea. Who hold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet ; One little hour! and then away thej speed On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam, To meet no more. The bridegroom sea. Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride. And in the fulness of his marriage joy, He decorates her tawny brow with shells, Ketires a space, to see how fair she looks, Then proud runs up to kiss her. Nature cares not, Althousfh her loveliness should ne'er be seen -IQS SMITH. By liiiman eyes, nor praised by liuman tongues. The Cataract exults among the Mis, And wears its crown of rainbows all alone, Libel tlie ocean on his tawny sands, Write verses in Ms praise, — the unmoved sea Erases both alike. Alas, for man ! Unless his fellows can behold his deeds, He cares not to be great. Whek the heart-sick earth Turns her broad back upon the gaudy Sun, And stoops her weary forehead to the night. To struggle with her sorrow all alone. The Moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain, Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow, Till she is calm. You've sat the night out Masters! see, the moon Lies stranded on the pallid coast of morn. WALTER. The san is dying like a cloven king In his own blood; the while the distant moon, THE MOON. 4g9 Like a pale prophetess, whom he has wronged, Leans eager forward with most hungry eyes. Watching him bleed to death, and, as he faints. She brightens and dilates; revenge complete, She walks in lonely triumph through the night. YIOLET. Give not such hateful passion to the orb That cools the heated lands ; that ripes the fields While sleep the husbandmen, then hastes away Ere the first step of dawn, doing all good In secret and the night. A mighty purpose rises large and slow From out the fluctuations of my soul, As, ghost-like, from the dim and tumhling sea Starts the completed moon. I read and read Until the sun lifted his cloudy lids And shot wild light along the leaping deep. Then closed his eyes in death. I shed no tear, I laid it down in silence, and went forth Burdened with its sad thoughts : slowly I went ; And, as I wandered through the deepening gloom, I saw the pale and penitential moon Rise from dark waves that plucked at her, and go Sorrowful up the sky. 470 SMITH So be it, large lie sinks ! Eepentant day Free's with his dying hand the palhd stars He held imprisoned since. his young hot dawn 'Now watch with what a silent step of fear They steal out one by one, and overspread The cool delicious meadows of the night. See yon poor star That shudders o'er the mournful hill of pines ! 'Twould almost make you weep, it seems so sad. 'Tis like an orphan trembling with the cold, Over his mother's grave amongst the pines. As when, upon a racking night, the wind Draws the pale curtains of the vapory clouds. And shows those wonderful mysterious voids, Throbbing with stars like pulses. This wood I've entered oft when all is sheen The princely Morning walks o'er diamond dews, And still have lingered, till the vain young Night Trembles o^er her own beauty in the sea. NURSERY RHYMES. It may excite surprise in some minds tliat the following simple Xnr- sery Ehymes should be inserted in a volume of this kind, but we think no one can read these beautiful little pieces without feeling that Lord Jeffrey is right when, alluding to the volume from which these are se- lected ("Songs for the Nursery"), he says, "That there are more touches of genuine pathos, more felicities of idiomatic expression, more happy poetical images, and, above all, more sweet and engaging pictures of what is peculiar in the depth, softness, and thoughtfulness of our Scotch domestic affection, in this extraordinary little volume, than I have met with in anything like the same compass since the days of Burns." i»£ moii^mm' iiisa^. WILLIAM MILLER. Our wean's tlie most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw, It would tak' me a long summer day to tell a' His pranks, frae ttie morning till night shuts his ee, When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me. For in his quiet turns, siccan questions he'll speir : — How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear? What gars the wdnd blaw ? and whar frae comes the rain ? He's a perfect divert — ^he's a wonderfu' wean. Or who was the first bodie's father ? and wha Made the very first snaw-shower that ever did fa' ? And who made the first bird that sang on a tree ? And the water that sooms a' the ships in the sea ? — But after I've told him as weel as I ken Again he begins wi' his who ? and his when ? And he looks aye so watchfu' the while I explain, — He's as auld as the hills — ^he's an auld-farrant wean. And folk who ha'e skill o' the lumps on the head, Hint there's mae ways than toiling o' winning ane's bread ; 474 NURSERY RHYMES. How he'll be a ricli man, and lia'e men to work for liim, Wi' a kjte like a baillie's, sling skngging afore him ; Wi' a face like the moon, sober, sonsy, and donee, And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a honse. 'Tweel I'm nnco ta'en np wi't, thej mak' a' sae plain ; — He's just a town's talk — he's a bv-ord'nar wean ! I ne'er can forgit sic a langh as I gat. To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat ; Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far ower his knees, The tap loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease, Then he march'd thro' the honse, he march'd but, he march'd ben, Like ower mony mae o' our great-little men, That I leugh clean outright, for I couldna contain, He was sic a conceit — sic an ancient-like wean. But mid a' his dafiin' sic kindness he shows, That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose ; And the nnclouded hinnie-beam aye in his ee, Mak's him every day dearer and dearer to me. Though fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour, And gloom throngh her fingers, like hills through a shower, When bodies ha'e got a bit bairn o' their ain. How he cheers up their hearts, — he's the wonderfu' wean. NURSERY RHYMES. 475 ^llll^ ii}l%%lg. WILLIAM MILLER. Wee Willie Winkie rins tlirougli tlie town, Up stairs and doon stairs in his nicht-gown, Tilling at tlie window, crying at tlie lock, "Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock?" "Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben? The cat's singing gray thrums to the sleeping hen. The dog's spelder'd on the floor, and disna gi'e a cheep, But here's a waukrife laddie ! that winna fa' asleep." Ony thing but sleep, you rogue ! glow'ring like the moon, Battling in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon. Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock, Skirhng like a kenna-what, wauk'ning sleeping fock. " Hey, Willie Winkie — ^the wean's in a creel ! Wambling aff a bodie's knee like a very eel. Rugging at the cat's lug, and raveling a' her thrams — Hey, Willie Winkie — ^see, there he comes !" 476 NURSERY RHYMES. Wearied is tlie mitber that lias a storie wean, A wee stumpy stoussie, that canna rin liis lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep before be'll close an ee — But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gives strength anew to me. Jif£ SJ£££l) JLSaSIE "WILLIAM: MILLER. Are ye no gann to waiiken the day, ye rogue ? Your parritch is ready and cool in the cog, Auld baudrons sae gaucy, and Tarn o' that ilk AYould fain ha'e a drap o' the wee laddie's milk. There's a wee birdie singing — get up, get up ! And listen, it says tak' a whup, tak' a whup! But I'll kittle his bosie — a far better plan — And pouther his pow wi' a watering can. There's a house redd up like a palace, I'm sure, That a pony might dance a jig on the floor ; And father is coming, so wauken and meet, And welcome him hame wi' your kisses sae sweet. It's far i' the day now, and brawly ye ken. Your father has scarcely a minute to spen' ; NURSERY RHYMES. 477 But ae blink o' his wifie and bairn on her knee, He says lightens his toil, tho' sair it may be. So up to your parritch, and on wi' your claes ; There's a fire that might warm the cauld Norian braes ; For a coggie weel fill'd and a clean fire-en' Should mak' ye jump up, and gae skelping ben. Wii li ll ,//'/, I'll H 478 NFRSERY RHYMES, i^osbi eijgg%u ^ffig$. JAMES BALLANTYNE. Come awa', mj bairiiie, for your bawbee Kosy cheekit apples ye shall lia'e three. A' sae fou' o' binny, they drappit frae the tree ; Like your bonny sel', a' the sweeter they are wee. Come awa', my bairnie, dinna shake your head, Ye mind me o' my ain bairn, lang, lang, dead. Ah ! for lack o' nourishment he drappit frae the tree ; Like your bonny sel', a' the sweeter he was wee. Oh ! auld frail folk are like auld fruit trees ; They canna stand the gnarl o' the cauld winter breeze. But heaven tak's the fruit tho' earth forsake the tree ; And we mourn our fairy blossoms, a' the sweeter they were wee. Come awa', my bairnie, for your bawbee Eosy cheekit apples ye shall ha'e three. A' sae fou' o' hinny, they drappit frae the tree ; Like your bonny sel', a' the sweeter they are wee. NURSERY RIIYxMES. 479 m mmm seam im immss. JAMES BALLANTYNE. " Come, callans, quit sic cruel sport ; for shame, for sliame, gi'e ower ! That poor lialf-witted creature yeVe been fighting wi' this hour ; What pleasure ha'e ye seeing him thus lay his bosom bare ? Ye maunna scaith the feckless 1 they're God's peculiar care. "The wild flower seeks the shady dell, and shuns the mountain's brow, Dark mists may gather ower the hills, while sunshine glints below ; And, oh! the canker-worm oft feeds on cheek o' beauty fair, — Ye maunna scaith the feckless ! they're God's peculiar care. " The sma'est things in nature are feckless as they're sma'. They tak' up unco little space — ^there's room enough for a' ; And this poor witless wanderer, I'm sure ye'd miss him sair — Ye maunna scaith the feckless ! they'ra God's peculiar care. 4S0 NURSERY RHYMES. " There's some o' ye may likely ha'e, at home, a brother dear, Whose wee bit helpless, mournfu' greet ye canna thole to hear ; And is there ane among ye but your best wi' him would share ? — Ye maunna scaith the feckless 1 they're God's peculiar care." The callans' een were glist wi' tears, they gazed on ane anither, They felt what they ne'er felt before, ''the feckless was their brither !" They set him on a sunny seat, and stroked his gowden hair — The bairnies felt the feckless was Grod's peculiar care. ^'^0 rif£1]'S QbfH111]£JJj[^e ALEXANDER SMART. DAVIE. ' Father, settle Sandy ! He's making mou's at me, tie's aye plague, plaguing. And winna let me be ; ' NURSERY RHYMES. 431 And syne lie looks so simple-like Whene'er he thinks he's seen, But just as soon's you're out o' sight Hes making mou's again. "Father, settle Sandy! He's crying names to me, He's aye tig, tigging. And winna let me be ; But sae sly, he hands his tongue Whene'er he kens ye're near, And says't again below his breath, That nane but me can hear." SANDY. "Father, settle Davie! It's him that winna gree. He's aye jeer, jeering, And lay's the blame on me ; I danrna speak, I daurna look, I daurna move a limb, For if I gi'e a wee bit laugh He says I laugh at him." FATHEK. " LEARN to be loving, and kindly agree, At home all as happy as brothers should be, Ere distance may part you, or death may divide. And leave yon to sigh o'er a lonely fireside. 31 482 NURSERY RHYMES. '' The sweet look of kindness, tlie peace-speaking tongue, So pleasant and lovely in old or in young, Will win the affections of all that you see, And make you still dearer to mother and me. '' But ! if divided by distance or death, How sore would it grieve you till life's latest breath, That anger or discord should ever have been, Or aught but affection two brothers between." A BROTHER'S DEATH. " I HAD a brother dear who died In childhood's opening bloom, And many a sad and tender thought Springs from his early tomb ; And still the sad remembrance comes. With all its former woe, Although my little brother died Full thirty years ago. " It comes with all the tenderness Of childhood's gentle hours. When hand in hand we roved along To cull gay summer flowers ; Or wandered through the old church-yard, Beneath the smiling sky, And played among the lowly graves Where he was soon to lie ! NUESERY RHYMES. 433 I see him yet witb. locks of gold, And ejes of heavenly blue, With pale, pale brow, though ruddy cheeks — Twin roses bathed in dew. And when he pined in sore disease, I thought my heart would break, I could have laid me down and died Most gladly for his sake. " And well do I remember still, Beneath the starry sky, * In childish fancy I have traced His bright abode on high ; I kncAV his spirit was in heaven, And from some lovely star I thought his gentle eye looked down And saw me from afar ! " In solitude, at evening hour, I've found it sad and sweet. To muse among the dear old scenes Trod by his little feet ; And many an old frequented spot. Where we were wont to play, Was hallowed by remembrance still In manhood's riper day. " A bank there was with wild flowers gay, And whins all blooming- round. 484 NURSEKY RHYMES. "Where once upon a summer day A small bird's nest we found, I haunted so that sacred spot, And paced it o'er and o'er, Mj well-worn footprints on the grass For many a day it bore. ''And I have gazed upon his grave, While tears have dimmed my eye, To think that one so young and fair In that low bed should lie ; Should lie unconscious of our woe. Of all our love and care, Unconscious of the summer sun That shone so sweetly there. "And I have lingered on the spot, When years had rolled away, And seen his little grave upturned To mix with kindred clay. Cold dust alone remained of all Our former joy and pride, And they who loved and mourned for him. Now slumber by his side." NURSERY RHYMES. 485 10Iif£i^'8 2gl JOHN CRAWFORD, Mothek's bairnie, motlier's dawtie, Wee wee steering stumping tottie, Bonnie dreamer, — guileless glee Lights tliy black and laughing e'e. Frae tbj rosy dimpled clieek — Frae thy lips sae saft and sleek, Aulder heads than mine might learn Truths worth kennino:, bonnie bairn. "O Grabbing fairie ! fondly smiling I A' a mother's cares beguiling ; Peacefu' may thy fortune be, Blythesome braird o' purity. Ke'er may poortith cauld and eerie Mak thy heart o' kindness wearie; Nor misfortune, sharp and stern, Blight thy bloom, my bonnie bairn. Stourie, stoussie, gaudie brierie ! Dinging sJ things tapsalteerie ; 486 NURSEEY RHYMES. Jumping at tlie sunny slieen, Flickering on tliy pawkj een. Frisking, lisping, fleeching fay, Dinna towt poor baudrons sae! Frae her purring kindness learn "What ye awe me, bonnie bairn. lE^'i\% yOlfl^ J£S§01f ALEX. SMART. ^Te'll no learn your lesson by greeting, my man. Ye'U never come at it by greeting, my man, No ae word can ye see, for the tear in your ee, But just set your heart till't, for brawly ye can. If ye'll like your lesson, it's sure to like you, The words then so glibly would jump to your mou', Ilk ane to its place a' the ithers would chase. Till the laddie would wonder how clever he grew. who would be counted a dunse or a snool. To gape like a gomeral, and greet like a fool, Sae fear'd, like a coof, for the taws ower his loof, And laugh'd at by a' the wee bairns in the school! NUKSERY RHYMES. 487 Ye'll greet till ye greet yoursel' stupid and blind, And then no a word in tlie morning ye'll mind ; But cheer up your heart, and ye'll soon ha'e your part, For a' things come easy when bairns are inclin'd. S lOIifll^'S 6|li^£8 S1IS J0IJLS W. FERGUSON. Waukrife wee thing, 0! I'm wearie Warsling wi' you late and ear', Turning a' things tapsalteerie. Tearing mutches, towzling hair. Stumping wi' your restless feetie, Ettling, like the lave, to gang; Frae the laughter to the greetie, Changing still the hale day lang. Now wi' whisker'd baudrons playing, By the ingle becking snug, Now its wee bit leggie laying O'er the sleeping collie dog ; Thumping now its patient minnie, Scaulding syne its bonnie sel', Then wi' kisses, sweet as hinnie, Saying mair than tongue can tell. 488 NURSERY R H Y xM E S . 0, its wearie, wearie winkers, Close they'll no for a' my skill, Wide they'll glower, thae blue bit blinkers, Thougli the sun's ayont the bill. Little tbey for seasons caring. Morning, gloamin', nigbt, or noon, Lang's tbey dow, they'll aye keep staring, Heeding neither sun nor moon. E'en when sound we think him sleeping In his cozie cradle-bed, K we be na silence keeping, Swith! he's gleg as ony gled. If the hens but gi'e a cackle, If the cock but gie a craw, If the wind the w^indow shake, he'll Skirl like wild aboon them a'. Who a mother's toils may number? Who a mother's cares may feel? Let her bairnie wake or slumber. Be it sick or be it well ! 0! her heart had need be tender, And her love had need be Strang, Else the lade she bears would bend her Soon the drearie mools amang. NURSERY RHYMES. 439 M. L, DUNCAN. I WALKED in a field of fresli clover this morn, Where lambs played so merrily under tlie trees, Or rubbed tbeir soft coats on a naked old tborn, Or nibbled the clover, or rested at ease. And under the bedge ran a clear water-brook, To drink from, when thirsty, or weary with play: So gay did the daisies and butter-cups look. That I thought little lambs must be happy all day And, when I remember the beautiful psalm. That tells about Christ and his pastures so green: I know he is willing to make me his lamb. And happier far than the lambs I have seen. If I drink of the waters, so peacefal and still, That flow in this field, I forever shall live; If I love him, and seek his commands to fulfil, A place in his sheepfold to me he will give. 490 NURSERY RHYMES. The lambs are at peace in tlie fields when thej play, The long summer's day in contentment they spend ; But happier I, if in God's holy way, I try to walk always, with Christ for my friend. M. L DUNCAN. MAMMA. The candles are lighted, the fire blazes bright, The curtains are drawn to keep out the cold air; What makes you so grave, little darling, to-night? And where is your smile, little quiet one, where? CHILD. Mamma, I see something so dark on the wall, It moves up and down, and it looks very strange; Sometimes it is large, and sometimes it is small ; Pray, tell me what is it, and why does it change? MAMMA. It is mamma's shadow that puzzles you so. And there is your own close beside it, my love ; Now run round the room, it will go where you go ; When you sit 't will be still, when you rise it will move. NURSERY RHYMES. 491 CHILD. I don't like to see it, do please let me ring For Betsy to take all the shadows away. MAMMA. No; Betsy oft carries a heavier thing, But she could not lift this, should she try a whole day. These wonderful shadows are caused by the light, From fire, and from candles, upon us that falls; Were we not sitting here, all that place would be bright. But the light can't shine through us, you know, on the walls. And, when you are out some fine day in the sun, I'll take you where shadows of apple-trees lie ; And houses and cottages too, every one Casts a shade when the sun's shining bright in the sky, Now hold up your mouth, and give me a sweet kiss. Our shadows kiss too! don't you see it quite plain? CHILD. O yes ! and I thank you for telling me this I I'll not be afraid of a shadow again. 492 NURSERY RHYMER a I £a)£i(iifa 2?^^\jg^ M. L. DUNCAN. Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me! Bless thy little lamb to-night ! Through the darkness be thou near me, "Watch my sleep till morning light ! All this day thy hand has led me, And I thank thee for thy care; Thou hast clothed me, warmed and fed me Listen to my evening prayer. Let my sins be all forgiven ! Bless the friends I love so well! Take me, when I die, to heaven, Happy there with thee to dwell ! MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. I»£ JSliS 0' Iif£ Ji£SI I'm wearing awa', Jean, Like snaw when it is thaw, Jean ; I'm wearing awa', Jean, To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair, Jean, In the land o' the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, Your task's ended now, Jean, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her right sair To the land o' the leal. 496 Miscellaneous pieces Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, And angels wait on me To the land o' the leal. Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean, This warld's care is vain, Jean, We'll meet and aye be fain In the land o' the leal. I»£ ?Sf|6£ZtI' ifais OuE cosie hame, our peacefu' hame. Is a' the warld to me, Annie ; There love keeps lit its glowin' flame — A flame that ne'er can dee, Annie, And there through a' the live lang day Like lammies on yon sunny brae. Our bonnie bairnies skip and play — Their hearts rin owre wi' glee, Annie. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 497 Near them, wlia can e'er grow auld? Near them hearts can ne'er grow cauld ; A glint o' heaven their smiles unfauld, To lift our thochts on hie, Annie. What though jostlin' on life's road Baith greed and pride we see, Annie, Let's aye be thankfu' its sae broad — There's room for thee and me, Annie ! Let big Ambition strut and strive, Alang his weary hirelings drive; We hae contentment, and can thrive. Though laigh our lot may be, Annie. Nane can blight earth's bonnie flowers, Yeil the sun^ or stay the showers ; The birds are free within their bowers To sing to thee an' me, Annie. We winna grudge the great their braws, Nor a' the gear they hae, Annie; Aft Fashion as a canker gnaws Kind Nature's heart away, Annie. Nae wicked wassails shall us pain, Or taint life's healthy, floodin' vein ; Whae'er the deadly bowl may drain, 'Twill ne'er be thee or me, Annie. 498 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Side by side as trees we'll grow, Smooth, as burnies, on we'll row; Our lives be ae lang lover's vow, Until the day we dee, Annie! il) ¥ S If JAMES WILSON. From, a Poem entitled "Silent Love." woman ! woman ! ever true and kind, Thou sweet perfection of the gentle mind ! Blest to refine thy lord — ^like brother-man. The last, but noblest of the Almighty's plan ! How calm, how tender, and how full of love, An earthly angel sent him from above ; — - A being in whose soft expressive eyes We read the light, the language of the skies ! Iif£ ZU£ HI 8£S GEOIKIE HUMS. Calmness was on the summer sea, Its breast as heaven was bright, The good ship bore on gallantlj^. Laving its sides with light. The land put on the skies rich hue, Waxed cloud-like, beautiful and dim, Fainter, and fainter, still it grew 500 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Into the gold enamelled bine, .Whicli shaded from the summit's rim. Night closed abont the ship, no sonnd Save of the plashing sea Was heard, the waters all around Murmured so pleasantly, You would have thought the mermaids sang Down in their coral caves, So softly, and so sweetly rang The music of the waves. Slowly the watch paced o'er the deck, Humming some joyous air, How could he in such calmness reck The coming of despair. The good ship bore on steadily, Through the faint murmurs of the sea. But hark! the night is startled by a scream, Is it some lonely sea-mew overhead? Smoke rolls up darkly from the hold, a gleam Athwart the wide spread swan-wing sails is shed ; It stretches round a blazing pyramid. Burning up the darkness with a lurid red. The breaking billows catch the light, And roll it far into the ] light; MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. qQI Fainter, and fainter, still tliey grow, As sinks the fierce devouring glow. The masts amid a fiery rain. Fall hissing in the tranquil main, The fire upon the ship burns low. The sun from out the eastern sea Comes diademed with light, The waves upleaping in the lee. Are in his splendor bright; And drifting slowly onward lo! A blackened hull is left to show The horrors of the night. m^ys siisa ¥. ALEXANDER LOWE. The moon had climb'd the highest hill Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light o'er tower and tree : When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; When soft and low a voice was heard Say, " Mary, weep no more for me !" 502 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be . She saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale and hollow e'e. " O Mary dear ! cold is my clay, It lies beneath a stormy sea ; Far, far from thee I sleep in death. So, Mary, weep no more for me ! " Three stormy nights and stormy days We toss'd upon the raging main ; And long we strove our bark to save. But all our striving was in vain. E'en then, when horror chill'd my blood. My heart was fiU'd with love for thee ; The storm is past, and I at rest, So, Mary, weep no more for me ! " maiden dear, thyself prepare, — We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more." Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled, ISTo more of Sandy could she see ; But soft the passing spirit said, " Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !" illSCELLAXEOUS PIECES. QQ^ lifEi^E'S mZ Mm WOni IM 50k(S£, J. MICKLE, And are ye sure tlie news is true ? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is tliis a time to tliink o' wark ? Ye jadeSj fling by your wlieel. Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door ? Gie me my cloak, — I'll to the qnay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava' ; There's little pleasure in the house, When our gudeman's a^va'. And gie me down my biggonet, My bishop-satin gown, And rin and tell the bailie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Sunday shoon they maun gae on. My hose o' pearl blue ; 504 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Its a' to please my ain gudeman, For lie's baith leal and true. For there's nae luck, &c. Else up and mak' a clean fireside ; Put on the muckle pot ; Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, Atid Jock his Sunday coat : And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw ; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, He likes to see them braw. For there's nae luck, &c. There's twa fat hens upon the bank, They've fed this month and mair ; Mak' haste and thraw their necks about That Colin weel may fare ; And spread the table neat and clean. Gar ilka thing look braw ; For wha can tell how Colin fared, When he was far awa'. For there's nae luck, kc. Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech. His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in't, As he comes up the stair ! MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 505 And will I see his face agaia ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzj wi' the thought, — In troth, I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck, &c. The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, That thirl'd through my heart. They're a' blawn by, I ha'e him safe, Till death we'll never part : But what puts parting in my head ! It may be far awa' ; The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw, For there's nae luck, &c. Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I ha'e nae mair to crave ; Could I but live to mak' him blest, I'm blest aboon the lave : And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — In troth, I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck, &c. 506 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES Jif£ fie^ig^B &Z Iif£ E0i]£SJ.' MISS JANE ELLIOIT. I've heard them lilting at the ewe-milking, Lasses a' lilting before dawn of day; But now thej are moaning on ilka green loaning ; The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. At bnghts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning; Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ; Nae dafiing. nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing; Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her awae. In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering ; Bansters are runkled, and lyart or gray; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching ; The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. At e'en in the gloaming nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks with the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her dearie ; The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. I This song refers to the battle of Flodden Field, so fatal to the Scots under Jnnies V. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 507 Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Bord-er ! The English, for ance, bj guile won the day: The flowers of the forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae — Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning ; The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. I've seen the smiling of Fortune beg-uiling, I've tasted her favors, and felt her decay : Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, But soon it is fled, it is fled far away. I've seen the forest adorn'd of the foremost. With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay ; Full sweet was their blooming, their scent th' air perfuming, But now are they wither'd, and a' wede away. I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, And the red storm roaring before the parting day ; I've seen Tweed's silver streams glittering in the sunny beams, Turn drumly and dark as they roll'd on their way. fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting ? Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day? Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. 508 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES WILLIAM LAIDLAW, 'Twas when the Avan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't, And left her auld maister and neebors sae dear : For Lucy had served in the glen a' the simmer ; She cam' there afore the flower bloomed on the pea ; An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her, Sare that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin' ; Kicht sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see : '^ Fare ye weel, Lucy !" quo Jamie and ran in ; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e. As down tiie burnside she gaed slow wi' the flittin', " Fare ye weel, Lucy !" was ilka bird's sang ; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. " Oh, Avhat is't that puts my puir heart in a flutter. And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e, MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 509 If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then wbat gars me wisli ony better to be ? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither ; ^ae mitlier or friend the pure lammie can see ; I fear I ha'e tint my puir heart a' thegither, Nae wonder the tears fa' sae fast frae my e'e. " Wi' the rest o' my claes I ha'e row'd up the ribbon, The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gave me ; Yestreen, when he ga'e me't, and saw I was sabbin', I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e. Thongh now he said naething but ' Fare ye weel, Lucy !' It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see : He could nae say mair but just ' Fare ye weel, Lucy !' Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee." __ The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's drouMt ; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea : But Lucy likes Jamie, — she turn'd and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless ! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn ! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return ! 510 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 0S£ 10 3L£ai£^-dJDaiifi On Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe' to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed. With white, round, polished pebbles spread; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout in speckled pride, The salmon, monarch of the tide ; The ruthless pike, intent on war, The silver eel, and mottled par, Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make. By bowers of birch, and groves of pine And edges flowered with eglantine. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 511 Still on thy banks so gaily green. May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale; And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry embrowned with toil; And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard ! Iif£ ir 0' Iif£ b)£Bi) THOMAS SMIBERT. A.FORE the Lammas' tide had dun'd the birken-tree, In a' our water-side nae wife was blest like me; A kind gudeman, and twa sweet bairns were round me here ; But they're ta'en a' awa', sin' the fa' o' the year. Sair trouble cam' our gate, an' made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, a ewe without a lamb. Our hay was yet to maw, and our corn was to shear. When they a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year. I downa look a-field, for aye I trow I see The form that was a bield to my weo bairns and me; 512 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. But wind, and weet, and snaw, tliey never mair can fear, Sin' tliej a' got the ca' in tlie fa' o' tlie year. Aft on the hill at e'ens I see him amang the ferns, The lover o' my teens, the faither o' my bairns; For there his plaid I saw as gloamin' aye drew near — But my a's now awa' sin' the fa' o' the year. Our bonny rigs theirsel' reca' my waes to mind, Our puir dumb beasties tell o' a*' that I hae tyned ; For wha our wheat will saw, and wha our sheep will shear, Sin' my a' gaed awa' in the fa' o' the year? My hearth is growing cauld, and will be caulder still ; And sair, sair in the fauld w^ill be the winter's chill ; For peats were yet to ca' — our sheep were yet to smear, When my a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year. I ettle w^hiles to spin, but wee, wee patterin' feet Come rinnin' out and in, and then I just maun greet: I ken it's fancy a', and faster rows the tear. That my a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year. Be kind, Heav'n abune! to ane sae wae and lane, And tak' her hamewards sune, in pity o' her mane ; Lang ere the March winds blaw, may she, far far frae he^ Meet them a' that's awa' sin' the fa' o' the year. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 5I3 10 n 6±fua JOANNA BAILLIE. Whose imp art thou, witli dimpled cheek, And curly pate and merry eye, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, And soft and fair? thou urchin sly? What boots it who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his, — or squire or hind? For thou in every wight that passes. Dost now a friendly playmate find. Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning, As fringed eyelids rise and fall, Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, — 'Tis infantine coquetry all ! But far afield thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats, half-lisped, half-spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown ; Of right good-will, thy simple token. 33^ 514 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. And tliou must laugli and wrestle too, A mimic warfare with me waging, To make, as wily lovers do. Thy after kindness more engaging. The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure: I'd gladly part with worldly pelf, To taste again thy youthful pleasure. But yet for all thy merry look. Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook. The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. Well ! let it be ! through weal and woe, Thou know'st not now thy future range; Life is a motley, shifting show. And thou, a thing of hope and change. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 5I5 I»£ £¥I61]a^I. Fast hj the margin of a mossy rill, That wander'd, gurgling, down a heath-clad hill, An ancient shepherd stood, oppress'd with woe, And ey'd the ocean's flood that foam'd below ; Where, gently rocking on the rising tide, A ship's unwonted form was seen to ride. Unwonted, well I ween, for ne'er before Had touch'd one keel the solitary shore ; N'or had the swain's rude footsteps ever stray'd, Beyond the shelter of his native shade. His few remaining hairs were silver gray, And his rough face had seen a better day. Around him, bleating, stray'd a scanty flock ; And a few goats o'erhung a neighb'ring rock. One faithful dog his sorrows seem'd to share, And strove, with many a trick, to ease his care. While o'er his furrow'd cheek, the salt drops ran. He tun'd his rustic reed, and thus began. — " Farewell ! farewell ! dear Caledonia's strand ; Rough though they be, yet still my native land : 516 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Exil'd from tliee, I seek a foreign shore, Friends, kindred, country, to bsliold no more. B}^ hard oppression driv'n, my helpless age, That should, e'er now, have left life's bustling stage, Is forc'd the ocean's boist'rous breast to brave. In a far distant land to seek a grave. " Thou dear companion of my happier life, ISTow to the grave gone down, my virtuous wife ! 'T^y^as here you rear'd, with fond maternal pride. Five comely sons : three for their country died ! Two yet remain, sad remnant of the wars, Without one mark of honor — but their scars, Contented still we rear'd with sturdy hands. The scanty produce of our niggard lands ; Scant as it was, no more our heart's desir'd ; Ko more from us, our gen'rous lord requir'd. " But ah, sad change ! those blessed daj^s are o'er, And peace, content, and safety, charm no more : Another Lord now rules these wide domains. The avaricious tyrant of the plains. Far, far from hence, he revels life aAvay, In guilty pleasure, our poor m^eans must pay. The mossy plains, the mountain's barren brow, Must now be tortured with the tearing plough. And, spite of nature, crops be taught to rise. Which, to these northern climes, wise Heav'n denies. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 517 "On you, dear native land! from wliencc T part, Eest the best blessing — of a broken heart. Tf, in some future hour, the foe shall land His hostile legions on Britannia's strand, May she not, then, th' alarum sound in vain, Kor miss her banish'd thousands on the plain. " Feed on, my sheep ; for though depriv'd of me, Mj cruel foes shall your protectors be ; For their own sakes, shall pen your straggling flocks. And save your lambkins from the rav'nous fox. " Feed on, my goats ! another now shall drain Your streams, that heal disease, and soften pain. No stream, alas ! shall ever, ever flow. To heal thy master's heart, or soothe his woe. " But, hark ! my sons loud call me from the vale ; And, lo ! the vessel spreads her swelling sail — Farewell ! farewell !" — Awhile his hands he wrung, And, o'er his crook, in silent sorrow hung : Then, casting many a ling'ring look behind, Down the sleep mountain's brow began to wind. 518 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 0S£ 10 ^£Se£ ■WM. TENNANT. Daughter of God ! that sits on high, Amid the dances of the skj, And gnidest 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, Eejoice the wretched weary race Of discord-breathing men? Too long, gladness-giving Queen! Thy tarrying in heaven has been ; Too long o'er this 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 horses bloody heels Shriek murder and dismay. Oft have I wept to hear the cry Of widow wailing bitterly ; MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 519 To see the parent's silent tear For cliildren fallen beneath the spear; And I have felt so sore The sense of human guilt and woe, That I, in Virtue's passioned glow, Have cursed (mj 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 world's remotest end Wave love and harmony! if 0^£ Hope on, though happiness the heart may leave, And beauty all around thee fade and die — Let Hope her roses o'er thy future weave, And paint her rainbow o'er the darkest sky; — 520 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Hope, like a prisoned bird of promise, sings Amid the storm, and beats lier gilded bar — Bright o'er the billow spreads her silver wings. And points to lands of "living gTeen" afar; The dawn of glory in the heart that's riven, AYhere faith gets glimpses of an opening heaven. A purple glory, bright as Sharon's rose, Glowed o'er the vine-clad hills of Gralilee, , But clouds soon gathered o'er that eve's repose, Fretting with silver waves the deep blue sea: A little bark was toiling o'er the wave. All tempest torn, when, lo! a radiant form Kose like the star of Hope above the grave. And smoothed the ruffled spirit of the storm; Peace o'er the night like dewy morning shone — To the green shore the barque came floating on. Hope on— -though far, like Hagar in the wild. From love and home, — athirst — ^the water spent- Alone — an empty cup — a dying child — Cast off— her broken heart with anguish rent ; Far o'er the desert strains her weary eye — IN'o friend — no help of man can comfort bring; " My child ! my child ! let me not see him die," The lone one cried, when, lo ! a crystal spring. Though love, and hope, and all but life be gone, Think of the desert-well — and still hope on. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 521 In yon green vale bereaved ones are weeping — Two loving sisters mourn a brother dead — Their clierislied one beneath the olive sleeping, With him all beantj dies, all joj is fled ; Dark is the clond that gathers o'er their home, The sun of Hope upon the heart is set, — Had He been here, they might not weep alone — Can Jesus leave them? — can He e'er forget? They see not yet the glory in the cloud ! He comes ! the Comforter ! and rends the shroud ! What though the tree, cut down, moss-shrouded lie, And long beneath the tangled grass it sleep? Like fountain waters, though the stream be dry. The trampled root its golden sap may keep; While round its withered heart a silver vein Of fresh'ning waters like a sunbeam stray. The tender branch may bud and bloom again, And flowery verdure spring from dark decay: Hope! — though the gTeenness of the bough be gone, The life is in its heart — then still hope on. 522 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Iif£ IPilSJi^b) 0f UKaiJS MISS M. P. AIRD. "Being caused to fly swiftly." — Dah. ix. 21. "Who maketh. his angels spirits, his ijzinisters a flame cf fire." — Heb. i. 14. "Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister fox them who shall he heirs of salv^ation ?" — Heb. i. 41. Like an arrow tlirougli tlie air, Or tlie fountain-flow of light, Ministering angels fair, Cleave the deep of night : Quick as thought's electric glow, Down into earth's chambers dark, Fire-wheels running to and fro, Like the eye of God, they dart ; Watching o'er the earth's green bound. Searching all in cities round. Flitting, flitting, ever near thee. Sitting, sitting, by thy side. Like your shadow, all unweary, Angel legions guard and guide — • MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 523 Mantel, with, their wing, your heart, As a mother folds her child ; Light, in cloud pavilions dark. Shielding from the tempest wild ; Silent, as the moonlight creeping, Viewless as the ether breath, Eound the weary head when weeping, Soothing with the peace of death. Star-like shoots each holy one, With sword of temper bright, Casting the Almighty shield Eound the heir of light. m Bggim s Bm~mu m s e&biiieifyaiis. HUGH MILLER. Gray dial-stone, I fain would know What motive placed thee here, Where darkly opes the frequent grave. And rests the frequent bier. Ah! bootless creeps the dusky shade Slow o'er thy figured plain; When mortal life has passed away. Time counts his hours in vain. 524 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. As sweep the clouds o'er ocean's breast When shriek's the Avinthy wind, So doubtful thoughts, gra}^ dial-stone, Come sweeping o'er my mind. I think of what could place thee here. Of those beneath thee laid, And ponder if thou wert not raised In mock'rj o'er the dead. ISTav ! man, when on life's stage they fret, May mock his fellow-men; In sooth their sob'rest pranks afford Eare food for mock'ry then. But ah ! when pass'd tlaeir brief sojourn, When Heaven's dread doom is said, Beats there a human heart could pour Light mock'ries o'er the dead? The fiend unblest, who still to harm Directs his felon pow'r, May ope the book of grace to him Whose day of gTace is o'er. But sure the man has never lived. In any age or clime, Could raise in mock'ry o'er the dead The stone that measures time. Gray dial-stone, I fain would know What motive placed thee here, MISCELLAXEOUS PIECES. 525 Where sadness lieaves tlie frequent sigh, And drops the frequent tear. Like th}^ carved plain, gray dial-stone, Grrief's Avearj' mourners be; Dark sorrow metes out time to them. Dark shade marks time on thee. Yes ! sure 'twas Avise to place thee here, To catch the eye of him To whom earth's brightest gauds appear Worthless, and dull, and dim. We think of time, when time has fled The friend our tears deplore; The God our light proud hearts deny, Our grief- worn hearts adore. Gray-stone, o'er thee the lazy nighT Passes untold, away, 'Not is it thine at noon to teach When falls the solar ray. In death's dark night, gray dial-stone, Cease all the works of men. In life, if Heaven withholds its aid, Bootless their works and vain. Gray dial-stone, while yet thy shade Points out those hours are mine, While 3'et at early morn I rise, And rest at day's decline; 526 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Would that the Sun that formed thine, His bright rays beam'd on me, That I, thou aged dial-stone, Might measure time like thee. Uif0a)a»-ui^£if richaud huie, m. d. My brother^ cease that plaintive moan, My sister, wipe those tears away; What though your sweetest joys are flown? What though your choicest gourds decay ? Earth's bliss is but a summer flower. Earth's woe a swiftly-ebbing tide ; And still in each distressing hour, Jehovah hears, and will provide ! I too have felt the pelting storm, Which rent the twig and parent tree; I too have wept the faded form. And seen my brightest prospects flee; I too have marked my loved ones fall, In childhood's bloom and manhood's pride ; Yet faith could whisper, 'midst it all, Jehovah hears, and will provide. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 527 But what am I? See yonder hill, The Altar's built, the heir is bound; The patriarch's heart has ceased to thrill, His hand is raised to strike the wound; When, hark! an angel stops the deed, Young Isaac's bonds are cast aside Behold a meaner victim bleed, Jehovah hears, and will provide ! More wondrous yet, when sin had cost This earth its charms, and man his soul ; When worlds could not redeem the lost, Nor angels judgment's course control ; The Son of God, in mortal guise. While friends desert and foes deride, On Calvary's blood-stained summit dies ! — Jehovah hears and will provide ! Then, brother, cease that plaintive moan, Then, sister, wipe those tears away; What though your sweetest joys are flown? What though your choicest gourds decay ? Earth's bliss is but a summer flow'r. Earth's woe a swiftly-ebbing tide; And still, in each distressing hour, Jehovah hears, and will provide. 528 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES UifOaiBif ISIS^i^iH. REV. R. il. M'CHKYNK. " The Lord, our righteousnes?." (the tvatchword of the reformers.) I OXCE Yv^as a stranger to grace and to God, I knew not mj danger, and felt not my load; Thongli friends spoke in rapture of Christ on the tree, Jehovah Tsidkenu was nothing to me. I oft read with, pleasure, to soothe or engage, Isaiah's wild measure and John's simple page; But e'en when they pictured the blood-sprinkled tree, Jehovah Tsidkenu seem'd nothing to me. Like tears from the daughters of Zion that roll, I wept when the waters went over his soul ; Yet thought not that my sins had nail'd him to the tree Jehovah. Tsidkenu — 'twas nothing to me, "When free grace awoke me, by light from on high, Then legal fears shook me, I trembled to die; MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 529 No refuge, no safety in self could I see, — Jehovali Tsidkenu my Saviour must be. My terrors all vanished before the sweet name ; My guilty fears banished, with boldness I canif^ To drink at the fountain, life-giving and free, — Jehovah Tsidkenu is all things to me. Jehovah Tsidkenu ! my treasure and boast, Jehovah Tsidkenu! I ne'er can be lost; In thee I shall conquer by flood and by field. My cable, my anchor, my breast-plate and shield [ Even treading the valley, the shadow of death. This "watchword" shall rally my faltering breath; For while from life's fever my God sets me fi"ee, Jehovah Tsidkenu, my death song shall be. RKV. R. M. M'CHEYNE. When this passing world is done, When has sunk yon glaring sun. When we stand with Christ in glory. Looking o'er life's finished story, 530 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. ■rheij, Lord, shall I fully know — Not till then — how much I owe. Wlien I hear the wicked call On the rocks and hills to fall. AYhen I see them start and shrink On the fierj deluge brink, Then, Lord, shall I fully know — Not till then — ^how much I owe. When I stand before the throne Dressed in beauty not my own. When I see thee as thou art, Love thee with nnsinning heart, Then, Lord, shall I fully know — Not till then — ^how much I owe. When the praise of heaven I hear, Loud as thunders to the ear, Loud as many waters' noise, Sweet as harp's melodious voice. Then, Lord, shall I fully know — Not till then — how much I owe. Even on earth, as through a glass Darkly, let thy glory pass, Make forgiveness feel so sweet, Make thy Spirit's help so meet, Even on earth. Lord, make me know Something of how much I owe. M I S C E L L A X E U S PIECES. 531 Chosen not for good in me, Wakened up from wrath to flee. Hidden in the Saviour's side, By the Spirit sanctified, Teach me, Lord, on earth to show, By my love, how mnch I owe. Oft I walk beneath the clond, Dark as midnight's gloomy shroud ; But, when fear is at the height, Jesus comes, and all is light; Blessed Jesus ! bid me show Doubting saints how much I owe. When in flowery paths I tread. Oft by sin I'm captive led ; Oft I fall — ^but still arise — The Spirit comes — the tempter flies; Blessed Sj^irit ! bid me show Weary sinners all I owe. Oft the nights of sorrow reign — Weeping, sickness, sighing, pain; But a night thine anger burns — Morning comes and joy returns ! God of comforts ! bid me show To thy poor, how much I owe. 532 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. ^l^goTB au i» 'ii-s ?( a DAY D VEDDtR. Oh! Israel, thj hills are resounding, The cheeks of thy warriors are pale ; For the trumpets of Midian are sounding, His legions are closing their mail, His battle-steeds prancing and bounding, His veterans whetting their steel ! His standard in haughtiness streaming. Above his encampment appears ; An ominous radiance is gleaming, Around from his forest of spears : The eyes of our maidens are beaming, — But, ah ! they are beaming through tears ; Our matron survivors are weeping, Their suckling a prej^ to the sword ; The blood of our martyrs is steeping The fanes where their fathers adored ; The foe and the alien are reaping Fields, — vineyards, — the gift of the Lord ! MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 533 Our country ! sliall Midian enslave her, With tlie blood of the brave in our veins? Shall we couch to the tyrant forever, Whilst manhood — existence — remains ? Shall we fawn on the despot? Oh, never! — Like freemen, unrivet your chains! Like locusts our foes are before us, Encamped in the valley below; The sabre must freedom restore us, The spear, and the shaft, and the bow; — The banners of Heaven wave o'er us, — Rush ! — rush like a flood on the foe ! IWf&mM^E Of S^mii 21EIIJ THOMAS BLACKLOCK, D.D (Dr. BlacMoci: ^as IjMnd from, infancy.) In life's gay morn, when sprightly youth With vital ardor glows. And shines in all the fairest charms Which beauty can disclose ; Deep on thy soul, before its pow'rs Are yet by vice enslav'd, 534 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Be thy Creator's glorious name And character engrav'd. For soon the shades of grief shall cloud The sunshine of thy days ; And cares, and toils, in endless round Encompass all thy ways. Soon shall thy heart the woes of age In mournful groans deplore, And sadly muse on fo/mer joys, That now return no more. ig£ 3f0n§£ 01 irobiiiiufa KEV. ^VM. CAMEUOX. "While others crowd the house of mirth, And haunt the gaudy show, Let such as Avould with Wisdom dwell, Frequent the house of woe. Better to weep with those who weep. And share the afSicted's smart, Than mix with fools in giddy joys That cheat and wound the heart. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 535 When virtuous sorrow clouds tlie face, And tears bedim the eye, 'I'he soul is led to solemn thought. And wafted to the sky. The wise in heart revisit oft Grrief 's dark sequester'd cell ; And thoughtless still with levity And mirth delight to dwelL The noisy laughter of the fool Is like the crackling sound Of blazing thorns, which quickly fall In ashes to the ground. sMo^i^a 82ii\imi\iiig'^, PAET I. This Indian weed, now wither'd quite, Though green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay; All flesh is hay. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 586 MiscELL A x i: (• s pieces. The pipe, so lih'-like and weak, Does tlius til}' mortal state bespeak, Tliou art even suck, Gone with a touch. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. And when the smoke ascends on high, Then thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuff, Gone with a puff. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. And when the pipe grows foul within, Think on thy soul, defil'd with sin; For then the fire It does require. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. And seest the ashes cast away; Then to thyself thou mayest say, That to the dust Eeturn thou must. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 5^7 RALPH ERSKINK. PAET II. Was this small plant for thee cut down? So was the plant of great renown; Which mercy sends For nobler ends. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. Doth juice medicinal proceed From such a naughty foreign weed? Then what's the pow'r Of Jesse's llow'r? Thus think, and smoke tobacco. The promise, like the pipe, inlays, And by the mouth of faith conveys What virtue flows From Sharon's Eose. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. In vain th' unlighted pipe you blow; Your pains in outward means are so, THl heav'nly fire Your heart inspire. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 538 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. The smoke, like burning incense, tow'rs ; So should a praying heart of yours Witli ardent cries Surmount tlie skies. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. llliEB. SIR IIOBICUT GRANT. Savioue, whose mercy, severe m its kindness, Hast chastened my wanderings and guided my way,, Adored be the power which illumined my blindness. And weaned me from phantoms that smiled to betray. Enchanted with all that was dazzling and fair, I followed the rainbow; I caught at the toy. And still in displeasure, thy goodness was there. Disappointing the hope, and defeating the joy. The blossom blushed bright, but a worm was below; The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in the beam , Sweet whispered the breeze, but it whispered of woe ; And bitterness flowed in the soft flowing: stream. 1 The Rt. Hon. Sir Robert Granf, late governor of Bombay, was of one of the most ancient families of Scotland, and was a brother of the present Lord Gleiielg. He died in 1838, and a collection of his " Sacred Poems" was published soon after in London. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES - 539 So, cured of my foliy, yet cured but in part, T turned to the refuge tliy pity displayed; And still did this eao-er and credulous heart Weave visions of promise that bloomed but to fade I thought that the course of the pilgrim to heaven Would be bright as the summer, and glad as the morn ; Thou show'dst me the path; it was dark and uneven. All rugged with rocks, and all tangled with thorn. I dreamed of celestial reward and renown ; I grasped at the triumph which blesses the brave; I asked for the palm-branch, the robe and the crown , I asked — and thou show'dst me a cross and a grave. Subdued and instructed, at length, to thy will. My hopes and my longings I fain would resign ; O 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 jDreseuce of God. ;^Q MIStii^^AJNJiUUS PIECEij. I»£ IB^ItRS ei BQQJM^b REV. H. BONAU There was gladness in Zion, her standard was flying. Free o'er her battlements glorious and gay ; All fair as the morning shone forth lier adorning, And fearful to foes was her godly array. There is mourning in Zion, her standard is lying. Defiled in the dust, to the spoiler a jorey ; And now there is w^aihng, and sorrow prevailing. For the best of her children are weeded away. The good have been taken, their place is forsaken — The man and the maiden, the green and the gTay ; The voice of the weepers wails over the sleepers — The martyrs of Scotland that now are away. The hue of her waters is crimson'd with slaughters, And the blood of the martyrs has redden'd the clay ; And dark desolation broods over the nation. For the faithful are perished, the good are away. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 54i On the mountains of heather they slumber together; On the wastes of the moorland their bodies decay : How sound is their sleeping, how safe is their keeping, Though far from their kindred they moulder away ! Their blessing shall hover, their children to cover, Like the cloud of the desert, by night and by day ; Oh, never to perish, their names let us cherish, The martyrs of Scotland that now are away! if £ S 3i £ K . RKV. H. BONAR. That clime is not like this dull clime of 01?^ ' All, all is brightness there ; A sweeter influence breathes around its flowei's, And a far milder air. Xo calm below is like that calm above, No region here is like that realm of love ; Earth's softest spring ne'er shed so soft a light, Earth's brio^htest summer never shone so brio^ht. That sl^y is not like this sad sky of ours, Tinged with earth's change and care: 542 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. No shadow dims it, and no rain-cloud lowers — No broken sunshine there! One everlasting stretch of azure pours Its stainless splendor o'er those sinless shores ; For there Jehovah shines with Heavenly ray, There Jesus reigns dispensing endless day. These dwellers there are not like those of earth. No mortal stain they bear; And yet they seem of kindred blood and birth, — Whence and how came they there? Earth was their native soil ; from sin and shame, Through tribulation they to glory came ; Bond slaves delivered from sin's crushing load, Brands plucked from burning by the hand of God. These robes of theirs are not like those below ; No angel's half so bright! Whence came that beauty, whence that living glow, Whence came that radiant white? Washed in the blood of the atoning Lamb, Fair as the light these robes of theirs became. And now, all tears wiped off from every eye. They wander where the freshest pastures lie. Through all the nightless day of that unfading sky. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 54g if^SblS 18 im MRS. H. BON All. Pass away earthly joy, Jesus is mine ! Break every mortal tie, Jesus is mine I Dark is tlie wilderness; Distant tlie resting-place; Jesus alone can bless ; Jesus is mine ! Tempt not my soul away, Jesus is mine ! Here would I ever stay, Jesus is mine ! Perisliing things of clay. Born but for one brief day, Pass from my heart away, Jesus is mine ! Fare ye well, dreams of night, Jesus is mine I 544 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES Mine is a dawning bright, Jesus is mine ! All that my soul has tried Left but a dismal void, Jesus has satisfied, Jesus is mine ! Farewell mortality, Jesus is mine ! Welcome eternity, Jesus is mine ! Welcome ye scenes of rest. Welcome ye mansions blest. Welcome a Saviour's breast, Jesus is mine I A/ y^J/H^^/y ■f^ Iif£ lai^Jb) ^^^%. On seeing a picture of Morning on the Mountains. GEORGE HUME. How beautifal is morning! I liave been, Painter, like thee, a wanderer, wlien the hills Slept in their own great shadows, and have seen The dawn kiss out the stars, have heard the rills Warbling unseen, and sending forth the thrills Of soothing melody. Methinks thou art Mj spirit's own interpreter, we gaze I.n kindred feelings, gaze, aye, heart to heart. As friend with friend. 546 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES I»£ QI:!££irS ai(Iif£l ALEX. RODGERS. God bless our lovely Queen, With cloudless days serene ;- God save our Queen. From perils, pangs and woes^, Secret and open foes. Till her last evening close, God save our Queen, From flattery's poisoned streams ;- From faction's fiendish schemes, God shield our Queen; — ■ With men her throne surround. Firm, active, zealous, sound. Just, righteous, sage, profound;— God save our Queen. Long may she live to prove. Her faithful subjects' love ; — God bless our Queen. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 547 Grant lier an Alfred's zeal, Still for the Commonweal, Her people's wounds to heal ; — God save our Queen. Watch o'er her steps in youth ; — In the straight paths of truth; — Lead our young Queen; And as years onward glide, Succor, protect and guide, Albion's hope — Albion's pride; — God save our Queen. Free from war's sanguine stain, Bright be Victoria's reign; — God guard our Queen. Safe from the traitor's wiles, Long may the Queen of Isles, Cheer millions with her smiles ; — God save our Queen. 6HM£f^0inS« iJl]£S¥. JAMES iirsLor. The following beautiful tributary verse!- to the memory of those who fell at Airsmoss, were wrmen by James Hislop, a native of the district where the skirmish took place. He com- posed them when only a shepherd boy, and when he had enjoyed few opportunities of im- |,roving his mind. They have frequently been reprinted, but s-eldom correcily. The following version is copied from the Scots Magazine for February, 18-21 :— In a dream of tlie niglit I was wafted away. To tlie moorland of mist where the martyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen, Engraved on the stane where the heather grows green. 'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's hame was the mountain and wood ; When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mrmg the heather was lying. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 549 It was morning, and summer's young sun, from the east. Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast, On Wardlaw, and Cairn-Table, the clear shining dew, Glistened sheen 'mang the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue. And far up in heaven in the white sunny cloud. The sang of the lark was melodious and loud. And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthened and deep. Was the whistling of plovers and the bleating of sheep. And Wellwood's sweet valley 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 green July's bright morning. But ah! there were hearts cherished far other feelings. Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings. Who drank from this scenery of beauty but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow. 'Twas the few faithful ones who, with Cameron, were lying Concealed 'mang the mist, where the heath-fowl was crying ; For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty cover- ing. 550 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brows was un- breathed ; With ejes raised to Heaven, in meek resignation, Thej sung their last song to the God of Salvation. The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing; But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter, As the hosts of ungodly rashed on to the slaughter. Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous stood calm and unclouded 5 Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending. 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 moorlands the mighty were falling. When the righteous had fallen, and the combat had ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended, The drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turned upon axles of brightness. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 551 A seraph unfolded its doors briglit and sliming, All dazzling like gold of tlie seventh refining, And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation. On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the paths of the thunder the horsemen are riding. Glide swiftly, bright spirits, the prize is before ye, A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory! BY AX UNFORTUNATE FEMALE BEWAILING HER MOURNFUL CONDITION ANON. Little did my mother ken The day she cradled me, The lands that I should travel in ! Or what death I should dee! Oh that my father ne'er had on me smiled ! Oh that my mother ne'er had to me sung ! Oh that my cradle never had been rocked ! But that I had died when I was young ! Oh that the grave, it were my bed ! The blankets were my winding sheet ! The clods and the worms my bed-fellows'a ! And oh! sac sound as T should sleep! 552 ivi 1 ;^ C E L L A X E U S PIECES (born .idly 9, 1586 — died about januart. 1588) MRS. A. STUAKT MENTKATH. This page, if thou 'be a pater (parent- father) that reads it, thou wilt apardone me ; if nocht, suspend thy censure till thou he a father, as said the grave LacedasmoniariL Agesilaus." — Autobiography of James Melville One time — my soul was pierced as with a sword- Contending still with men untauglit and wild — "When He who to the prophet lent his gourd, Gave me the solace of a pleasant child ! A summer gift — my precious flower was given — A very sunny fragrance was its life; Its clear eyes soothed me as the bkie of heaven, When home I turned — a weary man of strife ! I This exquisite gem is from a volume of rare poetical excellence, in which full justice is done to our Covenautiug sires, entitled "Lays of the Kirk and Covenant," by Mrs. Menteath. It is long since we enjoyed such a treat as this little volume has given us. No nation on the face of the globe has a history so full of interest to the Christian as that of Scotland. Her soil ha?- been consecrated by conflicts, more noble than those immortalized in Homer's song — batijes for Christ's crown and covenant, that have shaped the destinies of man to an extent that nothing but eteruiiy can fully disclose. Amid such scenes the Christian poet finds appropriate materials for song. Mrs. Menleath has the true spirit of the ballad— wild, plaintive, and soul- moving. That parent must be made of stern stuff, indeed, who can read "The Child o! James Melville"' with undimincd eyes. MISCELLAXEO us PIECES. 5{ Witli unformed laughter — musically sweet — How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss ; With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet — Oh! in the desert, what a spring was this? A few short months it blossomed near my heart — A few short months — else toilsome all, and sad ; But that home solace nerved me for my part. And of the babe I was exceeding glad ! Alas ! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying — (The prophet's gourd — it withered in a night! And He who gave me all — ^my heart's pulse trying — Took gently home the child of my delight ! Not rudely culled — not suddenly it perished — But gradual faded from our love away! As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished. Were drop by drop withheld — and day by day' My blessed Master saved me from repining, So tenderly He sued me for His own — So beautiful He made my babe's declining — Its dying blessed me as its birth had done ! And daily to my board at noon and even, Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, 554 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. That we might commune — of our rest in heaven: Gazing the while on death — without its sting! And of the ransom for that baby paid — So very sweet at times our converse seemed, That the sure truth — of grief a gladness made — Our little lamb — by God's own Lamb redeemed! — There were two milk-white doves — my wife had noui-islicd. And I too loved, ere while, at times to stand — Marking how each the other fondly cherished — And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand ! So tame they grew — that to his cradle flying — Full oft they cooed him to his noon-tide rest ; And to the murmurs of his sleep replying, Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast ! 'Twas a fair sight — the snow-pale infant sleeping, So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild ; Watch o'er his closed eyes — their bright eyes keeping — Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and the child ! Still as he sickened — seemed the doves too dwining — Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play; And on the day he died — ^with sad note pining, One gentle bird would not be frayed away! MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 555 nis mother found it — when she rose, sad-hedrted, At early dawn — with sense of nearing ill ; And when, at last, the little spirit parted, The dove died too — as if of its heart chill! The other flew to meet my sad home ridiag. As with a human sorrow in its coo ; — To my dead child — and its dead mate then guiding, Most pitifully plained — ^and parted too ! 'Twas my first "hansel" and "propine" to heaven! And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod — Precious His comforts — once an infant given — And offered with two turtle-doves to God! ANDREW PARK. Hurra ! for the Highlands ! the stern Scottish Highlands ! The home of the clansman, the brave, and the free; Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast, Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea. 'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze. As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light; And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas, In his fleet, tiny bark, through the perilous night. 556 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 'Tis the land of deep shadow, of siinsliine, and shower, Where the hnrricane revels in madness on high; For there it has might that can war with its power, In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky. I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms ; I have wandered through Erin, the gem of the sea; But the Highlands alone, the true Scottish heart warms, Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free. Iif£ £lFISfia^J'S liilSif I WISH we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, Where the simple are weal, and the gentle are leal. And the hames are the hames o' our ain folk. We've been wi' the gay, and the gude where wi've come. We're cou^-tly wi' many, we're couthy wi' some ; But something 's still wantin' we never can find Sin' the da}^ that we left our auld neebors behind. Och I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 557 Where daffin and glee wi' the friendly and free, Made onr hearts aye sae fond o' our ain folk. Though Spring had its moils, and Summer its toils, And Autumn craved pith ere we gathered its spoils, Yet Winter repaid a' the toil that we took, When ilk ane crawed crouse by his ain ingle nook. Och I wish we were hame to our ain folk. Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. Where maidens and men in hall and in glen Still welcome us aye as their ain folk. They told us in gowpens we'd gather the gear, Sae sune as we cam' to the rich Mailins here, But what are the Mailins, or what are they worth, If they be not enjoyed in the land o' our birth ! Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, But deep are the howes and high are the knowes That keep us awa' frae our ain folk. The seat by the door where our auld faithers sat, To tell a' the news, their views, and a' that. While down by the kailyard the burnie rowed clear, 'Twas mair to my liking than aught that is here. Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk. Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. Where the wild thistles wave o'er th' abodes o' the brave, And the graves are the graves o' our ain folk. 658 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. But happy, gej lucky, we'll trudge on our way, Till our arm waxes weak, and our haffets grow gray And, tho' in this world our ain still we miss, We'll meet them at last in a world o' bliss; And then we'll be hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, Where far 'yont the moon in the heavens aboon The Hames are the hames o' our ain folk. |ithx^ 0f %ixt\}QXB. PAGE AiRD, Miss M. P 519 Aytoun, Prof 417 Baillie, Joanna 513 Ballantvne, James 478 Beattie, Dr. James 57 Bethune, Alex 327 Blacklock, Dr 533 Blair, Rev. Robert 21 BoNAR, Rev. H 540 BoNAR, Mrs 543 Bruce, Michael, 103 Burns, Robert 139 Campbell, Thomas 249 Cameron, Rev. W 634 Chambers, Robert 445 Crawford, John 485 Cunningham, Allan 261 Duncan, Mauy Lundie 489 Elliott, Jane 506 Falconer, Wm 53 Ferguson, Wm 487 GiLFiLLAN, Robert 315 Graham, Rev. James 155 Grant, Robert 538 HisLOP, James 548 Hogg, James 205 Hume, George 499-545 HuiE, Dr. 526 Knox, William 239 Laidlaw, William 508 Lkyden, John 2J1 PAOE Logan, John 123 Lowe, Alex 601 Mackay, Charles 451 Macpherson, James 63 Macneill, Hector 71 McCheyne, Rev. R. M 528 Menteath, Mis 552 Miller, Hugh 523 Miller, William 473 MiCKLE, W. J 503 MoiR. D. M 353 Montgomery, James 371 Motherwell, Wm 297 NicoLL, Robert 335 OssiAN 65 Park, Andrew 555 PoLLOK, Robert 287 Pringle, Thomas 267 Ramsay, Allan 11 Rodgers, Alex 546 Ross, Dr. Thomas 363 Scorr, Sir Walter 193 Smart, Alex 480 Smibert, T 511 Smith, Alex 461 Smollett, T 510 Tannahill, Robert 213 Tennant. W 518 Thom, William 435 Thomson, James 1 Vedder, David 532 Wilson, Prof 377 Wilson, Jamks 498 I It ii t r of f a ^ 111 B . PAGE Address to the Sun 69 Address to Jehovah 208 Address to a Wild Deer 390 Afar in the Desert 2Y5 Autumn Winds 323 Bechuana Boy 269 Braes of Yarrow 125 Braes of Gleniffer 215 Brothers Death 334 Brothers Quarrelling 480 Cameronian Dream 548 Carric-Thura 364 Carraig Thura 370 Casa Wappj 356 Child of James Melville 552 Child (To a) 513 Churchyard Scene 407 Clear the Way 453 Common Lot (The) 373 Complaint of Nature 133 Cottar's Saturday Night 141 Covenanter's Scaffold Song 211 Culloden 209 Death of Christian Friend? 132 Death 349 Dirge (A) 340 Dirge of Rachel 242 Dreamings of the Bereaved .... 440 Dying Christian 131 Dying Mother 293 Early Piety 533 Early Dawn 545 Edinburgh after Flodden 419 Elegy written in Spring 117 Emigrant (The) 515 Emigrant's Wish 556 Evening Cloud 406 Evening Prayer 492 Farewell to Ayrshire 154 Farewell to Teviotdale 284 The Fa' o' the Year 511 Fitz James and Rhoderick Dim 195 Fire at Sea 499 Field of Gilboa 243 Flowers of the Forest 506 Fragment (A) 266 Gideon's War Song 532 Gloomy Winter 218 God 136 Grave (The) ■ 23 Green Pastures 489 Happy Days o' Youth 317 Heaven 541 Heavenly Wisdom 138 Hermit (The) 59 Highland Mary 149 Hottentot (The) 283 Hope 519 House of Mourning 534 Husbandman (The) 122 Hurra for the Higliland 555 Hymn of the Seasons 5 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid... 201 Hymn to Spring 398 562 INDEX PAGE I am Debtor 529 Invitation (The) 289 Jeannie Morrison 311 Jeanie's Grave 437 Jehovali-Jireli 526 Jehovah-T^idkenu 528 Jesus Christ 128 Jesus is Mine 543 Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane 216 Lament of Wallace 219 Ifind o' the Leal 495 Last Man 256 Lay of Fairy Land 379 Learn your Lesson 486 Leven Water 510 Lines by a Female 551 Lines by Grant 538 Lines on revisiting Argyleshire. 259 Lines at a Wayside Well 410 Lines on a Mother and Child.. 439 Life 306 Life's Pilgrimage 345 Light in a Window 455 Linnet (The) 342 Lion and Giraffe 281 Little at First, but Great at Last 458 Loch Katrine 199 Love 463 Love of Country 375 Lucy's Flittin 508 Maniac's Song 220 Mary in Heaven 152 Mary's Dream 501 Martyrs of Scotland . . 540 Memory of Scott , . . 326 Mermaid TThe) 223 Midnight Wind 301 Ministry of Angels 522 Milton 352 Mitherless Bairn 438 Moon (The) 468 Morning Landscape 61 Morning Star 337 Moonlight Churchyard 362 Mortality 246 PAGK Mother's Love 332 Mother's Pet 485 Mother's Cares and Toils 487 Musings of Convalescence 329 My Native Laud. . 204 Nameless Stream 286 Ode to the Cuckoo 115 Ode to the Evening Star 235 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin... 236 Oina Morul 65 Our Ain Burn Side 324 0! This were a Bright World. 321 Oh! >Yhy Left I my Hame?.. 318 0! What is this World 320 Patie and Roger . 13 Parting 19 Past (The) 414 Peace (Ode to) 518 Peacefu' Hame (The) 496 People's Anthem 341 Prayer of Jacob 1 27 Queen's Anthem 546 Rainbow (To the) 253 Reign of Messiah 1 29 Rosy Cheekit Apples 478 Robertson (To J., Esq.) 442 Rural Scenery 355 Sabbath (The) 157 Scotland 447 Sea (The) 466 Shadows (The) 490 Shipwreck (The) 55 Sir James the Rose 105 Simplicity 296 Skylark (The) 207 Sleeping Child (To a) 415 Sleepy Laddie 476 Smoking Spiritualized 535 Songs of Israel 241 Soldier's Dream 251 Song of the Wild Bushman 280 Stars (The) 470 INDEX 563 Sun-dial (On a) 5'23 Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill.. 203 Sun rises bright in France .... 264 There *b uae Luck about the Honse 503 To a Little Boy 450 '1 o-Morro w 245 Verses left in a Friend's House.. 151 Water (The) 307 PAGE Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. 263 When I beneath the cold red Earth am sleepiug 299 Willie Winkie 475 Will and Jean 73 Winter 3 Woman 498 Wonderfu' Wean 473 Wooing Song of Jarl Egill 302 Ye Maunna Scaith the Feckless 479 THE EUD. kV '^V.. '■^o^ ^^ -'"*.. ';^ .0' ^ .^ \' i . y \WF^ ^x% i 't* / l^ "- D®3C'<^'*'^<^ "Jsing the Bookkeeper proce! 't* / %^^^;^^:^ ^ Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide S^ '"^/>. ' ^ |C)v^ * Treatment Date: August 2009 , , „ -^/^ " - ^ ^ -f PreservationTechnologie ' .y, - " I ^-Z) <^ A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATII . • 111 Tbomson Park Drive ■^ ^' Cranberry Township, PA 16066 ; \^ ^^. ' LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 017 035 421 7 ^