M ! — a!

EOBERT GILFILLAN. 17'

An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in, For the woes, or in ire for the errors of youth f Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can To speak of thy parent's companionship past, heal. Or proclaim that thy master will follow thee The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hicin'; fast? The autumn, his corse on the red battletiel'; ark-dove, commissioned to say The winter the maiden found heartbroken, dyin'; Comest thou like waters of life are fast ebbing away, An' spring spread the green turf owor Mary That the tempest-toss'd bark be at Macneil. And soon shall my rest ? Or, avenger of talent-buds recklessly slain. Art thou sent like the mark to the forehead of TO MY FIRST GRAY HAIR. Cain ? Thou art silent, but deeply my heart is fmpress'd Herald of old age, or offspring of care, \Yith all thy appearance should stimulate How shall I greet thee ? my first gray hair there it lessons, first gray hair Comest thou a soother, or censor i in ruth May cherish thy my

EOBEET GILFILLAN

Born 179S — Died 1850.

for compos- Robert Gilfill.vx was born, July 7, 1798, While thus engaged he found time A-olume of Ori'ji- at Dunfermline, in tlie county of Fife. His ing, and in 1831 published a parents were in humble circumstances, but nal Soiiijs, Avhich was favourably received. were much respected in their neighbourhood. Encouraged by his succe.ss, Gilfillan i.ssued in Robert, their second son, received the rudi- 1835 another edition, containing fifty addi- ments of his education at a Dunfermline school, tional songs. Soon after the publication of entertained at a public and at tiie age of thirteen his parents removed this volume lie was splendid silver to Leith, where he was bound apprentice to dinner in Edinburgh, when a he was the trade of a cooper. To this handicraft, cup was presented to him. In 1837 however, he seems never to have taken kindly; appointed collector of police-rates at Leith— which lie retained yet he faithfully served his employers the usual highly respectable position, he published a ihird -period of seven years, giving liis earnings from until his death. In 1839 his original volume, week to week to his mother, and enlivening and still larger edition of being added to the his leisure hours by reading every book lie sixty new songs and poems died of apoplexy at could borrow, composing verses, and playing collection. Mr. Gilfillan Leith, Dec. 1850, aged on a one-keyed flute, which he purchased with Hermitage Place, 4, was erected a small sum of money found by him in the fifty -two. A handsome monument admirers over his grave streets of Leith. It was at this time, and ever by a few friends and Leith, where also afterward, his practice to read to his mother in the churchyard of South remains of John Home, the eminent and sister (he never married) his songs as he rest the wrote them; and he was entirely guided by dramatic poet. death a fourth edition of their judgment regarding them. This was an The year after his Edinburgh, improvement on Moli^re and his housekeeper. his poetical works was published in memoir of the gentle poet, At the end of his apprenticeship he became with an interesting frequently referred to in the Xoctes an assistant to a grocer in his native town, who is Ettrick Shepherd as the with whom he remained for three years. He Ambrosiauce by the Leith." His biographer subsequently returned to Leith, and from his "fine chiel doun at fills a place in Scottish poetry twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year acted says— "He difterent and distinct from any of as clerk for an extensive wine-merchant. altogether YoL. II.— — —— —

178 ROBEET GILFILLAN.

the acknowledged masters of Scottish song. peculiar walk, that ( f home and the domestic He is certainly not so universal as Burns, nor affections, he has slo.vn a command of happy so broad and graphic a delineator of Scottish thought and imagery, in which it may be manners as Eamsaj', Fergusson, or Hogg, nor truly said that he has not been excelled as a

is he so keenl.y alive to the beauties of external poet of nature by any of his predecessors, with nature as Eobert Tanuahiil; but in his own the exception only of Burns himself."

There's mony a wee biggin', in forest and glen, THE AUTUMN WINDS ARE BLAWING. Wi' its clean sandit floor, an' its hut and its ben, Where there's mair o' that peace whilk content- ment aye brings. The autumn winds are bla\\ing, red leaves are Than is found in the palace o' princes or kings. fa'ing, An' nature is mourning the simmer's decay; We canna get fortune, we canna get fame. The wee birdies singing, the wee flowerets spring- canna behind us a' leave a bit name; ing, We But this we can a' hae, and 0! 'tis na' sma', Hae tint a' their sangs, an' wither'd away! A heart fu' o' kindness to ane and to a'! I, too, am mourning, for death has nae returning, Where are my bairnies, the young an' the gay! they say ^V]ly should they perish?—the blossoms we They say that life's short, and dinna cherish wrang, The beautiful are sleeping cauld in the clay! For the langest that live can ne'er ca' it lang; Then, since it is sae, make it pleasant the while; wi' a smile. Fair was their morning, their beauty adorning, If it gang by sae soon, let it gang The mavis sang sweet at the closing o' day; Now the winds are raving, the green grass is Wha e'er climbs the mountain maun aye risk a fa', waving. While he that is lowly is safe frae it a', sae O'er the buds o' innocence canld in the clay! The flower blooms unscathed in the valley Ilka night brings sorrow, grief comes ilk mori-ow deep. Should gowden locks fade before the auld an' While the storm rends the aik on its high reeky gray? steep! But still, still they're sleeping, wi' nae care nor weeping, My highest ambition—if such be a crime swift o' time; The robin sits chirping ower their cauld clay! Is quietly to glide down the stream And when the brief voyage in safety is o'er. In loveliness smiling, ilka day beguiling. To meet with loved friends on the far distant In joy and in gladness, time murmured by; shore! What now were pleasure, wi' a' the warld's trea-

sure ? My heart's in the grave where my fair blossoms lie! The autumn winds are blawing, red leaves are MANOR BRAES. fa'ing. Moaning is the gale as it rides on its way; Where Manor stream rins blithe and clear, A wild music's sighing, it seems a voice crying, And Castlehill's white wa's appear, " Hapi^y is that land that knows no decay!" I spent ae day, aboon a' days. By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes. The purple heath was just in bloom. And bomiie waved the upland broom. The flocks on flowery braes lay still. 0! WHAT IS THIS WORLD? Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.

'mid Nature's calm repose, 0! what is this world, wi' its wealth and renown, 'Twas there, clearest, saftest flows, If content is awanting ilk pleasure to crown ? Where Manor And where that does dwell, be't in cot e'er sae I met a maiden, fair to see, low. Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e; There's a joy and a gladness nae wealth can be- Her beauty to the mind did bring stow. A morn when summer blends wi' spring, ; ;

EGBERT GILFILLAN. 179

our ain sorrows and So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair, Nae doot, we have hacn 'Twas bliss to look—to linger there! troubles, Aften times pouchestoom, and hearts fu'o'care; Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm, But still, wi' our crosses, our sorrows and losses. Wi' love to win and sense to charm, Contentment, be thankit,hasaycbeeuourshare! So much of nature, nought of art, I've an' auld rusty sword that was left by my father, She'll live enthroned within my heart! Whilk ne'er shall be drawn till our king has a Aboon her head the laverock sang. fae; And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang. We ha'e friends ane or twa, that aft gie us a ca'. Oh! let me dwell where beauty strays, To laugh when we're happy, or grieve when By Manor stream an' Manor braes. we're wae.

laird may ha'e gowd mair than schoolmen I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair The can reckon. Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care? to watch ilka glance o' his e'e; She said her heart frae love was free, An' flunkies aye braw, may sit in her ha', But aye she blush'd wi' douncast e'e. His lady, mair happy than Janet an me? The parting cam, as partings come, But are they kent the straught road to be happy, Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb; A' ye wha ne'er are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree, Yet I'll return, ere many days. Wha down to the dwallin' of whilk I've been To live and love 'mang Manor braes! Come telling, Ye'se learn it by looking at Janet an' me!

JANET AN' ME.

wha are sae happy as me and my Janet? 0, HAPPY DAYS 0' YOUTH. O, wha are sae happy as Janet and me? THE We're baith turning auld, and our walth is soon by, tauld, 0! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun winter sky; But contentment ye'U find in our cottage sae And age is coming on, wi' its bleak wee. An' whaur shall we shelter frae its stoi-ms when She spins the lang day when I'm out wi' theowsen. they blaw,

at the plough; ? She croons i' the house while I sing Wlien the gladsome daj's o' youth are flown awa" And aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil, They said that wisdom came wi' manhood's riper wearied, I trow! As up the lang gleu I come years, But naething did they tell o' its sorrows and tears; she is mending the cleading, When I'm at a beuk 0! I'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine. when I sole ihe She's darning the stockings For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne. shoon Our cracks keep us cheery—we work till we're I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn. weary, For the blithe happy days that never can return; sowans when ance we are And syne we sup When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the done. tongue. scone while I'm smoking my cutty. She's baking a An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young. kye; While I'm i' the stable she's milking the I envy not kings when the gloaming time brings 01 the bonnie waving broom, whaur aften we did The canty fireside to my Janet and I! meet, Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang Aboon our auld heads we've a decent clay bigging. our feet; That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee, awa' As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk tree. We've twa wabs o' Unen, o' Janet's ain spinning, As thick as dog lugs, and as white as the snaw! 0! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye We've a kebbuck or twa, and some meal i' the remain. gimel; pain; at the There was ower meikle joy and ower little Yon sow is our ain that plays grumph fareweel happy days, an' fareweel youthfu' door; Sae painted glee, An' something, I've guess'd, 's in yon auld The young may court your smiles, but ye're gane kist. fore! frae me. That Janet, fell bodie, 's laid up to the — ! ! —

180 EOBEET GILFILLAN.

0! dry those pearly tears that flow THE EXILES SONG. One farewell smile before we sever; The only balm for parting woe Is— fondly hope 'tis not for ever. Oh! why left I my hame ? Fare thee well, &c. Why did I cross the deep? left I the land Oh! why Though dark and dreary lowers the night, Where my forefatliers sleep ] Calm and serene may be the morrow; Scotia's shore, I sigh for The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright. And I gaze across the sea, Without some mingling drops of sorrow I But I canna get a blink Fare thee well, &c. 0' my ain countriel

The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; THE BONNIE BRAES 0" SCOTLAND. And, to the Indian maid, The bulbul sweetly sings. 01 the bonnie braes o' Scotland—my blessin's But I dinna see the broom on them a'. Wi' its tassels on the lea, May love be found in ilka cot, an' joy in ilka Nor hear the lintie's sang ha'. 0' my ain countriel Whane'er a beild, however laigh, by burn or brae appears, Oh! here no Sabbath bell Be there the gladsome smile o' youth, the dig- Awakes the Sabbath morn, nity o' years! Nor song of reajjers heard

Amang the yellow corn; 0! the bonnie braes o' Scotland, sae bloomin' For the tyrant's voice is here, and sae fair, slaverie; And the wail of There's mony a hame o' kindness, an' couthie But the sun o' freedom shines dwallin' there; In ain my countrie! An' mair o' warldly happiness than folk wad seem to ken. There's a liope for every woe, For contentment in the heart maks t'.ie canty And a balm for every pain. but and ben! But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. 0! wha wad grasp at fame or power, or walth There's a track upon the deep. seek to obtain, And a path across the sea; Be't 'mang the busy scenes o' life, or on the But the weary ne'er return stormy main? To their ain countriel Whan the shepherd on his hill, or the peasant at his plough. Find sic a share o' happiness wi' unco sma' ado?

FARE THEE WELL.i The wind may whistle loud an' cauld, and sleety blasts may blaw, Fare thee well, for I must leave thee. Or swirlin' round, in whit'nin' wreaths, may But, oh! let not our parting grieve thee; drift the wintry snaw; Happier days may yet be mine. But the gloamin' star comes blinkiu', amaist At least I wish them thine—believe me afore he ken. An' his wife's cheerfu' smile maks a canty but We part—but, by those dew-drops clear. and ben! My love for tliee will last for ever; I leave thee—but thy image dear. 0! the bonnie braes o' Scotland to my remem- Thy tender smiles, will leave me never. brance bring Fare thee well, &c. The lang, lang simmer sunny day, whan life was in its spring; Whan 'mang the wild flowers wandering, the 1 Gilfillan used to say that the first idea of fame happy hours went by. whic)i he ever entertained was wlien Iiis sister and a young lady, a cousin of his own, wept on hearing him The future wakening no a fear, nor yet the read tliis pathetic song. Ed. past a sigh ;;

JAMES IIYSLOP. 181

01 the bonnie braes o' Scotland, hame o' the To our foes we were fierce, to our friends wo were fair an' free, kind, An hame it is a kindly word, whare'cr that An' where battle raged loudest, 3'ou ever did find hame ma3' be; The banner of Scotland float high in the wind! Jly weary steps I'd fain retrace back to the happy days. In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted and sang When youthfu' hearts together joy'd 'mang By the warm ingle-side, or the wild braes amang; Our lads husked braw, and our lasses looked fine, Scotland's bonnie braes ! An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to shine

• ! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne

In the daj's o' langsyne ilka glen had its talc, IX THE DAYS 0' LAXGSYXE. Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale An' ilka wee bum had a sang o' its ain. In the days o' langsyne when we caiies were young, As it trotted alang through the valley or plain; An' nae foreign fashions amang us had sprung; Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again! When we made our ain bannocks, and brewed our ain yill, In the days o' langsjTie there were feasting and An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on glee, the hill; Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk e'e; 0! the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart And the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed aye fill! to tyne. It was your stoup the nicht, and the morn 'twas In the days o' langsyne we were happy and free, mine;

Proud lords on the land, and kings on the sea! ! the days o' langsyne— ! the days o' langsyne.

JAMES HYSLOP.

Born 1793 — Died 1827.

James IIyslop^ was born of humble parents but SO eager was his thirst to acquire more, in the parish of Kirkconnel, near the burgh that before he reached his twentieth year he of Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire, July 13, 1798. had become an excellent scholar, mostly by his Under the care of a pious grandfatlier he was own exertions. After teaching for a time an taught to read, and while yet a child was sent evening school in his native district, he in in summer to herd cows on the neighbouring 1819 removed to Greenock and opened a day- farm of Dalblair, occasionally attending school school, which proved unsuccessful, and he again during the winter months. He was next em- returned to pastoral pursuits. In February, ployed as a shepherd in tiie vicinity of Airs- 1821, "The C'ameronian's Dream" appeared in moss, in Ayrshire, the scene of a skirmish in the Ed'mburijh Mmjazine, and attracted the July, 1680, between a party of soldiers and a attention of Lord Jefi'rcy, by whom Hyslop small band of Covenanters, when their pastor was induced to open a school in Edinburgli. Eichard Cameron was slain. Tlie traditions Through the influence of his literary friends he floating among the peasantry concerning this was soon after appointed schoolmaster on board conflict arrested the attention of the young the frigate Doris. During her cruise he con- shepherd, and he afterwards turned them to tributed to the pages of the Ed'mhurrjh Maga- good account in his well-known poem. AVhen zine a series of " Letters from South America," a lad he had received only a little education, describing the scenes he had visited in that country; also sending an occasional poem. The 1 This name is usually jirinted Hislop, but ive liave "Letters" were well written, but the masterly the poet's own authority lu his manuscript for the s; ell- ing adopted.— Ed. pen of Captain Hall had gone over the same ; —

182 JAMES HYSLOP. ground before him, lAliicli left the poet or any Yerd Islands Hyslop and a number of the person but little to glean for a long time. officers landed on the island of St. lago. They In 1825 Hyslop visited London, carrying slept on shore in the open air, and were in con- with him letters from Lord Jeffrey and the sequence seized with a malignant fever, to which Eev. Archibald Alison to Joanna Baillie and most of them fell victims, and poor Hyslop her sister, John Gibson Lockhart, and Allan among the rest. After lingering for twelve Cunningham, by all of whom he was kindly daj-s the young poet died, Dec. 4, 1827, in his received, and through wliose assistance he was twenty-ninth year, adding another to the bead- appointed head-master of an academy near roll of Scottish poets wiio passed from the London, after having been for a time a reporter world before they had seen thirty summers. on the Times newspaper. At the end of a year John MacCall of Sunny Beach, Strone, writes Hyslop, on account of ill health, exchanged to the Editor (Aug. 11, 1875): "Hyslop spent tlie academy for an appointment as school- an evening with me in Glasgow, I think in master on board the Ttveed man-of-war, bound 1825, shortly before setting out on his last for India, and commanded by Lord John voyage, and I may say it was one of the hap- Spence. Among several poems composed dur- piest I ever spent;" and Allan Cunningham ing this voyage that entitled "The Scottish describes Hyslop's poetic gifts as "elegant Sacramental Sabbath," in the style of tlie rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather "Cotter's Saturday Night," is perhaps the than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty best. It is said to have been suggested by the too." In MacDiarmid's Sketches from Nature commemoration of the ordinance in Sanquhar there is an interesting memoir of this "inheri-

churchyard, and is valuable as a faitliful pic- tor of unfulfilled i-enown," several of whose tui-e of one of the customs of bis native land. hitherto unpublished poems we have pleasure

"While the Tweed was cruising oflf the Cape de in presenting to our readers.

THE SCOTTISH SACRAMENTAL SAEBATH.

The Sabbath morning gilds the eastern hills, The carefu' matron feels a mother's pride, The swains its sunny dawn wi' gladness greet, Gie's this a linen shirt, gie's that a vest; Frae heath-clad hamlets, 'niang the mnirland rills, The fnigal father's frowns their finery chide, The dewy mountains climb wi' naked feet, He prays that Heaven their souls may wedding

Skiffin' the daisies droukit i' the weet; robes provide. The bleating flocks come nibblin' doun the brae, sisters buskit, seek the garden walk, To shadowy pastures screen'd frae sumniei"'s heat; The gather flowers, or watch the warning bell. In woods where tinklin' waters glide away, To Sweet-william, danglin' dewy frae the stalk. 'Mong holms o' clover red, and bright brown rye- rich in smell, grass hay. Is mix'd wi' mountain-daises, Green sweet-briar sprigs, and daises frae the dell. His ewes and lambs brought carefu' frae the height. Where Spango shepherds pass the lane abode, The shepherd's children watch them frae the corn An' Wanlock miners cross the muirland fell; On green sward scented lawn, wi' gowans white, Then down the sunny winding muirland road, Frae page o' pocket psalm-book, soil'd and torn, The little pastoral band approach the house of God. The task prepar'd, assign'd for Sabbath mom, The elder bairns their parents join in prayer; Streams of my native mountains, oh ! how oft One daughter dear, beneath the flowery thorn, That Sabbath morning walk in youth was mine; Kneels down apart her spirit to prepare, Yet fancy hears the kirk -bell, sweet and soft, On this her hrst approach the sacred cuj) to share. Ring o'er the darkling woods o' dewy pine; How oft the wood-rose wild and scented thyme The social chat wi' solemn converse mix'd, I've stoop'd to pull while passing on my way; ' At early hour they finish their repast. But now in sunny regions south the line, The pious .sire repeats full many a text Nac birk.s nor bi'oom-flow'rs shade the summer Of sacramental Sabbaths long gone |)ast. brae, To sec her little family fcatly dress'd Alas! I can but dream of Scotland's Sabbath-day. :

JAMES HYSLOP. 183

But dear that cherisli'd dieam I still behold: His courts I'll enter, at His footstool fall. The ancient kii-k, the plane-trees o'er it spread, And pay my early vows before His people all. And seated "mong the graves, the old, the young, As once in summer days, for ever fled. Behold the crowded tables clad in white. To deck my dream the grave gives up its dead Extending far above the flowery graves; The pale precentor sings as then he sung, A blessing on the bread and wine-cup bright The long-lost pastor wi' the hoary head With lifted hands the holy pastor craves. Pours forth his pious counsels to the young, The summer's sunny breeze his white haii- waves, And dear ones from the dust aj;ain to life are His soul is with his Saviour in the skies; sprung. The hallow'd loaf he breaks, and gives The symbols to the elders seated nigh. Lost friends i-etum from realms bej'ond the main. Take, eat the bread of life, sent down from heaven And boyhood's best beloved ones all are there; on high. The blanks in family cu-cles fiU'd again; No seat seems empty roimd the house of piT.yer. He in like manner also lifted up The sound of psalms has vanish'd in the air, The flagon fiU'd with consecrated wine. Borne up to heaven upon the mountain breeze. Drink, drink ye all of it, salvation's cup, The patriarchal priest wi' silvery hair. Memorial moiu-nful of his love dirine. In tent erected 'neath the fresh green trees. Then solemn pauseth;— save the rustling pine Spreads forth the book of God with holy pride, Or plane-tree boughs, no sounds salute mine ears; and sees In silence pass'd, the silver vessels shine. Devotion's Sabbath dreams from bygone years The eyes of circling thousands on him fix'd. Retum'd, till many an eye is moist with spiing- The kirkyard scarce contains the mingling mass ing toai-s. Of kindred congregations round him mix'd; Close seated on the gravestones and the grass. As^in the preacher breaks the solemn pause. Some crowd the garden-walls, a wealthier class Lift up your eyes to Calvary's mountain—see. On chairs and benches round the tent draw near; In mourning veild, the mid-day sun withth-aws, The poor man prays far distant, and alas! \\Tiile dies the Sa\-iour bleeding on the tree; Some seated by the graves of parents dear, But hark! the stars again sing jubilee, Among the fresh green flow'rs let fall a silent tear. With anthems heaven's armies hail their King, Ascend in glory from the grave set free; soar on seraph's wing. Sublime the text he chooseth: " Who is this Triumphant see Him around the clouds of From Edom comes? in garments dy'd in blood. To meet His angel hosts Travelling in greatness of His strength to bless. spring. Treading the wine-press of Almighty God." Behold His radiant robes of fleecy light, Perchance the theme, that Mighty One who rode Melt into sunny ether soft and blue; Forth leader of the armies cloth'd in hght, Then in this gloomy world of teai-s and night. Ai-ound whose fiery forehead rainbows glowVl, Behold the table He hath spread for you. Beneath whose head heav'n trembled, angels "WTiat though you tread afiliction's path—a few, bright A few short years your toils will all be o'er. Their shining ranks arrang'd around his head of From Pisgah's top the promis'd countiy view; white. The happy land beyond Inmianuel's shore. Eden's blissful bower blooms green for Behold the contrast, Christ, the King of kings, Where evermore. A houseless wanderer in a world below; Famt, fasting by the desert springs. Come here, ye houseless wanderers, soothe your From youth a man of mouming and of woe. grief, The birds have nests on summer's blooming bough. While faith presents your Father's lov'd abode; The foxes on the mountain find a bed; And here, ye friendless mourners, find relief. But mankind's Friend found every man his foe, And dry your tears in di-;xwing near to God; His heart with anguish in the garden bled, The poor may here lay down oppression's load. Ue, peaceful like a lamb, was to the slaughter led. The rich forget his crosses and his care; Youth enter on religion's narrow road. The action-sermon ended, tables fenc'd, The old for his eternal change prepare. "While eldei-s forth the sacred sjnnbols bring, ^ And whosoever will, life's waters freely share. The day's more solemn sei-vice now commenc'd; To heaven is wafted on devotion's wing. are they who in thy coiu-ts abide. The psalms these entering to the altar sing, How blest Jehovah stay; call Whose strength, whose tnist, uixm " I'll of salvation take the cup, I'll he in his pa\-iUon shall them hide With trembling on the name of Zion's King; For ; '

184 JAMES HYSLOP.

In covert safe when comes the evil day; The great white throne, the terrible array Though sliadowy darkness conipasseth his way, Of Him before whose frown the heavens shall flee And thick clouds hke a curtain hide his tlu'one; away. Not even through a glass our eyes shall gaze, friends, In brighter worlds his wisdom shall be shown. My how dreadful is this holy place, Where rolls the thick'ning thunder, is near. And all things work for good to those that are God though we cannot see his own. And Him face to face, Yet as from Horeb's mount His voice we hear; And blessed are the young to God who bring The angel armies of the upper sphere The morning of their days in sacrilice, Down from these clouds on your communion The heart's young flowers yet fresh with spring gaze; Send forth an incense pleasing in his eyes. The spirits of the dead, who once were dear, To me, ye children, hearken and be wise, Are viewless witnesses of all your ways;

The prophets died, our fathers where are they ? Go from His table then, with trembling tune His Alas! this fleeting world's delusive joys, praise. Like morning clouds and early dews, decay; Be yours that better part that fadeth not away.

Walk round these walls, o'er the yet green and THE cameronia:n's dream. graves Of friends whom j^ou have lov'd let fall the tear; In a dream of the night I was wafted away, On many dresses dark deep mourning waves, To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay; For some in summers past who worshipp'd here Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen. Around these tables each revolving year. Engraved on the stone where the heather grows What fleeting generations I have seen, green. Where, where my youthful friends and comrades

dear ? 'Twas a dream of th:se ages of darkness and Fled, fled away, as they had never been, blood. All sleeping in the dust beneath those plane-trees When the minister's home was the mountain and green. wood; And some are seated here, mine aged friends, Wlien in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Wlio round this table never more shall meet; Zion, For him who bowed with age before you stands, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying. The mourners soon shall go about the street; Below these green boughs, shadow'd from the 'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from heat, the east I've bless'd the Bread of Life for threescore years; Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's And shall not rnanj' mould'ring 'neath my feet, breast; And some who sit around me now in tears, On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew

To me be for a crown of joy when Christ appears ? Glisten'd there 'mong the heath-bells and nioun- tain flowers blue. Behold he comes with clouds, a kindling flood Of fiery flame before his chariot flees. And far wp in heaven, near the white .'•unny The sun in sackloth veil'd, the moon in blood. cloud. All kindreds of the earth dismay shall seize. The song of the lark was melodious and loud, Like figs untimely shaken by the breeze; And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and The fix'd stars fall amid the thunder's roar; deep. The buried spring to life beneath these trees, Were the whistling of jjlovers and bleating of A mighty angel standing on the shore. sheep. With arms stretch'd forth to heaven, swears time shall be no more! And Wellwood's .sweet valleys breathed music and gladness. The hour is near, your robes unspotted keep, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and The vows you now have sworn are seal'd on high redness; Hark! hark! God's answering voice in thunders Its daughters were happy to hail the returning. deep, And drink the delights of July's sweet morning. 'Midst waters dark and thick clouds of the sky; And what if now to judgment in your eye But, oh! there were hearts cherish'd far other He burst, where yonder livid lightnings play, feelings, His chariot of salvation passing by; Illumed by the light of i^rophctic rcvealings, : —

JAMES HYSLOP. 185

Who drank from the scenery of beauty but soitow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow. THE CAMERONIAN'S YISIOX.i

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron From the climes and the seas of the fair sunny were lying south, Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl I rcturn'd to the gray hills and green glens of was crying, youth. For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were By mountain graves musing on days long gone

hovering, i past. And their bridle reins rung through the thin A dream-Uke illusion around me was cast. misty covering. In a vision, it seem'd that the chariot of time Thoir faces grew pale, and their swords were Was roU'd back till I stood in the ages of ciimc, unsheathed. Wlien the king was a despot, who deeni'd with But the vengeance that darkened their brow was his nod unbreathed; He would cancel the lx)nd bound a nation to God. With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the God of Salvation. The religion of Christ, like a lamb, took its flight. As the horns of the mitre wax'd powerful in The hills with the deep mournfid music were might, ringing. And prelates with priestcraft men's spirits en- The curlew and plover in concert were singing; chain'd,

the died mid dension and lauu-htcr, , , • But melody _.,, ^, ^ ,, , > i ,.

,, , , ,, 1 Till they fear to complain their iicart s ,,,,,„ ,, 'vt : d when the host of ungodly rushi don to the slautfhter. , As ,, , ,, b ood was drain'd.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they Stern lav.' religion no longer a link were shrouded, made The soul to sustain on eternity's brink; Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and But the gold of the gospel was changed to a chain,

unclouded, , , r r , , , The spirit of Scotland to curb and restrain Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending. bridle the people to check, They stood like the rock which the tliunder is A political rending. Wlien the priest or the prince chose to ride on their neck; The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were For churchmen a chariot in splendour who roU'd, gleaming. At the poor man's expense, whose salvation they The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was sold. streaming. The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was From the court, over Scotland went forth a rolling. decree " north to the king bend th3 When in Wellwood's dark rauu-lands the mighty Let the ku-k of the were falling. knee To the prince and his priesthood divine right is When the righteous liad fallen and tao combat given, was ended, A sceptre to sway both in earth and in heaven. A chariot of fire through the dark cloud de- scended; " Let no one presume from the pulpit to read Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness. The Scriptures, save curates by courtiers decreed; And its burning wheels turned on axles of At their peril let pai-ents give precepts to youth. brightness. Till prelates and prayer-books put words in their mouth. A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining, "And none 'mong the hills of the heather shall souls that came forth out of great tribu- And the dare lation To meet in the moorlands for praises and prayer; Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation, Nor to Heaven in private prefer their reipiest, Except as the prince should appoint by the On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, priest." Thi-ough the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding; 1 Written the banks of the Ciawick, Sept. 30, Glide swiftly, bright spirits ! the prize is before yo, ou 1325.—Ed. A cro^vai never fading, a kingdom of glory! : : — : :

186 JAMES HYSLOP.

The nation of Knox held the mnndate accurs'd " Our horssemen now hunted the moor and the He the fetters of Popery and priestcraft had wood, burst, But the soldiers shrunk back from the shedding With the stamp of his foot brought their towers of blood; to the ground, And some we sent forth with commission to slay. Till royalty ti'embling shrunk back when he Have with Renwick remain'd in the mountains frown'd. to pray.

" Is there no one around us whose soul and whose And Melville the fiery had fearlessly dared, sword In a prince's own presence his priesthood to beard; Will hew down in the desert that priesthood On the archbishop's head made his mitre to shake. abhorr'd; And the circle of courtiers around him to quake. With their blood, on the people's minds print our

decree ? And Scotland's Assemblies in council sat down, God's word well to weigh with decrees of the The warrior's reward shall be Viscount Dundee." crown 'Twas a title of darkness, dishonour, and shame; A Covenant seal'd, as they swore by the Lord, No warrior would wear it, save Claver'se the Their Bibles and birthi'ights to guard with the Graham. sword. With the warrant of death, like a demon he flew, These priests from their kirk^j by the prelates In the blood of his brethren his hands to imbrue. were driven, The mission of murder full well fitted him. A shelter to seek with the fowls of the heaven; For his black heart with malice boil'd up to the The wet mist their covering, the heather their brim; bed, Remorse had his soul made like angels who fell, By the sjirings of the desert in peril they fed. And his breast was imbued with the sjjirit of hell.

At the risk of their lives with their flocks they A gleam of its flame in his bosom had glow'd, would meet, Till his devilish delight was in cursing of God In storm and in tempest, in rain and in sleet; He felt him a foe, and his soul took a pride Where the mist on the moorglens lay darkest, Bridle-deep through the blood of His sufferers to 'twas there ride. In the thick cloud conceal'd, they assembled for prayer. His heart, hard as flint, was with cruelty mail'd; No tear of the orphan with him e'er prevail'd; At their wild mountain worship no warning bell In the blood of its sire while his sword was defil'd. rung. The red blade he wav'd o'er the widow, and But the sentries were fix'd ere the psalm could smiled. be sung; When the preacher his Bible brought forth from My vision was changed, and I stood in a glen his plaid. Of the moorlands, remote from the dwellings of On the damp rock bsside him his drawn sword men, he laid. 'Mong Pricsthill's black scenery, a pastoral abode, Where the shepherds assembled to worship their The sleepless assemblies around him who met, God. Were houseless and hungry, and weary and wet; The wilderness wandering, through peril and A light-hearted maiden met there with her love. strife. Who had won her affections, and fix'd them above To be fiU'd with the word and the waters of life. Conceal'd 'mong the mist on the dark mountain side. For in cities the wells of salvation were seal'd. Stood Peden the prophet, -with Brown and his More brightly to burst in the moor and the field; bride. And the Spirit, which fled from the dwellings of men, A silent assembly encircled the seer, Like a manna-cloud rain'd round the camp of the A breathless expectance bent foi'ward to hear; glen,— For the glance of his gray eye wax'd bright and sublime, I beheld in vision his my a prince on throne; As it fix'd on the far-flood of fast-coming time. Around him in glory the mitred heads shone; And the sovereign assembly said, "Who shall go " Scotland! the angel of darkness and death forth One hour the Almighty hath staid on his path: In the moorlands to murder the priests of the I see on yon bright cloud his chariot stand still;

north ? But liis red sword is naked, and lifted to kill. ; — ;: ——

JAMES HYSLOP. 187

" 111 mosses, in mountains, in moor and in wood, One clung to her bosom, one play'd round her That sword must be bath'd yet in slaughter and knee, blood. And one 'niong the heather ran chasing the bee. Till the number of saints who shall suffer be seal'd, And the breaches of backsliding Scotland be In union of warm hearts, of wishes, of thought, heal'd. The prophet's prediction was almost forgot; With weilded affection their heai'ts overHow'd, " Then a prince of the south shall come over the And their lives pass'd in rearing their offspring main, to God. Wlio in righteousness over the nations shall reign; dark on the The race of the godless shall fade from the throne. The mist of May morning lay moun- And the kingdom of Christ shall have kings of tains; its own. The lambs eropt the flowers springing fresh by the fountains; "But think not, yo righteous, your sufferings The waters, the woods, and the green holms of are past; hay, lay In the midst of the furnace ye yet must be cast; In sunshine asleep down in Wellwood's wild vallej'. But the seed we have sown in affection and tears, Shall be gather'd in gladness in far distant years. In Priesthill at dawning the psalm had ascended, The chapter been read, and the humble knee "On the scroll of the Covenant blood must bo bended; spilt. Now in moors thick with mist, at his pastoral Till its red hues shall cancel the backslider's guilt. employment. Remember my warning. Around me are some The meek soul of Brown with his God found Who may watch, for they know not the hour He enjoyment. shall come. At home Isabella was busy preparing " And thou, pretty maiden, rejoice in the truth The meal, with a husband so sweet aye in sharing; Of the lover I link for thy husband of youth. On the floor, at her feet, in the cradle lay smiling Be kind while he lives; clasp him close to thy Her infant, as wild songs its fancies beguiling. heart His daughter went forth in the dews of the For the time is not far when the fondest must part. morning, To meet on the footpath her father returning; " The seal of the Saviour is printed too deep Alone 'mong the mist she e-^pected to find him. On the brow of thy bridegroom for thee long to But horsemen in armour came riding behind him. keep. dismay, The wolf round the sheepfold will prowl for his The mother, in trembling, in tears, and prey, Clasp'd her babe to her bosom, and hasted away; And the lamb be led forth for the lion to slay. She clung to her husband, distracted and dumli. For she felt that the hour of her trial was come. " His winding-sheet linen keep woven by thee; her distraction, her tears, and her It will soon be requii-'d, and it bloody will be. But vain prayer, A morning of terror and tears is at hand. For Claver'se commanded his horsemon come But the Lord will give strength in thy trial to there stand." With his little ones weeping around him, he

My vision was changed : happy summers had brought fled The fond father forth, in their sight to be shot. O'er the heath-circled home where the lovers " welcome thy death. were wed; Bid farewell thy family, and thou choosest so fondlj' to cherish thy faith; Affection's springs bursting from hearts in their Since prayer. prime, Some minutes my mercy permits thee for horsemen their pistols prepare." The stream of endearment grew deeper with time. Let six of my

widow, orphan, God! I resign At the door of his home, in a glad summer's night. "My my care; and the babe yet unborn, too, is With his children to play was the father's dehght; To thy thine One dear little daughter he fondly caress'd, blessing be round them, to guard and to For she look'd like the young bride who slept on Let thy keep, his breast. When over my green grave forsaken they weep." Of her sweet smiling offspring the mother was the heather he knelt; fain, At the door of his home, on Each added a new link to love's wedded chain; His prayer for his family the pitiless felt; — — — !

188 JAMES HYSLOP.

The rough soldiers listou'd with tears and with "Thy name shall be Claver'se, the bloodthirsty sighs, Scot, Till Claver'se curs'd him, and caus'd him arise. The godly, the guiltless, tlie grayhair'd who shot. Round my Brown's bloody brow glory's garlands For the last time the lips of his young ones he .shall wave. kiss'd. When the muse marketh 'murder' over thy His dear little daughter he clasp'd to his breast; grave." " To thy mother be kind, read thy Bible, and pray; The Lord will protect thee when I am away.

" Isabella, farewell! Thou shalt shortly behold Thy love on the heather stretch'd bloody and cold. A LOVE SONG. The hour I've long look'd for hath come at the

last— How sweet the dewy bell is spread. Art thou willing to part?—all its anguish is Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin', past." The heathery locks o' deepenin' red Around the mountain brow aye waviu' "Yes, willing," she said, and she sought his Here, on the sunny mountain side. embrace. Dear lassie, we'll lie down thegither. While the tears trickled down on hor little one's Where nature spreads luve's crimson bed. face. Among the bonnie bloomin' heather. " 'Tis the last time I ever shall cling to thy heart, Yet with thee I willing, " am yes, willing to part. Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid, Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye; 'Twas a scene would have soften'd a savage's ire; And now, aneath my tartan plaid. But Claver'se commanded his horsemen to fire; How blest I lie wi' you aside me! As they curs'd his command, turning i-ound to And art thou hapjiy, dearest, speak, retreat, Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie? Tlic demon himself shot him dead at his feet. Yes: that dear glance, sao saft and meek, Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie. His temples, all shatter'dand bleeding, she bound. While Claver'se with insult his cruelty crown'd: The saftncss o' the gentle dove. "Well, what thinkest thou of thy heart's cher- Its eyes in dying sweetness closin'. ish'd pride ? Is like thae languid eyes o' love, It were justice to lay thee in blood by his side." Sae fondly on my heart reposin'. When simmer suns the flowers expand. " I doubt not, if God gave permission to thee. In a' their silken beauties shinin'. That thou gladly wouldst murder my offspring They're and me; no sae saft as thy white hand, Ujion my love-warm cheek reclinin'. But thy mouth he hath muzzled, and doom'd thee, in vain. While thus aneath my tartan plaid Like a bloodhood to bay at the end of thy chain. Sae warmly to my lips I press ye, That hinnied bloom o' dewy red "Thou friendles.^, forsaken, hast left me and mine, Is nocht like thy sweet lips, Yet my lot is a bless'd one, when balanc'd with dear lassie! thine. Reclined on luve's soft crimson bed. Our hearts sae fondly lock'd With the viper remorse on thy vitals to prey. thegither. Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets And the blood on thy hands that will ne'er wash si>read. away. How happy, happy 'mang the heather!

"Thy fame shall be wafted to far future time, A proverb for cruelty, cursing, and crime; Thy dark picture, painted in blood, shall remain While the heather waves green o'er the graves of SOXG—TO YOU. the slain. The Woodland Queen in her bower of love. " Thy glory shall wither; its wreaths have been Her gleaming tresses with wild-flowers wove, gain'd But her breathing lips, as she sat in her bower. By the slaughter of shepherds, thy sword who Were richer far than the honey'd flower! disdain'd:

That sword thou hast drawn on thy country for The waving folds of the Indian silk hire. Hung loose o'er her ringlets and white neck of And the title it bi-ings shall in blackness expire. milk; ; —— ! ——; ————

JAMES HYSLOP. 189

And 0! the bosom that sigh'd below Exulting 'midst fire and blood,

AVas pure and soft as the wintei" snow I Then sang the pibroch loud, 'Dying, but unsubdued— Scotland for ever.'" A tear-drop bright in her dark eye sliono, To think that sweet summer would soon be gone; See at the war-note the proud horses prancing How blest the hand of the lover who may The thick gi-oves of steel trodden down in their From an eye so bright wipe such tears away! path, The eyes of the brave like their bright swords are How blest is he in the moonlight hour glancing, Who may linger with her in her woodland bower, Triumphantly riding through ruin and death. 'Midst the gleaming ringlets and silk to sigh, Proud heart and nodding plume And share in the tear and the smile of her eye. Dance o'er the warrior's tomb, Dy^d with blood is the red tartan wave, heart was a stranger to love's young dream My Dire is the horseman's wheel, found her alone by the fairy stream; Till I Shiv'ring the ranks of steel; But she glided away tlu-ough the branches green. Victor in battle is Scotland the brave! And left me to sigh for the Woodland Queen!

LET ITALY BOAST. FRAGMENT OF A DREAM.

Let Italy boast of her bloom-shaded waters.

Her bowers, and her vines, and her warm I follow'd it on by the pale moonlight. sunny skies, Through the deep and the darksome wood; Of her sons drinking love from the eyes of her It tarried—I trembled—it pointed and fled!— daughters, 'Twas a grave where the spirit had stood: While freedom esph-es mid their softness and sighs. 'Twas a grave—but 'twas mystery and terror to Scotland's bleak mountains wild. think Where hoary cliffs are piled. How the bed of the dead could be here; in the morning of life Towering in grandeur, are dearer to me I 'Twas here I had met Land of the misty cloud With one that was loving and dear: Land of the tempest loud had wandcr'd while gathering Land of the brave and proud—land of the free 'Twas here we flowers Enthroned on the cliff of the dark Highland In the innocent days of our childhood. mountain. And here we were screen'd from the warm sunny The spirit of Scotland reigns fearless and free; showers While her tartan-folds wave over blue lake and By the thickening green of the wildwood. fountain, morning of love Exulting she sings, looking over the sea: And here in the sweet summer "Here on my mountains wild Young affection first open'd its blossom. innocent, loving, and land I have serenely smiled. When none were so bosom:— Where armies and empires against mc were As the maiden that lay in my hurled the woods; they were budding as Tlu-oned on my native rocks. I look'd on Calmly sustained the shocks green As the sorrowful night that we parted, Of Caesar, and Denmark, and Rome, and the turning again to the grave I had seen. world. When At the voice of a spirit I started ! When kings of the nations in council assemble. No sound met mine ear The frown of my brow makes then- proud hearts In terror I listen'd! lone waters murmuring by to quake, Save the night, bravest to I saw o'er the woods, in the dead of the The flash of mine eye makes the But carriage draw nigh :— tremble, A dark mourning The sound of my war-song makes armies to the green grave it hovcr'd, mine eye could shake. By perceive. France long shall mind the strain white covered coffin now lay Sung on her bloody plain, Where a not long, but again through the woods While Europe's bold armies with terror did It hover'd mournfully glided away!— shiver; It — — ——

190 HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.

"Where the kirk-yard elms shade the flat gray The pale linen shroud now cnfaulded the cheek stones Where once beauty's ringlets were flowing! With the long green grass overgrown, The carriage stood still o'er an opening grave, Lydia, why thus dost thou gaze upon me, And I saw a black coffin let down. And point to the darksome wood? An invisible hand seem'd to proffer a ring. Upon its dark page were a name and an age Or a dagger all stained with blood: 'Twas my Lydia in death that lay sleeping; All vanish'd away, but her spirit pass'd by, But the bright sun of summer return'd with his As alone by the grave I stood weeping! ray, And the singing of birds brought the morrow; How death-like and dim was the gaze of that eye, Those visions of darkness all faded away Where love's warmest fires once were glowing; As I woke from my slumber of sorrow!

HENEY SCOTT EIDDELL.

Born 1798 — Died 1870.

Henry Scott TJiddell Avas born at Sorbie, After Iicrding for two years at Deloraine lie in the Yale of Ewes, Dumfriessliire, Sept. 23, removed to Todrig to follow the same occupa- 1798. His father was a shepherd, and a man pation. Here he met a congenial spirit in of strong though uneducated mind. Young William Knox, the cultured author of " The Henry herded the cows in summer, and went Lonely Hearth," and their friendship continued to school during the winter months. At first ever afterwards. "While here," he says, "my a careless scholar, he afterward-; became a dili- whole leisure time was employed in writing. gent one, and while "out-bye herding" was I composed while walking and looking the either studying nature or a book, or composing hill. I also wrote down among the wilds. verses. The lines of an epistle Avritten by him 1 yet remember, as a dream of poetry itself, subsequently will convey some idea of his how blessedly bright and beautiful exceed- habits at this period:— ingly were these wilds themselves early in summer mornings, or when the Avliite mists " My early years were pass'd far on filled up the glens below, and left the summits The hills of Ettrick wild and lone; Tlirongh summer sheea and winter shade of the mountains near and far away as sight Tending the flocks that o'er them stray 'd. could travel, green, calm, and serene as an In l)old enthusiastic glee eternity." I sung rude strains of minstrelsy, AVhile at Todrig Eiddell's style of thought Which mingling with died o'er the dale, Unheeded as the plover's wail. and experience— doubtless through contact Oft where the waving rushes shed with William Knox—underwent agreat change. A sliel ter frail around my head, He abandoned frivolous compositions, and Weening, tliough not through hopes of fame. applied himself to sacred themes. " read- To fix on these more lasting claim, My I'd there secure in rustic scroll ing," he says, "was extended, and having

The wayward fancies of the soul. begun to appreciate more correctly what I did Even where yon lofty rocks arise, read, the intention which I had sometimes Hoar as the clouds iu wintry skies, entertained gathered strength: this was to Wrapji'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath The colder cone of drifted wreath, make an effort to obtain a regular education I noted them afar from ken, (to fit himself for the Christian ministry). Till ink would freeze upon the pen; The consideration of the inadequacy of my So deep the spell which bound tlie heart means had hitherto bridled ambition, but Unto the bard's undying art my So rapt the charm that still beguiled having herded as a regular shepherd nearly The minstrel of the mountains wild." three years, during which I had no occasion HENRY SCOTT EIDDELL. 191 to spend much of my income, my prospects ' bid fair for his progress in the church; but in behoved to be a little more favourable. It 1S41 a serious attack of nervous disease came was in this year that the severest trial that upon him, not to pass away for years; and had yet crossed my path had to be sustained. when he did recover, it Avas deemed prudent The death of my father overthrew my happier that he should not return to the labours of the

mood ; at the same time the event, instead of pastorate. The Duke of Buccleuch generously subduing my secret aim, rather strengthened permitted him to occupy the manse cottage my determination. ]\Iy portion of my father's during his lifetime, and also granted him a worldly effects added something considerable small annuity and a piece of ground beside his to my own gainings. 1 bade farewell to the dwelling. This was enough for his simple crook and plaid." wants and for the education of his three boys, He went to school at Biggar, where he one of whom died full of poetic promise when found a kind schoolmaster, who taught him budding into manhood. During the remaining much beside Latin and Greek. Here he studied years of his life the poet resided in this spot earnestly, and cultivated a circle of intellectual by the banks of the Teviot, reclaiming and acquaintances, and in due time entered as a beautifying his land, and cherishing his poetic student at the University of Edinburgh, where tastes. He had intended to be present at the he attracted the attention of Professor Dunbar meeting of the Border Counties Association, by a translation of one of the odes of Anacreon. held at Hawick, July 28, and his name was He also won for himself the affectionate regard associated with the toast of the " literature of of Professor Wilson, whose house was always the Borders;" but on that day he was seized open to him, with all the companionship of with a mortal illness, and died on July 30,

genius which graced its hospitable roof-tree. 1870, aged seventy-two. On August 2, sur- AVhen his university course was completed. rounded by a great concourse of friends from Ins last session having been spent at St. far and near, all that Avas mortal of the Bard Andrews, Mr. Kiddell went to reside at Pamsay of Teviotdale was laid in its last resting-place, Cleughburn with his brother, and shortly after in that " became the minister of Teviothead, He then cliurchyard that lonely is lying Amid the deep greenwood by Teviot's wild strand." married the excellent lady whose affectionate counsel and companionship were a solace and The poet's loving and faithful wife died May

stay to him in liis chequered life. There was 29, 1875, and now rests by his side. no manse at Teviothead when he received the Piiddell wrote much, and much that he charge. He therefore occupied the farmhouse wrote became extremely popular. When a of Flex, nine miles distant; and as his income student of theology he composed many of his of £52 a year could not enable him to keep a best songs for the Irkli Minstrel and Select conveyance, he had to Avalk eighteen miles Melodies of R. A. Smith, and for the Orhjinal every Sabbath, and whenever he went to visit National Melodies of Peter M'Leod. His his hearers. The Duke of Buccleuch built a Songs of the Ark, tvitJi, other Poems, ap- cottage for the minister, and it was while it peared in 1831, followed in 1844 by a prose was in progress that, returning liome from work entitled The Christian Politician, or the preaching one Sabbath afternoon, wet and Bight Way of Thinking. Three years later he weary, Mrs. Piddell, looking forward with published a third volume, Poems, Songs, and pleasant anticipation of getting the new home, Miscellaneous Pieces; and in 1855 he prepared exclaimed, while he was changing his wet for publication, by request of Prince Lucien Gospel of St. clothes, "Ab! Henry, I wish we were hame Bonaparte, a translation of the in to our ain folk!" This was the inspiration to Matthew into Lowland Scotch, followed which we are indebted for his most exquisite 1857 by a similar translation of the Psalms. wrote valuable series of lyric—a strain Avhich cannot die. Mr. Eiddell also a Mr. Paddell ministered faithfully to the papers on "Store- Farming in the South of similar people of Teviothead for nearly nine years. Scotland," and a number of prose tales His genius and worth had been recognized to those in Wilson's Tales of the Border. His and appreciated, and everything seemed to last composition Avas a poem Avritten for a , ;

192 HENEY SCOTT EIDDELL.

meeting of the Border Association, lield at and that you may judge for yourself 1 Avill

Hawick two days before his death. In 1871 also herewith copy it, more especially as it also two volumes of Riddell's poetical works, accom- related to one who could by her exquisite sing- panied by a portrait, and a well-written memoir ing cast asjicll of enchantment oyer the human from the pen of his friend James Brydon, M. D. heart. . . . were published in Glasgow. "Mrs. Oliver informed me when you in- In a letter accompanying a song written for tended to leave old Scotland: I therefore made Mrs. Mary Wilson Gibbs in 1867, the vener- up my mind to write out these things to-day. able poet remarks, "In addressing a song to Tiiey are of little consequence I readily confess, you I wish that it had turned out somewhat but from the respect which I entertained for while more worth than now appears to be your father, together with that which I enter- the case. At all events I might have adopted tain for yourself, I felt anxious to do something a more harmonious measure, and thereby have that might if possible prevent you from utterly given myself at least a chance of wording more forgetting that we had met. ... I shall harmonious verses: and I could now wish that hope that you will soon return to tlie 'gay I had done so, regardless of the air: but I was green braes of Teviotdale,' and cheer our hearts ambitious of putting the air in your possession, as in days gone by." it having been composed by the Ettrick Shep- A brother of the late bard, known as Borth- herd. I am no daul) —or rather a great daub wick Iiiddell, a dark, stalwart, and indepen- in the literal sense of the term—at copying dent-looking man, who was, both in regard to music, and in Attempting to give you a copy musical talent and personal appearance, an I am uncertain whether I have given you alto- impersonation of the spirit of ancient Border gether a correct one; but I hope you Avill minstrelsy—a worthy representative of AUister make it out in some way. Of the song which M'AUister, Habbie Simpson, and Eab the I originally wrote to it Hogg was wonderfully llanter— was in his day and generation the fond, and I had always to sing it to him when most celebrated piper on the Border. As the we met. I dare say it is much better as a writer listened to his soul-stirring strains near song than that which I send you: I was not Canobie Lee, he appeared to be just such a then so hoary-headed, and could write with minstrel as we can imagine strode forth before more freedom and vigour. Yet it is not greatly the Bruce, the Bold Buccleuch, or the Black unlike the verses with which I trouble you, Douglas of bygone davs.

THE CROOK AND PLAID.

I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and Sae blythe it is the laddie wi' that wears the pleugh, crook and plaid Though he should own that tender love that's And he's aye true, &c. only felt by few; For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love At noon he leans him down upon the high and betray'd. heathy fell. Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the And views his flock* beneath him a', fair feed- crook and plaid; ing in the dell; For he's aye true to his lassie — he's aye And then he sings the sangs o' love, the sweet- true to his lassie. est ever made; Who wears the crook and plaid. 0! how happy is the laddie that wcr-rs tho crook and plaid; At morn he climbs the mountains wild his And he's aye true, &c. fleecy flocks to view, o'er While him sweet the laverock sings, new He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily sprung frae 'mang the dew; flowers sae meek, His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath- not weel be stay'd. bell like my cheek; X —; ! v^

HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 193

His words are sweet and tender, as the dews And happy, too, as ony lark frae heasen shed; The ciud might ever carry; And weel 1 love to list tlie lad who wears the She shunned the ill and sought the good. crook and plaid; E'en mair tlian weel was understood; For he's aye true, &c. And a' fouk liket Mary.

When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and But she fell sick wi' some decay. the gloamin' shades draw on, When she was but eleven; When the star comes stealing through the sky, .\nd as she pined frae day to day, and the kye are on the loan, We grudged to see her gaun away, lie whistles through the glen sae sweet, the Though she was gaun to heaven. lieart is lighter made that's far awa'. To ken tiie laddie hameward hies, who wears There's fears for them the crook and plaid; And fykes for them are flitting; For he's aye true, &c. But fears and cares, baitii grit and sma', We by-and-by o'er-pit them a' Beneath the spreading hawthorn gra_y, that's But death there's nae o'er-pitting. growing in the glen. hard to break. He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane And nature's bands arc on earth can ken, When tluis they maun be broken; e'en the form we loved to see, To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever And dear though it be. may be said, We canna lang, it token. He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in Preserve as a his plaid; But Mary had a gentle heart For he's aye true, &c. Heaven did as gently free her; Yet lang afore she reach'd that part, The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start ride. Had ye been here to see her. And woo across the table cauld his maJam- titled bride; Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, But I'll gang to tlie hawthorn gray, where And growing meek and meeker; cheek to cheek is laid, Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair. 0! nae wooers like the laddie that rows mc in She wore a little angel's air, his plaid; Ere angels cam' to seek her. And he's aye true, &c. And when she could na stray out by. own the truth o' tender love what lieart Avad To The wee wild flowers to gather; no comply, She oft her household plays would try. Since love gives purer happiness than aught To hide her illness frae our eye, aueatli the sky? Lest she should grieve us farther. If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid; But ilka thing we said or did laddie that wears And through life I'll love the Aye pleased the sweet wee creature; the crook and plaid; Indeed ye wad hae thocht she had For he's aye true, &c. A something in her made her glad, Ayont the course o' nature.

v/ For though disease, beyond remeed, OUR MARY.i AVas in her frame indented. Yet aye the mair as she grew ill. Our Mary liket weel to stray She grew and grew the lovelier still. Where clear the burn was rowin', And mair and mair contented. And trouth she was, though I say sae. death's cauld hour qam' on at last, As fair as ought e"er made o' clay, But comin': And pure as ony gowan. As it to a' is And may it be, whene'er it fa's, it was of Glen- Kae waur to others than > From Mr. Riddells poem "The Cottasers Jlary^sweet wee woman dale."— Ed. To Vol. II.— — — ——

194 HENRY SCOTT PJDDELL.

Her fountains sing o' freedom still As they dance down the dells; WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD And weel I lo'e the land, my lads. WOODS AVAYE. That's girded by the sea; Then Scotland's dales and Scotland's vales, Would that I were where wild woods wave, And Scotland's hills for me Aboon the beds where sleep the brave; I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet And where the streams o' Scotia lave Wi' a' the honours three. Her hills and glens o' grandeur!

Where freedom reigns and friendship dwells, The thistle wags upon the fields Bright as the sun upon the fells, Where Wallace bore his blade. When autumn brings tlie heather-bells That gave her foeman's dearest bluid In all their native splendour. To dye her auld gray plaid; The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins, And looking to the lift, my lads. The bii-ks mix wi' the mountain pines. He sang this doughty glee And heart with dauntless heart combines Auld Scotland's right and Scotland's might. For ever to defend her. And Scotland's hills for me Then would I were, &c. I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. There roam the kind, and live the leal, By lofty ha' and lowly shiel; They tell o' lands \vi' brighter skies. And she for whom the heart must feel Where freedom's voice ne'er rang; kindness still mair tender. A Gie me the hills where Ossian lies, Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw, And Coila's minstrel sang; The wild flowers bloom by glen and shaw; For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads. But she is fairer than them a', That ken na to be free; Wherever she may wander. Then Scotland's right and Scotland's might, Then I were, would kc. And Scotland's hills for me I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Still, far or near, by wild or wood, Wi' a' the honours three. I'll love the generous, wise, and good; But she shall share the dearest mood That Heaven to life may render. What boots it then thus on to stir. And still from love's enjoyment err. When I to Scotland and to her THE WILD GLEX SAE GREEX. Must all this heart surrender. Then would I were, &c. W^hen my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, And tlie gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er SCOTLAND YET.i the world's dewy breast, I'll take my plaid and hasten tlirough yon Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair, woody dell unseen, Gae, bring it free and fast, And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen For I maun sing another sang sae green. Ere a' my glee be past;

And trow ye as I sing, my lads, I'll meet her by thetrysting-tree, that's stannin' The burden o't shall be a' alane. Scotland's Auld howes, and Scotland's knowes. Where I hae carved her name upon yon little And Scotland's hills for me moss gray stane. I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet There I will fauld her to my breast, and be Wi' a' the honours three. mair bless'd, I ween, Tlian a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild The heath waves wild upon her hills, glen sae green. And foaming frae the fells,

Her head reclined upon this breast, in simple 1 This song set to music was first publislied in a sep- arate sheet, and the profits given for the purpose of bliss I'll share. jiutting a jiarapet and railing round the monument of The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh. nae earthly care, — ; ,

HENRY SCOTT EIDDELL. 195

And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood heartfelt scene, And the worm only living where rapture hath AVliile I woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen been. sae green. ' ' Till the footsteps of time are then- travel for- saking. My fauldin' plaid sliall shield her frae the No form shall descend, and no dawning shall gloamin's chilly gale; come, The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall To break the repose that thy ashes are taking, not tell our tale And call them to life from their chamber of Our simple tale o' tender love—that tauld sae gloom oft has been Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent forever, To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen Thyliarp in the hall of the chieftain is hung; sae green. No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever The tales that it told, and the strains that it It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the suno-." noon o' day. To meet vfi those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay; But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the THE EMIGRANT'S 'WISH. hour o' e'en, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen I wish we were hame to our ain folk, sae green. Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. Where the gentle are leal, and thesemple are weal,

O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for And the hames are the hames o' our ain folk. wi' we've aught o' bliss, We've met the gay and the guid where come; If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure canty wi' and conthy wi' some; as this; We're mony But something's awantin' we never can find, And I could spurn a' earthly wealth —a palace Sin' the day that we left our auld neebors behind. and a queen, For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen I wish we were hame to our ain folk. sae green! Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, When daffin' and glee, wi' the friendly and free, Made our hearts aye sae fond o' our ain folk. Some told us in gowpens we'd gather the gear, Sae soon as we cam' to the rich mailens here; THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE. But what is in mailens, or what is in mirth.

If 'tis na enjoyed in the land o' our birth ? I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary, And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as 0, I wish we were hame to our ain folk, their shade, Our kind and our tnie-hearted ain folk. For remembrance was fraught vdth the fai--tra- When maidens and men, in thestrathand theglcn, vell'd story, Still welcomed us aye as their ain folk; That told where the dust of the minstrel was Though spring had its trials, and summer its toils, laid: And autumn craved pith ere we gathered its spoils; I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me, But winter repaid a' the toil that we took, I heard not its anthems the mountains among; When ilk ane craw'd crouse at his ain ingle nook. But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely I wish I were hame to our ain folk. Than others would seem to the earth that be- Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. long. But deep are the howes, and heigh are the knowes. That keep us awa' frae our ain folk; " Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy The seat at the door, where our auld fathers sat. slumber To tell o'er their news, and their views, and a' that; row'd Sleep on, gentle bard ! till the shades pass away; While down by the kail-yard the burnie For the lips of the living the ages shall number clear, That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay, Is mair to my liking than aught that is here. Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood. I wish we were hame to our ain folk, ain folk, Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen, Our kind and our true-hearted —

196 EGBERT POLLOK.

world our own still we miss, Where the wild thistles wave o'er the beds o' the And though in this last in a warl' o' bliss; brave. We'll meet them at we'll be to our ain folk, And the graves are the graves o' our :iin folk; And then hame But happy-gae-lucky, we'll trudge on our way, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. far 'yond the moon, in the heavens aboon, Till the arm waxes weak and the haffet grows Where o' our ain folk. gray; The hames are the hames

EOBEET POLLOK,

Born 1798 — Died 1827.

Thegifted authorof the " Course of Time" was was on the borders of fever, I rose every morn- without one twitch of head- born at the farm of North iluirhouse, in the ing equally fresh, the impatience of a lover parish of Eaglesham, Eenfrewshire, October 19, ache; and with all Towards the end of the 1798. He acquired the rudiments of liis edu- hasted to my study. consists of ten books cation at Langlee and at a school at Newton- tenth book—for the whole overwhelmingly great, Mearns, and afterwards entered the University —where the subject was seemed to write from of Glasgow. Being destined for the ministry and where I, indeed, the body begin- he studied for five years in the divinity hall of immediate inspiration, I felt way. But now that I have the United Secession Church at Glasgow, under ning to give thin with the great heat and the Rev. Dr. Dick of that city. During his finished, though exercise, I am by student days he wrote a series of tales relating the unintermitted mental languishing and feeble. Since the to the sufferings of the Covenanters, which no means day I began to were published anonymously. A second edition 1st of June, which was the have had a Grecian atmosphere: of these "Tales," accompanied by a portrait write last, we heavens of incal- and memoir of the author, appeared after his and I find the serenity of the pursuit. And I am death. culable benefit for mental is the best season for The spirit of poetry and inspiration was convinced that summer formed and "became a living soul" within great mental exertion, because the heat pro- stagna- Robert Pollok in the rural solitudes of Muir- motes the circulation of the blood, the great cause of misery to house, where he spent his boyhood. His short tion of which is the compositions written at this time gave, how- cogitative men. The serenity of mind which astonishing. Exalted on ever, little promise of the poetic power de- I have possessed is writing often on the veloped by him later in life. His celebrated my native mountains, and poem was commenced in December, 1824, and top of the very highest of them, I proceeded if I been in a world finished in the space of nineteen months. from day to day as had sin, nor sickness, The following letter announcing its completion in which there was neither the four books last written was addressed to his brother, July 7, 1826: nor poverty. In in almost every instance, up " It is with much pleasure that I am now able I have succeeded, in many places I have ex- to tell you that I have finished my poem. to my wishes; and that I had conceived. This Since I wrote to you last, I have written about ceeded anything I only say that I three thousand five hundred verses; which is is not boasting, remember. which considerably more than a hundred every suc- have exceeded the degree of excellence cessive day. This you will see was extraor- I had formerly thought of." in March, dinary expedition to be continued so long; The "Course of Time" was issued at once recognized as a great and I neither can nor wish to ascribe it to 1827, and was the anvthing but an extraordinary manifestation work. In style it sometimes resembles at other times of divine goodness. Although some nights I lofty march of Milton, and —

ROBERT POLLOK. 19'; imitates that of Blair and Young. With much buried with the rites of the Church of England of the spirit and the opinions of Cowper, Pollok in the neighbouring churchyard of lilillbrook, hicked his taste and refinement: shortcomings near the sea-shore, where a granite obelisk, which time might have removed, but like erected by the admirers of his genius, marks

Henry Kirke White and David Gray he was his grave. But, as the inscription on it truly destined for an early grave. In less than two says, " His immortal poem is his monument." months after the appearance of his poem he The same year witnessed Robert Pollok'sadvent was licensed for the ministry. The success of as a poet and a preacher and his untimely

' " the ' Course of Time had excited high hopes in death. He has been described as tall, well pro- respect to his professional career, wiiich were, portioned, of a dark complexion "sicklied o'er however, not destined to be realized. He with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set preached but four times, once for his friend eyes, heavy eyebrow.s, and black bushy hair. Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh, when the writer's " A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, father happened to be present, and was greatly which flashed with a meteor brilliancy when- impressed with his power and self-possession. ever he spoke with enthusiasm and energy." Symptoms of pulmonary disease becoming ap- After Pollok's death several short poems parent, produced by over-exertion in his studies from his pen, together with a memoir of his while preparing for the ministry and in the com- life, were published by his brother at Edin- position of his poem, Pollok spent the summer burgh, and in New York a volume appeared of 1827 under the roof of a clerical friend, entitled " L'fe, Letters, and Literary Remains where every means were tried for the restora- of Robert Pollok, edited by Rev. James Scott." tion of his health. These proving unsuccessful The sum paid for the " Course of Time," a poem he was persuaded to try the climate of Italy, that has passed through eighty editions in his many admirers promptly furnishing the Scotland and at least double that number in means necessary for the journey. He reached the United States, amounted to £2500—a price London along with his sister, but by the advice greatly exceeding that given for the poems of of physicians, who deemed him unable to Sir Walter Scott and Thomas Campbell, and endure the journey to the Continent, he pro- nearly as large as was ever paid to any poet in ceeded to Shirley Common, near Southampton, the height of his fame, and when poetry was where he died, September IS, 1827. He was most in vogue with the public.

THE COURSE OF TIME.^

neverdies—Eternal Death—Hell—The dreadful sights BOOK I. beheld there.—The youthful Sous of Heaven refer the New-aiTived to an ancient Argument. —Invocation to the Eternal Spirit.— The Bard of Adam's race. They fly towards his subject of the Poem announced. —A periocl long after dwelling.— Flight through the fields of Heaven.— of the Last Judgment described. —Two 3'outliful Sons of The Bard Earth described— His Paradise, waiting on the battlements of Heaven, obser- Bower in Paradise.— He is entreated to clear up the vant of the return of holy messengers, or the arrival wondering doubt of tlie New-arrived, who tells what he has seen from distant worlds of spirits made perfect, discover and conjectured.— The Bard infonns him the gracious form he beheld in Hell is one directing his flight towards Heaven. —The hills Virtue—Agi-ees to relate of Paradise. —The Mount of God. —Welcome of the the history of the human race. faithful servant.—The hill of the Throne of God Eternal Spirit! God of truth! to whrm pointed out to him. —The Sons of Paradise offer to All things thej-^ guide him into the presence of the Most High. —The seem as are —Thou who of old New-arrived, bewildered by the strange sights beheld The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly saw, in his flight, begs for knowledge, and the solution of the While heavy sleep fell down on other men. mysteries he has seen. — Describes his flight through In holy vi.sion tranced, the future pass Chaos, and arrival at the place of Everlasting Pun- Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned ishment—Wall of fieiy adamant—The worm that Burdens that made the Pagan mountains shake,

1 He 'Pollok) had much to learn in composition; and. ation on much that is at present eiilogized by his Lad he lived, he would have looked almost with humili- devoted admirers. But the soul of poetiy is there. — — — — — —

198 EGBERT POLLOK.

And Zion's cedars bow—inspire my song; The stream of life; and long—alas! how long My eye unscale; me what is substance teach, To them it seemed!— the wicked who refused And shadow what, while I of things to come, To be redeemed, had wandered in the dark As past, rehearsing, sing the course of Time, Of hell's despau', and drunk the burning cup The second birth, and final doom of man. Then- sins had filled with everlasting woe.

The muse that soft and sickly woos the ear Thus far the years had rolled, which none but Of love, or chanting loud, in windy rhyme. God Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale. Doth number, when two sons, two youthful sons Not overfraught with sense, I ask not: such Of Paradise, in conversation sweet A strain befits not argument so high. For thus the heavenly muse uistructs me, wooed Me thought and phrase severely sifting out At midnight hour with offering sincere The whole idea, grant, uttering as 'tis Of all the heart, poured out in holy jjrayer The essential truth—Time gone, the righteous High on the hills of immortality. saved. Whence goodliest prospect looks beyond the walls The wicked damned, and Providence approved. Of heaven, walked, casting off their eye far through Hold my right hand. Almighty! and me teach The pure serene, observant if returned To strike the Ij're, but seldom struck, to notes From errand duly finished any came; Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure Or any, first in virtue now complete. As those by sainted bards and angels sung. From other worlds arrived, confirmed in good. Which wake the echoes of Eternity; That fools may hear and tremble, and the wise, Thus viewing, one they saw, on hasty wing. Instructed, listen of ages yet to come. Directing towards heaven his course; and now. His flight ascending near the battlements Long was the day, so long expected, past And lofty hills on which they walked, approached. Of the eternal doom, that gave to each For round and round, in spacious circuit wide. Of all the human race his due reward. Mountains of tallest stature cii'cumscribe The sun, earth's sun, and moon, and stars, had The plains of Paradise, whose tops, arrayed ceased In uncreated radiance, seem so pure. To number seasons, days, and months, and years, That nought but angel's foot, or saint's elect To mortal man; Hope was forgotten, and Fear; Of God, may venture there to walk. Here oft And Time, with all its chance, and change, and The sons of bliss take morn or evening pastime. smiles. Delighted to behold ten thousand worlds And frequent tears, and deeds of villany Around their suns revolving in the vast Or righteousness, once talked of much as things External space, or listen the harmonies Of great renown, was now but ill remembered; That each to other in its motion sings; In dim and shadowy vision of the past And hence, in middle heaven remote, is seen Seen far remote, as country which has left The mount of God in awful glory bright. The traveller's speedy step, reth-ing back Within, no orb create of moon, or star. From mom till even; and long Eternity Or sun, gives light; for God's own countenance, Had rolled his mighty years, and with his years Beaming eternally, gives light to all. Men had grown old. The saints, all home returned But farther than these sacred hills. His will From pilgrimage, and war, and weejiing, long Forbids its flow, too bright for eyes beyond. Had rested in the bowers of peace, that skirt This is the last ascent of virtue; here AU trial ends, and hoi^e; here j)erfect joy,

though often dimly enveloped, and many passages there

are, and long ones too, tliat heave and huny and glow magniloquent; but it has passages of good and genuine along in a divine enthusiasm. Professor Wilson. poetry. Professor W. Spalding. The " Course of Time" is a vei-y extraordinary poem; The sentiments of the author are strongly Calvinistic, vast in its conception, vast in its plan, vast in its and in this respect, as well as in a certain crude ardour materials, and vast, if very far from perfect, in its of imagination and devotional enthusiasm, the jioeni achievement. The wonderful thing is, iiuleed, that it reminds us of the style of Milton's early prose treatises. is such as we find it, and not that its imperfections are It is often harsh, turgid, and vehement. Dr. llobeit niimerous. It has notliing at all savouring of the little Cltamhers.

or conventional in it, for he passed at once from the This poem is pregnant with spiritual hope, but over- merely elegant and gracefiil —Dr. D. M. iloir. shadowed by gloomy views of merely human objects and PoUok's " Course of Time," much overlaudeJ on its pursuits. The style is often turgid, without the epi first appearance, is the immature work of a man of grammatic vividness of Young. As the production of genius who possessed very imperfect cultivation. It is a youth the "Course of Time" must rank among tlie

clumsy ill plan, tediously dissertative, and tastelessly most wonderful efforts of genius. Danid Sc.ywgeour. :

EGBERT POLLOK. 199

In boast; for what I am to God I owe. With perfect righteousness, which to these owe, and of myself am naught. heights Entirely Equipped and bent for heaven, I left yon world. Alone can rise, begin, above all fall. My native seat, which scarce your eye can reach, around her central sun, far out. And now, on wing of holy ardour strong. RolUng utmost verge of light: but first to see Hither ascends the stranger, borne upright— On beyond the visible creation, For stranger he did seem, with curious eye What lay Strong curiosity my flight impelled. Of nice inspection round surveying all— Long was my way and strange. I passed the And at the feet ahghts of those that stood bounds His coming, who the hand of welcome gave. Which God doth set to light, and life, and love; And the embrace sincere of holy love; Where darkness meets with day, where order And thus, with comely greeting kind, began:— meets Disorder, dreadful, waste, and wild; and down Hail, brother! hail, thou son of happiness! eternal, micreated night Thou son beloved of God! welcome to heaven. The dark, long on rapid wing is past Ventured alone. Long, bliss that never fades ! thy day To regions vast, I sailed through empty, nameless Of trial, and of fear to fall. Well done. Nothing dwells, unformed and void. Thou good and faithful servant! enter now Where utter There neither eye nor ear, nor any sense Into the joy eternal of thy Lord. being most acute finds object; there Come with us, and behold far higher sight Of conceived. For aught external still you search in vain. Than e'er thy heart desired, or hope smell; try what you will, glorious hill of God, Try touch, or sight, or See ! yonder is the strangely find nought but yourself alone. 'Bove angel's gaze in brightness rising high. You to tell flight But why should I in words attempt Come, join our wing, and we will guide thy like, which is and yet is not? To mysteries of everlasting bliss— What that is This past, my path descending led me still The tree and fount of life, the eternal throne continents of desert gloom And presence-chamber of the King of kings. O'er unclaimed where gravitation shifting turns But what concern hangs on thy countenance, Immense, deem'st The other way, and to some dread, unknown. Unwont within this place ? Perhaps thou centre downward weighs: and now. Thyself unworthy to be brought before Infernal from the edge of darkness, far^ The always Ancient One? so are we too Far travelled from that glorious mount of God to light's Unworthy; but our God is all in all, As Remotest hmb, dire sights I saw, dire sounds And gives us boldness to approach His throne. I heard; and suddenly before my eye wall of fiery adamant sprung up. Sons of the Highest! citizens of heaven! A mountainous, tremendous, flaming high the new-arrived, right have ye judged: Wall Began looked; Above all flight of hope. I paused and Unworthy, most unworthy is your servant And saw, where'er I looked upon that mound, To stand in presence of the King, or hold Sad figures traced in fire, not motionless. Most distant and most humble place in this But imitating life. One I remarked Abode of excellent glory unrcvealed. but how shall I describe But God Almighty be for ever praised, Attentively; What nought resembles else my eye hath seen ? Who, of His fulness, fills me with all grace worm or serpent kind it something looked. And ornament, to make me in His sight Of But monstrous, with a thousand snaky heads. Well pleasing, and accepted in His court. glaring wrath; narrative Eyed each with double orbs of But if your leis>u-e waits, short And with as many tails, that twisted out Will tell why strange concern thus overhangs In horrid revolution, tipped with stings; ill seeming here; and haply, too. My face, gaped. And all its mouths, that wide and darkly Your elder knowledge can instruct my youth And breathed most poisonous breath, had each Of what seems dark and doubtful, unexplained. a sting, Forked, and long, and venomous, and sharp; Our leisure waits thee: speak; and what we in its writhings infinite, it grasped can. And Malignantly what seemed a heart, swollen, black. Delighted most to give delight, we will; quivering with torture most intense; of mystery yet to us remains. And Though much high. And still the heart, with anguish throbbing Made effort to escape, but could not; for Virtue, I need not tell, when proved and full it turned—and oft it vainly turned— Matured, inchnes us up to God and heaven. Howe'er These complicated foldings held it fast; By law of sweet compulsion strong and sure the monstrous beast with sting of head gravitation to the larger orb And still As evermore. Or tail transpierced it, bleeding The less attracts, through matter's whole domain. this could image, much I searched to know; Virtue in me was ripe. I speak not this What : ! — " — :

200 EGBERT POLLOK.

And while I stood, and gazed, and wondered Dying perpetually, yet never dead. long, Some wandered lonely in the desert flames, A voice, from whence I knew not, for no one And some in fell encounter fiercely met. I saw, distinctly whispered in my ear With curses loud, and blasphemies that made

: ' These words ' This is the Worm that never dies. The cheek of darkness pale; and as they fought, And cursed and gnashed their teeth, and wished Fast by the side of this unsightly thing, to die. Another was portrayed, more hideous still; Their hollow eyes did utter streams of woe. Who sees it once shall wish to see't no more. And there were groans that ended not, and sighs For ever undescribed let it remain That always sighed, and tears that ever wept. Only this much I may or can unfold And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. Far out it thrust a dart that might have made And Sorrow, and Repentance, and Desjiair The knees of terror quake, and on it hung. Among them walked, and to their thirsty lips Within the triple barbs, a being pierced Presented frequent cups of burning gall. Through soul and body both. Of heavenly make And as I listened, I heard these beings curse Original the being seemed, but fallen. Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse And worn and wasted with enormous woe. The earth, the resurrection morn; and seek, And still around the everlasting lance And ever vainly seek, for utter death. It writhed convulsed, and uttered mimic groans; And to their everlasting anguish still. And tried and wished, and ever tried and wished The thunders from above responding spoke To die; but could not die. Oh horrid sight! These words, which, through the caverns of per- I trembling gazed, and listened, and heard this dition voice Forlornly echoing, fell on every ear " Approach my ear: This is Eternal Death." " Ye knew j^our duty, but ye did it not:" And back again recoiled a deeper groan. Nor these alone. Upon that burning wall, A deeper gj-oan! oh, what a groan was that! In horrible emblazonry, were limned I waited not, but swift on sjjeediest wing, All shapes, all forms, all modes of wretchedness, With unaccustomed thoughts conversing, back And agony, and grief, and desperate woe. Retraced my venturous path from dark to light. And pi'ominent in characters of fire, Then up ascending, long ascending up, Where'er the eye could light, these words you I hasted on; though whiles the chiming spheres, read By God's own finger touched to harmony, " Who comes this way, behold, and fear to sin!" Held me delaying, till I here arrived, Amazed I stood; and thought such imagery Drawn upward by the eternal love of God, Foretokened, within, a dangerous abode. Of wonder full and strange astonishment. But yet to see the worst a wish arose: At what in yonder den of darkness dwells, For virtue, by the holy seal of God Which now your higher knowledge will unfold. Accredited and stamped, immortal all,

And all invulnerable, fears no hurt. They answering said : —To ask and to bestow As easy as my wish, as rapidly, Knowledge, is much of heaven's delight; and r.o.v I through the horrid rampart passed, unscathed Most joyfully what thou requir'st we would; And unopposed; and, poised on steady wing, For much of new and unaccountable

I hovering gazed. Eternal Justice ! Sons Thou bring'st. Something indeed we heard

Of God ! tell me, if ye can tell, what then before. I saw, what then I heard. Wide was the place. In passing conversation slightly touched. And deep as wide, and ruinous as deep. Of such a place; yet rather to be taught Beneath, I saw a lake of burning fire, Than teaching, answer, what thy marvel asks. With tempest tossed perpetually; and still We need: for we ourselves, though here, are but The waves of fiery darkness 'gainst the rocks Of yesterday, creation's yoimger sons. Of dark damnation broke, and music made But there is one, an ancient bard of Earth, Of melancholy sort; and overhead, Who, by the stream of life, sitting in bliss. And all around, wind warred with wind, storm Has oft beheld the eternal years complete howled The mighty circle round the throne of God To storm, and lightning forked lightning crossed. Great in all learning, in all wisdom great, And thunder answered thunder, muttering sounds And great in song; whose harp in lofty strain Of sullen wrath; and far as sight could pierce, Tells frequently of what thy wonder craves; Or down descend in caves of hopeless depth, While round him, gathering, stand the youth of Through all that dungeon of unfading fire, heaven. I saw most miserable beings walk. With truth and melody delighted both. Burning continually, yet unconsumed; To him this path directs, an easy path. For ever wasting, yet enduring still; And easy flight will bring us to his seat. ; —

EOBEKT POLLOK. 201

Upright they entered in; though high his rank, So sajnng, they, linked hand in hand, spread out and mighty his renown. Their golden wings, by living breezes fanned, His wisdom high, deferring all apology. And over heaven's broad champaign sailed serene. And thus, two their new companion introduced. O'er hill and valley, clothed with verdure green The That never fades; and tree, and herb, and flower. Ancient in knowledge, bard of Adam's race! That never fade; and many a river, rich We bring thee one, of us in(iuu-ing what With nectar, winding pleasantly, they passed; We need to learn, and with him wish to learn. And mansion of celestial mould, and work His asking will direct thy answer best. Divine. And oft delicious music, sung walked the vales. By saint and angel bands that Most ancient bard! began the new-airived. harped upon their harps. Or mountain tops, and Few words will set my wonder forth, and guide sweet constraint Their ear inclined, and held by Thy wisdom's light to what in me is dark. Their wing; not long, for strong desire, awaked, Of knowledge that to holy use might turn. Equipped for heaven, I left my native place: Still press-eci them on to leave what rather seemed But first beyond the realms of light I bent Pleasure, due only when all duty's done. My course; and there, in utter darkness, far Remote, 1 beings saw forlorn in woe. And now beneath them lay the wished-for spot, Burning continually, yet unconsumed. The sacred bower of that renowned bard And there were groans that ended not, and sighs That ancient bard, ancient in days and song; That ahvays sighed, and tears that ever wept But in immortal ^^gour young, and young And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. In rosy health; to pensive sohtude And still I heard these wretched beings curse Eetiring oft, as was his wont on earth. Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse The earth, the resurrection mom, and seek, Fit was the place, most fit for holy musing. And ever vainly seek, for utter death. Upon a little mount that gently rose. And fi-om above the thunders answered still, He sat, clothed in white robes; and o'er his head " Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." A laurel tree, of lustiest, eldest growth, And everywhere throughout that horrid den far and wide— Stately and tall, and shadowing I saw a form of excellence, a form Not fruitless, as on earth, but bloomed and rich Of beauty without spot, that nought could see With frequent clusters, ripe to heavenly taste- And not admire, admire and not adore. in its arms Spread its eternal boughs, and And from its own essential beams it gave A myrtle of unfading leaf embraced. Light to itself, that made the gloom more dark. The "rose and lily, fresh with fragrant dew. And every eye in that infernal pit cheek, around And every flower of fairest Beheld it still; and from its face, how fair! fast by Him smihng flocked; beneath his feet, 0, how exceeding fair! for ever sought, And round his sacred hill, a streamlet walked. But ever vainly sought, to turn away. Warbling the holy melodies of heaven. That image, as I guess, was Virtue, for incense sweet; The hallowed zephyrs brought him Nought else hath God given countenance so fair. in prospect long. And out before him opened, But why in such a place it should abide ? winding maze The river of life, in many a What place it is? what beings there lament? lofty throne of God, Descending from the Whence came they ? and for what their endless

That with excessive glory closed the scene. groan ? Why curse they God ? why seek they utter death? Of Adam's race he was, and lonely sat, And chief, what means the resurrection morn ? By chance that day, in meditation deep. My youth expects thy reverend age to tell. Reflecting much of Time, and Earth, and Man. the bard; And now to pensive, now to cheerful notes, Thou rightly deem'st,fairyouth,began ever fan-. He touched a harp of wondrous melody; The foi-m thou saw'st was Virtue, like God, whose excellent majesty, A golden harp it was, a precious gift. Virtue, omnipresent. Which, at the Day of Judgment, with the crown Whose glory vu-tue is, is being, once created rational. Of life, he had received from God's own hand, No with moral sense. Reward due to his service done on earth. Accountable, endowed With sapience of right and wrong endowed however fallen, debased, destroyed; He sees their coming, and with greeting kind. And charged, And welcome, not of hollow forged smiles. However lost, forlorn, and miserable; however thick; And ceremonious compliment of phrase. In guilt's dark shrouding -ivrapped, delirious, and mad. But of the heart sincere, into his bower However drunk, full cup; and with whatever damned Invites: like greeting they returned. Not bent With sin's it and toil, In low obeisancy, from creature most Unnatural diligence work Vu'tue its sight, or once Unfit to creature, but with manly fonn Can banish from 202 WILLIAM THOM.

first it needs to say, that other style Forget that she is fair. Hides it in night, But language than thy ear is wont, In central night; takes it the Hghtiiing's wing, And other expect to hear the dialect And flies for ever on, beyond the bounds Thou must — for each in heaven a relish holds Of all; drinks it the maddest cup of sin; Of man; speech, that points to whence he came. Dives it beneath the ocean of despair: Of former I of speak, or place. It dives, it drinks, it flies, it hides in vain. But whether person or action, moral or divine; For still the eternal beauty, image fair, Event Once stamped upon the soul, before the eye Or things unknown compare to things unknown; All lovely stands, nor will depart; so God Allude, imply, suggest, apostrophize; on Ordains; and lovely to the worst she seems. Or touch, when wandering tlarough the past, And ever seems; and as they look, and still moods Must ever look upon her lovehness. Of mind thou never felt; the meaning still. Remembrance dire of what they were, of what With easy apprehension, thou shalt take. They might have been, and bitter sense of what So perfect here is knowledge, and the strings eveiy word They are, polluted, ruined, hopeless, lost. Of sympathy so tuned, that With most repenting torment rend their hearts. That each t j other speaks, though never heard So God ordains—their punishment severe Before, at once is fully understood. Eternally inflicted by themselves. And every feeling uttered, fully felt. 'Tis this, this Virtue hovering evermore Before the vision of the damned, and in So shalt thou find, as from my various song. Upon their monstrous moral nakedness That backwai-d rolls o'er noiiny a tide of years. Casting unwelcome light, that makes their woe, Directly or inferred, thy asking, thou. That makes the essence of the endless flame. And wondering doubt, slialt learn to answer, while of Where this is, there is hell, darker than aught I sketch in brief the history man. That he, the bard three-visioned, darkest saw.

The place thou saw'st was Hell; the groans thou heard 'st The wailings of the damned, of those who would HELEN'S TOMB. Not be redeemed, and at the Judgment-day, were damned. Long past, for unrepented sins At morn a dew-bathed rose I past. thunders which thou heard'st, The seven loud All lovely on its native stalk, declare rnmindful of the noon-day blast, The eternal wrath of the Almighty God. Tliat strew'd it on my evening's walk. But whence, or why they came to dwell in woe. Why they curse God, what means the glorious So, when the morn of life awoke, morn My hopes sat bright on fancy's bloom, Of resurrection—these a longer tale Forgetful of the death-aimed stroke Demand, and lead the mournful lyre far back That laid them in my Helen's tomb. Through memory of sin and mortal man. Yet haply not rewardless we shall trace Watch there my hopes! watch Helen sleep, The dark disastrous years of finished Time: with sweet-lipped Fancy rave, Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy. Nor more But with the long grass sigh and weep Nor yet shall all be sad ; for God gave peace, by Helen's grave. Much peace, on earth, to all who feared his name. At dewy eve

WILLIAM THOM,

Born 1799 — Died 1848.

WiLLT.VM Thom, the author of " The Mither- her son much education. When ten years old public factory, where less Bairn" and many other touching and William was placed in a four years, pathetic Scottish lyrics, Avas born at Aberdeen he served an apprenticeship of in the in the year 1799. His father died soon after after which he obtained employment Barron, & his birth, leaving his mother too poor to give weaving establishment of Gordon, WILLIAM THOM. 203

poems, one of the best of which, Co., Avhere he continued for a period of seven- posing small Blind Boy's Pranks," he sent to teen years. About 1830 he left Aberdeen, No. 1 of "The Herald. The piece was in due after entering into matrimony, and went to the Aberdeen the following editorial note: reside at Dundee. From here he removed to time inserted, with stanzas are by a corre- the village of Newtyle, near Cupar- Angus, —"These beautiful ' Serf,' and where he passed several years of hard work, spondent who subscribes himself A ' hours and domestic happiness with his loved Jean. declares that he has to weave fourteen trust his daily At length, in 1837, heavy failures in the United out of the twenty-four.' We abridged, that he may have States silenced in one week six thousand looms toil will soon be to an art in which he in Dundee, and spread dismay through the more leisure to devote cultivated country. Thorn's earnings had been small, and shows so much natural genius and into being thrown out of employment he had great taste." This poem was copied extensively the attention of difficulty to maintain his famih'. He purchased other journals, and attracted Knockespock, in the neighbour- a few articles, and accompanied by his wife Mr. Gordon of indigent circum- and children, with only two shillings in his pos- hood, who, ascertaining the sent five pounds, and session, began the precarious life of a pedlar. stances of the poet, him Thom had found They did not succeed in their attempts to undertook to patronize him. soon afterwards, he tells trade, and one evening found themselves with- a real Mecaenas, for dashing along in out means to obtain a night's lodging. Leav- us, he and his daughter were through the streets of ing his family at the roadside. Thorn applied a handsome carriage the protection and at the at several places for shelter, but without suc- London; and under Gordon they spent upwards of cess. Of one of these applications the poet expense of Mr. England, visiting and being says: "I pleaded the infancy of my family four months in

' leading men of the and the lateness of the hour, but l^o, no' was visited by many of the the cruel reply. I returned to my family by daj'. volume of poems and the wayside. They had crept closer together, In 18il he published a brief autobiography, under the and all except the mother were f;ist a>leep. songs, with a title " Ehymes and Eecollections of a Hand- I drew her mantle over the wet and chilled of reached a third edition. sleepers, and sat down beside them. " At length loom "Weaver," which the year following he a passer-by took pity upon them, and though On his return to London a member an outhouse was the only accommodation lie was entertained at a public dinner, presiding, and numerous dis- could offer, it was gladly accepted; but the of Parliament letters being morning revealed that their favourite little tinguished artists and men of of London or- Jeanie had sunk under the exposure of the present. The working classes which was previous night. ganized a meeting for his benefit, and proved a For several months the poet's lot was a presided over by Dr. Bowring, the Howitts, Eliza grievous one, and he was fain to seek a living success. Charles Dickens, magnates by assuming the humbling position of a men- Cook, John Forster, and other literary atten- dicant musician. But although this was found of the metropolis, paid the weaver-poet he received, more profitable than the packman's trade, he tions. From the United States Margaret Fuller, grew sick of what he calls "beggar's work," chiefly through the eflfbrts of and on reaching Aberdeen he sat down once upwards of two thousand dollars; and consider- from India more to the loom. Finding more profitable able sums Avere also sent to him occupation at Inverury, he removed to that and Australia. point of Thom's village, where, nine months after, he lost his This was the culminating parasites who beloved wife—the faithful partner of all his career. "With the assistance of soon spent, sorrowful wanderings. " She left us," he says, hovered around him his money was not obtain any "just as the last cold cloud was passing, ere his habits became bad, he could friends grew the outbreak of a brighter day. That cloud literary employment, his great at last lost passed, but the warmth that followed lost half tired of him, he lost caste, and Starvation was almost staring its value tome, she being no partaker therein." heart and hope. He now occupied a time of slackness in com- him in the face, and he resolved to return to —

204 WILLIAM THOM. his humble friends and his loom in Scotland. died in deep poverty at Dundee, Feb. 29, 1848, From this time a change came over him. He and his remains were honoured with a public walked about, as his brother-poet Gow said, funeral. He had married a second time, and "with his death upon him." The last paper left a widow and three cliildren, for whom a he wrote was entitled "Weeds," for which handsome sum Avas afterwards raised by sub- Douglas Jerrold sent him five pounds. He scription.

Loveglower'd when he saw her bonnie darke'e, THE BLIND BOY'S PRANKS. An' swore by heaven's grace He ne"er had seen, nor thought to .see. No. I. Since e'er he left the Paphian lea, Sae lovely " 111 tell fome ither time, quo' he. a dwallin' place. How we love an' laugh in the north countrie ' Legsnl. Syne, first of a', in her blythe.some breast. built Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, He a bower, I ween; An' what did Love kentna whaur to stay, the waefu', deviliek neist? But kindled AVi' fient an arrow, bow, or string a gleam like the rosy east, That AVi' droopin' heart an' drizzled wing, sparkled frae baith her een. He faught his lanely way. An' then beneath ilk high e'e-bree placed a "Is there nae mair, in Garioch fair, He quiver there; Ae spotless hame for me? His bow? -what but her shinin' brow? Hae politics, an' corn, an kye, An' 0! sic deadly strings he drew Frae out her silken hair. Hk bosom stappit? Fie, tie! I'll swithe me o'er the sea."

Guid be our guard ! sic deeds waur deen, Roun' a' our countrie then; He launched a leaf o' jessamine. On whilk he daured to swim. An' mony a hangin' lug was seen An' pillowed his head on a wee rosebud, 'Alang formers fat, an' lawyers lean. Syne laithfu', lanely. Love 'gan send An' herds o' common men' Down Ury's waefu' stream.

The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, But dowie when he gaed by; DREAMIXGS OF THE BEREAVED. Till lulled wi' the sough o' mony a sang, He sleepit fu' soun' an' sailed alang The morning breaks bonnie o'er mountain an' Xeath heav'n's gowden sky! stream.

An' troubles the hallowed breath o' my dream 1 'T was just whaur creepin' Ury greets The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e'e. Its mountain-cousin Don, But, ghost-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer There wandered forth a weel-faur'd dame, to me. Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream. The dull common world then sinks from my sight, As it flirted an' played wi' a sunny beam An' fairer creations arise to the night; That flickered its bosom upon. When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my e'e,

Then bright are the visions awaken'd to me I Love happit his head, I trow, that time. The jessamine bark drew^ nigh, ! come, spirit mother, discourse of the hours, young bosom beat all its beating to yours, The lassie espied the wee rosebud. My When heart-woven wishes in soft counsel fell, An' aj-e her heart gae thud for thud.

On ears—how unheedful prov'd son-ow might tell I An' quiet it wadna lie. That deathless affection —nae trial could break, When a' else forsook me ye wouldna forsake; "0 gin I but had yon wearie wee flower Then come, 0! my mother, come often to me, That floats on the Ury sae fairl" An' soon an' for ever I'll come unto thee! She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf.

But little wist she o' the pawkie thief An' thou shrouded loveliness! soul-winning Jean, Was lurkin' an' laughin' there! How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen! — ! ; — ! ;

WILLIAM THOM. 205

'Tvvas kind—for the lowe that your e'e kindled there THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. Will bum—ay, an' burn, till that breast beat nae mair. When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame. bairnies sleep round mo. 1 bless ye their Our By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame: sleep, Wha Stan's last an' lanely, an' naebody carin'?— Your ain dark-e'ed Willie will wauken an' weep; 'Tis the puir doited loonie—the mitherless bairn! But, blythe in his weepin', he'll tell me how you, liis heaven- Itamed mammie, was "dautin' his The mitherless bairn gangs till his lane bed, brow." Nane covers his cauld Vjack, or haps his bare head hard as the aim, Though dark be our dwallin'—our happin' though His wee liackit heelies are the lair o' the mitherless baiml bare, An' Utheless An' night closes round us in cauldness an' care; Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams tremble Affection will warm us—an' bright are the beams That halo our hame in yon dear land of dreams. there, 0' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair! Then weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign, brings clutches, a' reckless an' stem. Wi' souls of the dearest I mingle me then; But momin' That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn! The gowd light of morning is lightless to me, But oh for the night wi' its ghost rcvelrie! Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly-roek'd bed, Now rests in the mools whaur her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens nae the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn! JEAXIE'S GKAYE. Her spunt, that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth. I saw my true love first on the banks of queenly Still watches his wearisome wand'rings on earth, TaV, Recording in heaven the blessings they earn I it yielding my trembling heart Nor did deem Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless baira! away; loved it I feasted^ on her deep dark eye, and Oh! speak him nae harshly—he trembles the more and more, while For, oh: I thought I ne'er had seen a look so He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile! kind before In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn she taught me 1 heard my true love sing, and That God deals the blow for the mitherless baira! many a strain, But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again. In all our friendless wanderings, in homeless penury, THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM. Her gentle song and jetty eye were all un- draught. ! to the drunkard's changed to me. Oh tempt me not With its soul-consuming gleam! that waft I saw my true love fade— I heard her latest Oh! hide me from the woes sigh Around the drunkard's dream! I wept no friv'lous Aveeping when I closed her lightless eye; When night in holy silence brings Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other The God-willed hour of sleep, waters lave Then, then the red-eyed revel swings The markless epot where Ury creeps around Its bowl of poison deep! my Jeanie's grave. When morning waves its golden hair. Jeanie's smiles o'er hill and lea. Move noiseless, gentle Ury I around my And bed, One sick'ning ray is doomed to glare And I'll love thee, gentle Ury'. where'er my On yon rude revelry footsteps tread sped, For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from The rocket's flary moment to earth; yonder sea, Sinks black'ning back darker deeper sinks his head Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides Yet — from me. Who shares the drunkard's mirth! • — !

206 THOMAS K. HERVEY.

Know ye the sleep the drunkard know.s? And the ball-less eye of Death still darts That sleep, oh! ivho may tell? Black fire on the drunkard's sleep! Or who can speak the fiendful throes

Of his self-heated hell? And lo! their coffin'd bosoms rife. That in bled his ruin wild ! The soul all reft of heav'nly mark The cold, cold lips of his shrouded wife, Defaced God's image there— Press lips of his shrouded child ! Eolls down and down yon abyss dark, Thy howling home, Despair! So fast—so deep the hold they keep! Hark! that unhallow'd scream: Or bedded his head on broken hearts. us, Guard oh God ! from the drunkard's sleep- Where slimy reptiles creep; From the drunkard's demon-dream

THOMAS K. HEEVEY.

Born 1799 - Died 1859.

Thomas Kibble Hervey was born February years afterwards he was sole editor, proves him 4, 1799, at Paisley, the birthplace of so many to have been a man of ability. poets and men of eminence. He was educated After Hervey's death, February 17, 1859, a at Trinity College, Cambridge, and devoted collection of his poems was made by his widow, some years to the study of law, but abandoned which, together with a memoir from her it and adopted the more congenial pursuit of practised pen, was published in the United literature. In 1824 Hervey published his States in 1867. Dr. D. M. Moir says :— " The poem "Australia," which contains many ex- genius of T. K. Hervey (for he has genius at quisite descriptive passages, showing that he once pathetic and refined) is not unallied to possessed the "inspiration and the faculty that of Pringle and Watts, but with a dash of divine." Five years later he issued The Tom Moore. He writes uniformly with taste Poetical Sketch-look, including a third edi- and elaboration, polishing the careless and tion of "Australia." His next volumes, pub- rejecting the crude ; and had he addressed lished in the order named, were IllustratLons himself more earnestly and more unreserv-

of Modern Scripture, The English Helicon, edly to the task of composition, I have little and The Book of Christmas, every page of doubt, from several specimens he has occasion- which affords a literary feast worthy of the ally exhibited, that he might have occupied a happy season. Mr. Hervey was also the author higher and more distinguished place in our of a satirical poem entitled " The Devil's Pro- poetical literature than he can be said to have gress," and many popular pieces contributed attained. His 'Australia' and several of his to the pages of various annuals edited by him. lyrics were juvenile pledges of future excel- His connection with the London Athenceum, lence which maturity can scarcely be said to of wiiich at its commencement and for several have fully redeemed."

THE CONVICT SHIP.

Morn on the waters! and, purple and bright, And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in Bursts on the billows the flushing of light; the gale. O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun. The winds come around her in murmiu- raid See the tall vessel goes gallantly on; song, Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail. And the surges rejoice as they bear her along. ! —— ——————

THOMAS K. HAEVEY. 207

clouds, Sleep, soldier! sleep! thy warfare o'er, See! she looks up to the golden-edged own bugle's loudest strain And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds. Kot thine more. Onward she ghdes amid ripple and spray, Shall ever break thy slumbers Over the waters—away and away! With summons to the battle-plain; Bright as the visions of youth ere they part. A trumpet note more loud and deep Passing away, like a dream of the heart! JIust rouse thee from that leaden sleep. Who—as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, on high- Music around her and sunshine Thou need'st nor helm nor cuirass now, and glow. Pauses to think, amid glitter Beyond the Grecian hero's boast, that are breaking below! Oh! there be hearts Thou wilt not quail thy naked brow, Nor shrink before a myriad host, moon is on liigh, Night on the waves! and the For head and heel alike are sound brow of the sky. Hung like a gem on the A thousand arrows cannot wound. Treading its depths in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Thy mother is not in thy dreams. Look to the waters! asleep on their breast. With that mild, widowed look she wore Seems not the ship like an island of rest? The day how long to her it seems! Bright and alone on the shadowy main. — She kissed thee at the cottage door, Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate sicken'd at the sounds of joy plain And her only boy. Who—as she smiles in the silvery light. That bore away Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, Alone on the deep as the moon in the sky, Sleep, soldier! let thy mother wait A phantom of beauty—could deem, with a sigh. To hear thy bugle on the blast; That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, Thy dog, perhaps, may find the gate; And that souls that are smitten he bursting And bid her home to thee at last; within '( He cannot tell a sadder tale Who, as he watches her silently ghding. Than did thy clarion, on the gale, wave after wave is dividing lin- Remembers that When last —and far away—she heard its guilt could not sever. Bosoms that sorrow and gering echoes fail! Hearts that are parted and broken for ever? Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave. The death-bed of hope, or the young spuit's

grave ?

'Tis thus with our life while it passes along. THE GONDOLA GLIDES. Like a vessel at sea amidst sunshine and song! Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world. The gondola glides. With streamers afloat and with canvas unfurled, Like a spirit of night, All gladness and glory to wandering eyes. O'er the slumbering tides, Yet chartered by sorrow and freighted with sighs; In the calm moonlight. Fading and false is the aspect it wears. The star of the north As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; her golden eye, And the withering thoughts that the world can- Shows forth not know. But a brighter looks high! Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; From yon lattice on Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished Her taper is out. and o'er. And the silver beam Floats the maiden about Like a beautiful dream! And the beat of her heart THE DEAD TRUMPETER. Makes her tremble all o'er; And she lists with a start dash of the oar. Wake, soldier! wake! thy war-horse waits To the To bear thee to the battle back; are past. Thou slumberest at a foeman's gates; But the moments Thy dog would break thy bivouac; And her fears are at rest. her lover at last Thy plume is trailing in the dust, And his breast; And thy red falchion gathering rust! Holds her clasped to —

208 JAMES LAWSON.

And the planet above, And kiss the fond tear And the quiet blue .«ea, From her beautiful eye. Are pledged to his love And his constancy. And he watches its flashes. Which brightly reveal Iler cheek is reclined What the long fringing lashes On the home of his breast; Would vainly conceal; And his fingers are twined And reads—while he kneels 'Mid her ringlets, which rest, All his ardour to speak In many a fold. Her reply, as it steals O'er his arm that is placed In a blush o'er her cheek. Round the cincture of gold Which encircles her waist. Till won by the prayers Which so softly reprove, He looks to the stars On his bosom, in tears, Which are gemming the blue, She half-murmurs her love; And devoutly he swears And the stifled confession He will ever be true; Enraptured he sips, Then bends him to hear 'Mid the breathings of passion, The low sound of her sigh. In dew from her lips.

JAMES LAWSON.

Jame3 Lawson was born in Glasgow, Nov- "Metamora" by John A. Stone, and he was ember 9, 1799. He completed his education also one of a similar committee which selected at the university of his native city, and in the prize play of " Nimrod Wildfire, or the 1815 emigrated to the United States, and Kentuckiau in New York," by James K. entered the counting-house of a relative resid- Paulding. ing in New York. A few years later the Since his retirement from the press in 1833 failure of the firm of which Lawson was a Mr. Lawson has engaged in the business of partner induced him to turn his attention to marine insurance, and is well known among literature. In company with James G. Brooks the mercantile men of New York. He has and John B. Skilman he established the been during the past fifty years a frequent Mornhui ('ourier, the first number of which contributor of criticisms, essays, tales, and appeared in 1827. In 1829 Lawson retired verse to the periodicals of the day; and in from this concern, and joined Amos Butler in 1857 printed for private circulation an octavo the Mercantile Advertiser, ivith which he was volume entitled Poems: Gleanings from Spare associated till 1833. In 1830 he published a Hours of a, Business Life, with the following volume entitled Tales and Sketches by a Cos- dedication: — "To my Children and their mopolite. His next work was Giordano: a Mother, these poems, at their solicitation thus Trarjedij, an Italian state story of love and gathered together but not published, are affec- conspiracy, which was first performed at the tionately inscribed by the father and husband, Park Theatre, New York. The prologue was James Lawson." This handsome volume was Avritten by William Leggett, and the epilogue followed in 1859 by Liddesdale, or the Border by P. M. AVetmore. Mr. Lawson has several Chief: a Trarjedy, which was also printed for times appeared before the public in connection private circulation. Mr. Lawson has for many with the stage. He was associated with the years resided at Yonkers, on the Hudson,

American poets Fitz - Greene Halleck and where he is well known as a public-spirited William Cullen Bryant on the committee which citizen and the genial entertainer of men of secured for Edwin Forrest the prize play of letters. ! ;

JAMES LAWSON. 209

And muse upon unnumbered things, THE APrROACII OF AGE. That crowding come on memory's wings; Then varied thoughts our bosoms gladden, the honest truth be told ! Well, let And some intrude that deeply sadden: feel that I am growing old, I Fond hopes in their fruition crushed, And, I have guessed for many a day, Beloved tones for ever hushed. sable locks are turning gray. IMy AVe do not grieve that being's day At least, by furtive glances, I Is fleeting, shadow-like, away Some very silvery hairs espy, J?ut thank thee. Heaven, our lengthened life That thread-like on my temples shine. Has passed in love, unmarred by strife; And fain I would deny are mine: That sickness, sorrow, pain, and care, AVhile wrinkles creeping here and there. Have fallen so lightly to our share. Some score my years, a few my care. We bless thee for our daily bread, The sports that yielded once delight In plenty on our table spread; Have lost all relish to my sight; And Thy abundance helps to feed in their stead, more serious thought IJut, The worthy poor, who pine in need; graver train of joys has brought. A And thanks, that in our worldly way. Which, while gay fancy is refined. We have so seldom stepped astray. Correct the taste, improve the mind. But well Ave should in meekness speak. seek, I meet the friends of former years, And pardon for transgressions Whose smile approving, often cheers: For oft, how strong soe'er the will follow good, we've chosen ill. How few are spared ! the poisonous draught To The reckless in wild frenzy quaffed, The youthful heart unwisely fears In dissipation's giddy maze, The sure approach of coming years; O'erwlielmed them in their brightest days. Though cumbered oft with weighty cares, And one, my playmate when a boy, Yet age its burden lightly bears. I see in manhood's pride and joy; Though July's scorching heats are done. He too has felt, through sun and shower. Yet blandly smiles the slanting sun, Old Time, thy unrelenting power. And sometimes, in our lovely clime. We talk of things which well we know To dark December's frosty time. Had chanced some forty years ago; Though day's delightful noon is past, Alas! like yesterday they seem. Yet mellow twilight comes, to cast The past is but a gorgeous dream A sober joy, a sweet content. But speak of forty coming years. Where virtue with repose is blent, Ah, long indeed that time appears! Till, calmly on the fading sight. In nature's course, in forty more. Mingles its latest ray with night. My earthly pilgrimage is o'er; And the green turf on which I tread Will gayly spring above my head.

Beside me, on her rocking-chair. TO A UNTIE with care, My wife her needle plies FRIGHTENED FROM HER NEST. And in her ever-cheerful smiles A charm abides, that quite beguiles Wee Untie, stay, an' dinna fear me.

The years that have so swiftly sped. It is nae i' my heart to steer ye. With their unfaltering, noiseless tread: Ye needna flee, tho' I am near ye, For we, in mingled happiness, Frae lounie nest. confess. Will not the approach of age But i' your thorny shelter hear me, But when our daughters we espy, Wi' unscaithed breast. I^ounding with laughing cheek and eye, by ill inclined, Our bosoms beat with conscious pride, I hae nae come Keekin' ilk leafy bield behind, To see them blooming by our side. I wad fain wee tremblers find. God spare ye, girls, for many a day. As In hedge or brier; And all our anxious love repay! bad kent ye here reclined, In your fair growth of form and grace. If I I'd nae come near. We see age coming on apace. wile, When o'er our vanished days we glance, But tired o' Glasgow's wark an' Far backward to our young romance. I've wandered mony a weary mile Vol. II.—O —

210 JAMES LAWSON.

cauld, Mary, To see the knowes sae blytliely smile Now autumn winds blaw boughs; \Vi' weal til o' flower.-^; Amang the withered The burns ami braes my thoughts beguile And a' the bonnie flowers, Mary, 0' dreary hours. Are faded frae the knowes; But still thy love's unchanged, Mary, I've come to muse by Grieto's linn. Nae chilly autumn there; To liear its pleasing, prattling din, And sweet thy smile, as spring's, Mary, To spy the trout wi' rapid fin Thy sunny face as fair. Dart 'neath a stane, mair the early lark, ]\Iaiy, As frae its green banks I peep in. Nae Amused, ahine. Trills on his soaring Avay; Hushed is the lintie's sang, Mary, The lark sings to the rising day, Through a' the shortening day; The mavis to its latest ray; But still thy voice I hear, Mary, Trae morn to night on ilka spray Like melody divine; Sweet wild notes ring; Nae autumn in my heart, Mary, My heart exults at every lay And summer still in thine. The warblers sing.

An' wee! I lo'e your cheerful sang, The bloomin' whin or broom amang, CAMPSIE GLEN.i I've listened aft the morning lang, Wi' raptured ear: Let us ower to Campsie Glen, bonnie lassie, 0, Puir thing! I wadna do ye wrang By the dingle that you ken, bonnie lassie, 0, For warlds o' gear. To the tree where first we woo'd, And cut our names sae rude. wherefore, Untie, lea' your bield ? Then Deep in the sauch-tree's wood, bonnie lassie, O. ]\[air mither-like to stay and shield,

Wi' a' the art tiiat ye may wield, O'er the willow brig we'll wend, bonnie lassie, 0, Your yaupin' things, And the ladders we'll ascend, bonnie lassie, 0, Than flee atoure yon stibble-field, Where the woodroof loves to hide Wi' flurried wings. Its scented leaves, beside The streamlets, as they glide, bonnie lassie, O. If man possess a selfish heart, Our mithers wadna act thy part. WHiere the blue bell on the brae, bonnie lassie, O, scented slae, bonnie lassie, O, To drive awa' at ilka start Wliere the sweetest ever new, Sae heedlessly; And the flow'rets Of nature's painting true, They'd save their bairns, or share their smart, All fragrant bloom for you, bonnie lassie, O. Or wi" them dee. Where the music of the wood, bonnie lassie, 0, Come, lintie, to your cozie nest, And the dashing of the flood, bonnie lassie, 0, An' cuddle 'neatli your downy breast O'er the rock and ravine mingle, Your unfledged young; their necdfu' rest And glen and mountain dingle, I've brolce ower lang; With the merry echoes tingle, bonnie lassie, 0. I'm gaun awa', but this request Sing me a sang! On the moss-seat we'll recline, bonnie lassie, 0, Wi' a hand in each of thine, bonnie lassie, 0; The bosom's wannest tlirill Beats truer, safter still. WHEN SPRING AERAYED IN As our hearts now glowing fill, bonnie lassie, 0. FLOWERS. Then before bright heaven's eye, bonnie lassie, 0, love-knots tie, bonnie lassie, 0; AVhen spring arrayed in flowers, Mary, We will dovible Then true affection plighted, Danced wi' the leafy trees; We'll love and live united, When larks sang to the sun, Mary, With hearts and hands united, bonnie lassie, 0. And hummed the wandering bees; first we met and loved, Mary, Then ' Campsie Glen is a beautiful valley near the village By Kelburn's loupin' linn. of Lennoxtowii. about ten miles north of Glajgow. It is And blither was thy voice, Mary, is rich in geological and botajiical treasures, and waterfall —Ed. Than Unties i' the whin. enlivened by a cascade or —

JOHN IMLAH. 211

JOHN IMLAH.

Born 1799 — Died 1816.

in JoHX Imlah, Avhose ancestors for many gen- rest of the year he Avas allowed to travel account, and occa- erations had been farmers in the parish of Scotland tuning on his own by the sale of a Fyvie, was born in Aberdeen, Xov. 15, 1799. sionally adding to his income Of seven sons born in succession he was the piano. early boy- youngest. He had the advantage of a good Imlah composed songs from his Flowers, a English education, after completing which he hood. In 1827 he published May in the Scottish dialect; Avas apprenticed to a pianoforte manufacturer. volume of lyrics chiefly contain- Having given evidence of possessing a musical followed in 1811 by Poems and Sonrjs, patriotic, and popular ear, his employer initiated him into the mys- ing several spirited, contributor to the Edhi- teries of tuning. Becoming an expert, Imlah pieces. He was also a other periodicals sought service as a piano-tuner in London, and bur(jh Literary Journal, and vigour of ultimately entered into an engagement with of the day. He was cut oflf in the a brother residing the firm of Broadwood & Co., which continued manhood while on a visit to after a brief period of en- until he left Great Britain to visit his brother in Jamaica, where victim to the fatal disease of in the AVest Indies. Under this arrangement, joyment he fell a having just entered from January to June he performed the duties the island, Jan. 9, 1816, -seventh yeai". of a regular tuner at a fixed salary, and the upon his forty

"When Avinter Avinds blaw sharp and shrill. WHERE GADIE RINS. O'er icy burn and sheeted hill, The ingle neuk is gleesome still. 0! gin I were where Gadie rins, At the foot o' Bennachie. "Where Gadie rins—Avhere Gadie rins, 0: gin I were Avhere Gadie rins, Though few to Avelcome me remain. By the foot o' Bennachie.^ Though a' I loved be dead and gane,

I'll back, though I should live alane, roam'd by Tweed I've roam'd by Tay, I've — To the foot o' Bennachie. By liorder Xith and Highland Spey, But dearer far to me than they 0! gin I Avere where Gadie rins, braes o' Bennachie. The "Where Gadie rins— Avhere Gadie rins, rins. 1 gin I Avere Avhere Gadie \Vhen blade and blossom sprout in spring, By the foot o' Bennachie. And bid the birdies wag the wing. They blithely bob, and soar, and sing By the foot o' Bennachie.

When simmer deeds the varied scene "NVi' licht o' gowd and leaves o' green, AULD SCOTLVS SAXGS. I fain wad be where aft I've been, Bennachie. At the foot o' Auld Scotia's sangs! auld Scotia's sangs—the

strains o' youth and yore I "When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn, lilt to me, and I will list— will list them .\.nd barn-yards stored wi' stocks o' corn, o'er and o'er; 'Tis blythe to toom the clyack horn, Though mak' me Avae, or mak' me Avud, —or At the foot o' Bennachie. changfu' as a child. Yet lilt tome, and I Avill list—the "native ' Gadie is the name of a rivulet, and Bennachie of a Avood- notes Avild!" hill, lx)th iu Aberdeenshire.— Ed. ! • —— — — — —

212 JOHN IMLAH.

glint back wi' They mak' me present wi' the past—they bring I They gar the glass o' memorlc up fresh and fair brichter shine, friends, and auld The Bonnie Broom o' Cowden Knowes, the On far afF scenes and far aff Bush abune Traquair, langsyne! The Dowie Dens o' Yarrow, or the Birks o' Auld Scotia's sangsl —auld Scotia's sangs! Invermay, her "native wood-notes wild!" Or Catrine's Green and Yellow "Woods in au- Her monie artless melodies, that move nie like tumn's dwining day! a child; Sing on —sing on! and I will list —will list They bring me back the holms and howes whar them o'er and o'er,^ siller burnies shine, Auld Scotia's sangs! auld Scotia's sangsl The lea-rig whar the gowans glint we pu'd in the sangs o' youth and yore! Auld Langsyne; And, mair than a', the Trystin' Thorn that blossom'd doun the vale, \Vhar gloamin' breathed sae sweetly—but far sweeter luve's fond tale! THOU'RT SAIR ALTER'D.

now. May, Now melt we o'er the lay that wails for Flod- Thou'rt sair alter'd sair alter'd now: den's day o' dule, Thou'rt thy cheek. And now some rant will gar us louplikedaffin' The rose is wither'd frae youth at Yule;— The wrinkles on thy brow; the locks o' jet, ^Kow o'er young luve's impassion'd strain our And gray hath grown conscious heart will yearn, Sae shining wont to be, alter'd sair but, May, thou'rt yet And, now our blude fires at the call o' Bruce Thou'rt — o' yore to me. o' Bannockburn! The May

Thy voice is faint and low, May, lovely in the licht o' sang the Ettrick and 0! That aft in former time Tweed, the Hath woke the wild birds envious chant, shepherd swains were wont to blaw auld "Whar The echo's amorous chime; Scotia's lyric reed; Thy e'e hath lost its early light, Logan and the Lugar too, but, hallow'd The My star in ither years. meikle mair, That aye hath beam'd sae kindly bright, banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, the The — To me through smiles and tears. Afton and the Ayr!

For a' the signs that show. May, The hind whase hands are on the pleugli—the The gloamin' o' our day, shepherd wi' his crook I lo'ed thee young— 1 lo'e thee yet, The maiden o'er the milking pail, or by the My ain auld wifie, May. ingle neuk. Kae dearer hope hae I than this, Lo'e weel to croon auld Scotia's sangs— may Beyond the day we die. they ever sae Thy charms shall bloom again to bless And it may be a daffin' lilt—may be a dowie My halidome on hie! lay!

Though warldly grief and warldling's guile maun I like ithers dree, GATHERING. 1 Maun thole the sair saigh rive my breist—the THE bet tear scald my e'e! Rise, rise ! Lowland and Highlandmen, Bat let me list the melodies o' some o' Scotia's Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early. sangs. Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen, I will a' forget my waes— will a" forgi'e And Belt on your broad claymores— tight for Prince my wrangs! CharUe. Down from the mountain steep, depths o" fancy's ! born o' feeling's warmest — Up from the valley deep, wildest dreams. They're twined wi' mony lovely thochts, wi' 1 This song has been erroneously ascribed to the monic lo'esome themes; Ettrick Shepherd.— Ed. WILLIAM KENNEDY 213

How I lo"e that lassie Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling, There's nae ane can ken! Bugle and battle drum 0! a saint's faith may vary, Bid chief and vassal come, peaUng. But faithful I'll be; Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is For weel I lo'e Mary, of heroes! lo'es me. Men of the mountains—descendants An' Mary your fathers; Heirs of the fame as the hiUs of Sassenach fear us red as the rowan Say, shall the Southern—the Red, gathers? wee niou"; \Vhen to the war peal each plaided clan Her smiling Too long on the trophied walls An' white as the gowan brow! Of your ancestral halls, Her breast and lier Albin; Red mst hath blunted the armour of Wi' a foot o' a fairy Seize then, ye mountain Macs, She links o'er the lea; Buckler and battle-axe. 01 weel I lo'e ilary. Breadalbin! Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and An' Mary lo'es me.

mantled a coward? When hath the tartan plaid She sings sweet as onie the disloyal ? When did the blue bonnet crest Wee bird of the air, to the standard of Stuart, Up then, and crowd And she's blithe as she's bonnie, the rightful—the royal! - Follow your leader— She's guid as she's fair; of Clanronald, Chief Like a lammie sae airy Macdonald! Donald artless is she, the Gordon! And Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and 01 weel I lo'e ]\Iary, Rouse every kilted clan. And Mary lo'es me. Rouse every loyal man, good sword Gun on the shoulder, and thigh tho Where yon tall forest timmer, on! An' lowly broom bower, To the sunshine o' simmer Spread verdure an' flower; when night clouds the cary. YOUXG LASSIE. There, THERE LIVES A Beside her I'll be; For weel I lo'e ISIary, There lives a young lassie And Mary lo'es mc. Far down yoa lang glen;

WILLIAM KENNEDY. BORX 1799— Died 1849.

with unusual success. In 1828-29 personal friend and which met William Kennedy, the the man- was associated with Motherwell in William Motherwell, whose he literary partner of Magazine, pronounced gentleman," agement of the Paisley calls him an "Iri.sh biographer best edited provincial Before at the time to be the was born near Paisley,^ Dec. 26, 1799. Many periodical published in Great Britain. of age he published he was twenty-five years first Motherwell's and Kennedy's poems called " My Early of an interesting prose story The magazine was short appeared in its columns. in 1827 by a volume of Days;" followed su ccess, and was Fancies," not, however, a pecuniary poems under the name of -Fitful or fifty years gentlemanly person, of about forty five Mackenzie writes to iis(Feb.l.lS73):— colour, iDr R Shelton knew him. His hair was of a golden in London about old when I met William Kennedy talker, and very "I frequently very gentle, not much of a consul at Galveston, manners At that time he was British unusually small appe- 1847 home temperate as to drink, with an capital of Texas, and was cannot the great commercial think he died about 1850, but I understood that tite. ... I absence. I have always Ed. on leave of record of it among my papere."— was a tall, slight. fiud any . • He hs was a Paisley man. . — ——

214 WILLIAM KENNEDY. therefore abandoned. In 1S30 there appeared titled "The Response," from which we take from the press of a London publisher "The the following lines: other Poems, by Arrow and the Eose, and " I love it too, "William Kennedy," in a handsome 8vo volume, Ay, and I love it well. Kennedy, the muse"s minion, thou dedicated to Motherwell. The principal poem is Nor, May not have felt thy bosom higher swell. founded on a traditional story of the love of Than mine has erst, as listless verse may sliow; youth, for a gar- Henry IV. of France, when a For Albyn owns no classic lyre can tell deners daughter, by name Fleurette, and was Like Kennedy's what tones do echo through Christopher North to be "ex- The bursting heart—what time the weird-like spell pronounced by !' Comes o'er the quiv'riug lips in 'fare thee well ceedingly graceful, elegant, and pathetic." An I love it too." extract from "The Arrow and the Hose" ap- in London the pears among the following selections from In 1841 Kennedy published Kennedy's compositions; but we find more to Rise, Prorjress, and Profspects of the EepuUic returned to admire among his minor pieces, which are char- of Texas, in two Svo vols. He on a pension, acterized by manly vigour and tenderness. England in 1847, and retired London, where Having taken up his residence in London taking up his residence near landing in the Kennedy entered upon his career there by edit- he died in 1849. Soon after again visited Scotland, and ing, in company with Leitch Ilitchie, a maga- Old "World he wrote the beautiful lines in- zine issued monthly by Hurst & Chance, at the while there he then unmarked same time contributing numerous articles in spired by a visit to ]\Iotherwell's of Glasgow. prose and verse to other magazines and periodi- grave in the Necropolis Sheriff Bell of Glasgow wrote to the Editor cals. "When the Earl of Durham went to " Canada Kennedy accompanied him as his pri- of this "Work as follows: I was well ac([uainted Kennedy. He was a vate secretary, and on the return of the earl to with the late William and died compara- England he received the appointment of British man of considerable genius, twenty years ago." Allan consul at Galveston, Texas, where he resided tively young nearly in his History the Literature for many years. Before crossing the Atlantic Cunningham, of "AVilliam Ken- the poet visited Scotland, and spent some of the last Fifty Years, says, without happy hours with his family and his attached nedy has fancy and feeling, nor is he but he is un- friend ]\Iotherwell, and wrote the spirited sudden bursts of manly vigour, stanzas beginning "I love the land." "When equal in execution and occasionally overstrained published they called forth another poem en- in language."

THE ARROW AND THE ROSE. (extract.)

Against a pleasant chestnut tree His face with soul was eloquent, A youth, not yet sixteen, was leaning; His features delicately blent, A goodly bow he had, though he And freely did his quick glance roam. Inclined not to their archery. As one who felt himself at home But with a look of meaning, "Where'er a warrior's weapon gleam'd. A wayward smile, just half subdued. Or the glad eye of beauty beam'd. Apart the sylvan pastime viewed. hope of Gnienne!" His careless cap, his garments gray, ""What, loitering thus, advancing near His fingers strong — his clear brown cheek Cries Guise's duke, wondering man And hair of hapless red, you'd say The boy's retreat— "A A mountain lad did speak Am I to find you here! brooks not the stall A stripling of the Bearnese hills, Tlie fiery steed greenwood call, Eeared hardy among rocks and rills. AVhen hound and horn to chafe to be But his rude garb became him well; xVnd bowman bold will His gold locks softly, curling fell; llestraiu'd from his artillerie. ! —" :

WILLIAM KENNEDY. 215

lost laurel to regain, !My liege impatient is to learn France's shot and cleft the fruit in twain. "Where bides tlie merry Prince of Bcarne." Guise Harry liked little to divide With solemn tone and brow demure The garland with Parisian pride, Tlie blossom of Navarre replied, And failing at the time to find "Trust me, my lord, you may assure An orange suited to his mind, My cousin that with pride Begg'd from a blushing country maid I'd venture in the morning's sport, A red rose on her bosom laid. perfected at court in her power Had I been Poor girl ! it was not In forest lore. The little skill From such a youth to save the flower! I boast was gleaned on woodland hill, The prize was his— triumphantly From the wild hunters of our land, He fixed it on a neighbouring tree AVho Paris modes ill understand. His bonnet doff"ed and cleared his brow. If you will countenance to-day While beauty whispered "Kote him now." Trial of our provincial way, A moment, and the sweet rose shiver'd I'll take my chance among the rest, Beneath the shaft that in it quiver'd. And, hap what will, I'll do my best." He bore the arrow and its crest, the king, and cried, "Agreed!" Loud laughed The wounded flower, to the fair. lords laughed louder still. Ladies and The pressure of whose virgin breast buoyant prince, with feathery speed, The It late seem'd proud to bear. worked his will. Unheeding, Shrinking, she wished herself away yeoman's boldest pace At a tall As the young prince, with bearing gay the shooting space. He measured o'er And gallant speech, before her bent. orange on a pole. Planted an Like victor at a tournament— "Behold the goal!" And, pointing, said, "Damsel! accept again," he said, stood as practised archers stand Then "With this steel stalk, thy favourite, dead! AVheu the coy deer invites the hand. Unwept it perished—for there glows

On thy soft cheek a lovelier rose I Back to his ear the shaft he drew. And gracefully, as he had been Apollo's pupil—twang! it flew Eight to the mark, which, pierced core through. Fell sever'd on the green. High swell'd the plaudits of the crowd; THE DIRGE OF THE LAST The marksman neither spoke nor bow'd. CONQUEROR. But braceil him for a second shot, As was the custom of the play, The flag of battle on its staff hangs drooping— "When Charles, in accents brief and hot, The thundering artilleiy is still— Desired him to give way, The wai-horse pines, and, o'er his sabre stooping, with small show of courtesy And His rider grieves for his neglected skill ere he could reply. Displaced him The chief who swept the ruddy tide of glory, The conqueror! now only lives in story. His generous cheek flush'd into flame- Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no from head to heel his frame. Trembled more, Again he had his weapon ready. Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your on the king, His eye concentred hearths with gore! With manhood's mettle burning steady, fearful-looking thing A Skies, baleful blue—harvests of hateful yellow- in the field A knight the amplest Bring sad assurance that he is not here; shield Served the scared monarch for a Where waved his plume the grape forgot to mel- Until his cousin's anger slept. low, When from his portly screen he stept He changed the pruning-hook into the spear. And idly strove the mark to hit, But peace and her dull train are fast returning, Passing a spear's length wide of it; And so farewell to famine, blood, and burning! Muttering a ban on bow and quiver. Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no He flung them both into the river, more, your And straight departed from the scene. Who fired your roofs, and quench'd His dignity disturbed by spleen. hearths with gore I — ! ! ; ; ; ! ! ;

216 WILLIAM KENNEDY.

Hopes of tlio young and strong, they're all de- On the deck of the Daring's a love-lighted star;

parted Then wake, lady ! wake ! I am waiting for thee. Dishonour'd manhood tills the ungrateful farm And this night or never my bride thou shalt be! Parents! life's balm hath fled — now, broken- hearted, Forgive my rough mood, unaccustomed to sue, Deplore the fate that bids your sons disarm. I woo not, iJerchance, as your land lovers woo; heavenly times! when your own gold was paying My voice has been tuned to the notes of the gun. Your gallant sons for being slain, or slaying That startle the deep when the combat's begun; Moum, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no And heavy and hard is the grasp of a hand more, Whose glove has been ever the guard of a brand. Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore! Yet think not of these, but this moment be mine. And the plume of the proudest shall cower to Bud of our island's virtue! thou art blighted, thine; Since war's hot breath abroad hath ceased to A hundred shall serve thee, the best of the brave. blow; And the chief of a thousand will kneel as thy Instead of clashing swords, soft hearts are slave plighted. Thou shalt rule as a queen, and thy empire shall Hands joined, and household goblets made to last flow; Till the red flag, by inches, is torn from the mast. And for the ocean-roar of hostile meeting, Land wafts to land Concord's ignoble greeting. ! islands there are, on the face of the deep, Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no Where the leaves never fade, where the skies more, never weep; fired your roofs, and quench'd your Who And there, if thou wilt, shall our love bower be. hearths with gore I When we quit, for the greenwood, our home on the sea; The apple-tree is on the rampart growing; And there shalt thou sing of the deeds that were On the stern battlement the wall-flower blooms; done, blood-red is faintly glowing The stream that roU'd When we braved the last blast, and the last battle With summer's rose, which its green banks won. perfumes; The helm thr.t girt the brow of the undaunted Then haste, lady! haste! for the fair breezes blow, By peasant hands with garden shrubs is planted. As my ocean-bird poises her pinions of snow; Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no Now fast to the lattice these silken ropes twine. more. They are meet for such feet and such fingers as Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your thine hearths with gore! The signal, my mates—ho! hurra for the sea! This night and for ever my bride thou shalt be. Men wax obscurely old —the city sleeper Starts not at horse-tramp or deep bugle-horn; The grenadier consoles no lovely weeper. Above her sullen kindred's bodies borne; I THE LAND. The people smile, and regal pride's declining, LOVE Since round imperial brows the olive's twining. ( WRITTEN ON LEAVING SCOTLAND.) Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, I love the land Wlio fired your roofs, and quench'd your I see its mountains hoary. hearths with gore On which Time vainly lays his iron hand; I see the valleys robed in sylvan glory. And many a lake with lone, romantic strand; And streams and towers, by immortal story THE riRATE'S SERENADE.^ Ordained heart-stirring monuments to stand Yet tower, stream, lake, or valley could not move My boat's by the tower, my bark's in the bay, me. And both must be gone ere the dawn of the day; Nor the star-wooing mountain, thus to love thee, The moon's in her shroud, but to guide thee afar. Old, honour'd land

' is everywhere sung throughout the i love the land . The "Serenade" | I hear of distant ages, United States, and his "Camii Song" is one of tlie I popular well-established favourites in Texas.— voice proclaiming that it still was free; and Ed. I A ! ! — — —

JAMES TELFEE. 21';

not the thorn which grows at his head; That from the hills where winter wildest rages Harm honours its blossoms will shed. Swept forth the rushing winds of Liberty; Odorous him, early summoned, who sped That blazoned brightly on the noblest pages Grateful to Hence, not unwillingly E'er stamped by Fame its children's deeds For he felt thrilhngly— shall be. dead. rest his poor heart 'mong the low-lying Oh! poor pretender to a poet's feeling To Were he who heard such voice in vain appealing: to him than the deep minster bell. I love the land Dearer Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell. -ivith sorrows he knoweth too well. I love the land Vocal Who, for the early day, My fathers lived and died there; Plaining this roimdelay, But not for that the homage of their son; Might his own fate from a brother's foretell. I found the spirit in its native pride there- Unfettered thoughts — right actions boldly treading this ten-ace of graves, done; Worldly ones little he craves. preside here, Grudge not the minstrel the I also found (the memory shall o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast Thi-oned in this breast, till life's tide cease to When raves run) Tears—which devotedly, Affection tried and tiiie from men high-hearted. Though all unnotcdly. Once more, as when from those kind friends I Flow from theu- spring in the soul's silent caves. parted, God bless the land Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine. Graced with the beauty which lives in his hue; Strew with pale fiow'rets, when pensive moons shine. LmES His grassy covering. Where spirits, hovering. WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF MY Chant for his requiem music divine. FRIEND WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, NOV. 1S47. Not as a record he lacketh a stone! Place we a stone at his head and his feet; a hght debt to the singer we've known— Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet; Pay Proof that our love for his name hath not flown Piously hallow the poet's retreat, With the frame perishing Ever approvingly. That we are cherishing Ever most lovingly. FeeUngs akin to the lost poet's own. Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet.

JAMES TELFEE

Born 1800 — Died 1862.

than a local reputation. It contained some James Telfer, for twenty-five years a school- lines, such as the fairy ballad of the master who was "passing rie-h with forty fine "Gloamyne Buchte," which is remarkable for pounds a year," was boru iu the parish of tenderness. The style and measure of Southdean, Roxburghshire, Dec. 3, 1800. At its occupation of a others of his pieces are as wild and graphic first he followed his father's the old specimens of Scottish ballads. shepherd. A very great admirer of the Ettrick as volume was dedicated to James Hogg Shepherd's "Queen's Wake," he while quite The few sweetly modulated lines. In 1835 young determined to produce some ballads in a Telfer published " Barbara Gray," a well similar to those contained in that charming written and interesting prose tale. He was work, and in 1821 he published at Jedburgh also a frequent contributor in prose and verse a volume of Border Ballads and Miscellaneous magazines, and like the Ettrick Shep- Poems, which obtained for him something more to the ! — —

218 JAMES TELFEE.

His attainments were herd excelled in weird and wild subjects, the Ettrick Shepherd. rewarded with a salary of some forty pounds fair}' legends, and folk-lore. He contributed a reward not unlike that conferred several stories to Wilson's Tales of the Borders. per annum— Mr. Abraham Adams in Josejih Andrews, A collected edition of his best productions in on scholar and man of virtue was prose and verse was published in London in Avho being a a " with a handsome income of twenty- 1852, with the title of Tales and Sketches. provided which, however, he could Telfer had abandoned the crook, and having three pounds a year, great figure with, because he lived qualified himself he for a time kept a school at not make a a little encumbered Castleton, Langliolm, and for the last twenty- in a dear country, and was wife and six children." Telfer was a five years of his life he was the schoolmaster with a vigorous writer. He at Saughtrees, Liddesdale, where in his humble most exemplary man and a year. but happy home he was freauently visited by died January 18,1862, in his sixty-second

THE GLOAMYNE BUCHTE.

Jeanye Roole, The sun was reid as a furnace mouthe, sing me the sang, my bonnye As he sank on the Ettricke hyll; Now, dearest, sing to mel And gloamyn gatherit from the easte, The angels will listen at yon little holes, vowes to thee. The dowye world to fill. And witness my

When bonnye Jeanye Roole shemilkit theyowes, 1 mayna refuse, quo' bonnye Jeanye Roole, r the buchte aboon the lynne; Sae weel ye can me winne: sang. And they were wilde and ill to weare. And she satte in his armis, and sweetly she But the hindmost buchtfu' was inne. And her voice rang frae the lynne.

milk them weil, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, The liltings o' that sylver voice. The wylye shepherd could say, Might weel the Avits beguile; pipe And sing to me " The Keache i' the Creel," They clearer were than shepherd's To put the tyme away. Heard o'er the hylls a mile.

voice. It's fer owre late at e'en, shepherd, The liltings o' that sylver Replyed the maiden fair; That rose an' fell so free. The fairies wad hear, quo' bonny Jeanye Roole, They softer were than lover's lute. And wi' louting my back is sair. Heard o'er a sleeping sea.

lie's ta'en her round the middel sae sma'. The liltings o' that sylver voice While the yowes ran bye between. Were melody sae true; the welkin wide And out o' the buchte he's layd her down, They sprang up-through blue. And all on the dewye green. To the heaven's keystane

on, sing on, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, The star o' love i' the eastern lifte Sing sang sae sweet; Was the only e'e they saw; Sing on your bonnye lass, The only tongue that they might hear Now Chryste me save! quo' the that waesome greete? Was the lynne's deep murmuring fa'. W^hence comes

their gaze to the Jlourning Cleuch, who can tell of youthfu' love! They turned who can sing or say W'here the greeting seemed to be. beheld a little greene bairnc It is a theme for minstrel meete, And there xVnd yet transcends his lay. Come o'er tiie darksome lea.

it raised a waesome greete, It is a thraldome, well I wcene, And aye To hold the heart in sylke; Butte and an eiry crye, to the buchte fauld ende, It is a draught to craze the braiuc, Untille it came Yet mylder than the mylke. Where the wynsome payr did lye. ; ; — —— —— —

JAMES TELFEE. 219

It might be glamourye or not, It lookit around with its snail-cap eyne, cannot say, That made their hearts to grou In sooth I was the witching time of night Than turned upright its grass-green face, It The hour o' gloamyne gray, And opend its goblyne mou'; And she that lay in her loveris armis Then raised a youle, sae loude and lange I wis was a weel-faured Maye. Sae yerlish and sae shrille, were beatinge trewe. As dirled up throwe the twinkling holes Her pulses all loupinge lighte, The second lifte untille. Her heart was Unto that wondrous melody

I tell the tale as tolde to me, That simple song of mighte. I swear so by my faye And whether or not of glamourye, THK SONGK. In soothe I cannot say. where is tinye He we? youling yowte sae yerlish was, That O where is little Lenne? sae lang and loude, Butte and And where is bonnye Lu? rysing moone like saffron grewe. The And Menie o' the glenne ? ahint a cloude. And holed And Where's the place o' rest? The ever changing hame And round the boddome o' the lifte. Is it the gowan's breast, It rang the worild tlirough, Or 'neath the bell o' faem? And boomed against the milkye waye, Chorus.—Ay lu Ian, Ian dil y'u, &c. Afore it closed its mou'. The fairest rose you finde Then neiste it raised its note and sang May have a taint withinne; Sae witchinglye and sweete, The flower o' womankinde. The moudies, powtelit out o' the yirth, May ope her breast to sinne. kyssed the synger's feete. And The foxglove cuppe you'll bring. The taile of shootinge sterne. The waizle dunne frae the auld grey cairn, And at the grassy ring, The theiffe foulmart came nighe; AVe'U pledge the pith o' feme. The hureheon raxed his scory chafts. Chorus. —Ay lu Ian, Ian dil y'u, &c. And gepit wi' girniug joye. And when the blushing moone The todde he came frae the Screthy holes. Glides down the western skye. And courit fou cunninglye; By streamer's wing we soon The stinkin' brocke wi' his lang lank lyske, Upon her top will lye; Shotte up his gruutle to see. Her hichest horn we'll ride, And quaffe her yellowe dewe; The kidde and martyne ranne a race And frae her skaddowye side, Amang the dewye feme; The burning daye we'll viewe. The mawkin gogglet i' the synger's face, Chorus.—Ay lu Ian, Ian dil y'u, &c. Th" enchanting notes to learne.

they curlit their tails, The pert little eskis The straine raise high, the straine fell low, reele; And danced a myrthsome Then fainted fitfullye; The tade held up her auld dunne lufes, And bonnye Jeanye Eoole she lookit up. sae weele. She likit the sang To see what she might see.

The herone came frae the witch-pule tree. She lookit hiche to the bodynge hille, The houlet frae Deadwood howe; And laighe to the darklynge deane; The auld gray corbie hoverit aboone, She heard the soundis still ringin' i' the lifte, While tears down his cheeks did flowe. But naethinge could be scene. The yowes they lap out-owre the buchte, held her breathe with anxious care. And skippit up and downe; She shepherd's And thought it all a dreame; And bonnye Jeanye Koole i' the eiry nicher she heard i' the linne. armis, But an a plitch-platch in the streime. Fell back out-owre in a swoone. And ——— — — — —

220 JAMES TELFEE.

Js^ever a Avord said bonnye Jeanj^e Roole, "Farewell! entreat not, Ol farewell." Butte, shepherd, lette us gange; So said, she sped away in haste; And never mair, at a Gloamyne Buchte, Deep, deep the gloom of evening fell, AVald she singe another sange. And heaven and earth were all a waste.

"Abate thy grief, thou white-hair'd man, And, lovely Flora, cease to weep; For Heaven the heart can truly scan, SAINT ULLIN'S PILGRIM. And doth of love remembrance keep.

"For He who is our trust and might, "Remain with us, thou gentle guest, And who is with His own alway. Remain with us, till morning stay: As nigh us is in shades of night, The daylight's dying in the west, As in the brightest beams of day. And long and lonesome is the way. " "His presence shield the maiden's soul ! "My sons to wake the deer are gone The gloom now dark and darker hung; In far Glen AfFric's wild-wood glade; AVith wild, continuous, fearful iiowl Flora and I are left alone, Each glen, each cliff, each cavern rung. Give us thy company, dear maid. Yet held .she on—avaunt, dismay! "Think not that covert guile doth lie O'er sparry ledge and rolling stone; Disguised in garb of fair good-will. Rude, dark, and toilsome, was the way, The name of hospitality And all untrod, yet held she on. Is sacred on the Highland hill. Yet held she on, by hill and stream. "Wert thou the daughter of my foe, Thro' tearing brakes and sinking swamps, As thou'rt the Saxon stranger's child, "While savage eyes around her gleam I would not, could not let thee go Like half-extinguished cavern lamps. To be benighted in the wild. She heard the Glomah, ever dark. "Flora, my darling, cheer prepare, Like wakening thunder deeply moan; And bid the maid our welcome prove; And louder heard the howl and bark. Old Kenneth of the snowy hair With scream, and hiss, and shriek, and Is young to see his daughter's love." groan.

She came beneath that fatal "Entreat me not, thou good old man," rock Where horror lower'd in tenfold wrath— With falt'ring tongue the maid replied, A hamlet here,^ the mountain broke, " I must pursue my wayward plan, And life was overwhelmed in death. I may not, cannot here abide."

She deem'd she heard the bursting crash, "Ah! maiden, wayward sure thou art. The agonized and stifled shriek; And if thou must, thou must be gone; Her senses reel, her ear-drums dash, Yet was it never Kenneth's part Her eyeballs strain well nigh to break. To send the helpless forth alone. Yet sped she on, her heart beat high. "All-blighting Time hath me subdued, So loud it did itself alarm; Mine eyes are glazed and dim of ken. She crossed at length the Altondye, The way is rugged, waste and rude Then lighter grew her thoughts of harm. Glenelchaig is a dreary glen. Still sped she on by rock and bush. "Yet Flora will her father aid. Her tender limbs much grievance found; So speaks that bright e.xpressive eye; She heard the streams of Fahda rush. Shall we desert the stranger maid, And hollow tongues were whispering When other aid none else is nigh?" round.

"0 kind old man," the maiden spoke, 1 Tliere is a pass in Glenelchaig nearly blocked up "All human aid I must forego. with detached pieces of rock. Here, says tradition, was My sacred vow must not be broke once a village, and the rock ahove giving way in the The vow the living must not know. night buried it and all its inhabitants. Ed. — — — ————— ——;

JAMES TELFEK. 221

her mortal eyes KiluUin^ met her sight at length She turned aside they might not look upon. Corpse candles burnt with livid flame From what Xow Heaven assist the maiden's strength, strove to hide, 'Tis much to bear for mortal frame. Her lovely face she It was, as angel's, mild and fair; As near'd she to the camp of death, She felt a tear spontaneous glide. The lights dancei in the yawning blast. She thought of one she saw not there. And sheeted spectres crossed her path, All gibbering ghastly as they pass"d. A shining seraph to her came. In melody his accents moved, Yet high resolve could nothing harm, "Fair virgin of the mortal frame, scathe; Sped on the maiden free of Thy steadfast faith is well approved. Night's clammy dews fell thick and warm. air was hot to breathe. The sulph'ry '"Twas seen thy soul devoid of stain 'Twas seen thy earthly passion pure reached at length Saint Ullin's stone, She Thou deem'st thy love in battle slain Composed in effort thereon sate; 'Twas seen what virtue can endure. Thou Power that yet hast led her on, Enstrengthen her the end to wait! "'Twas seen your souls asunder rent Each to its better being lost; She knelt her by the slumbering saint. In pity was a vision sent Viper and toad around her crawl; You both are proved, and faith shall boast. Yet swerv'd she not—her soul —grew faint, In prayer her lips did move 'twas all. "Cease not to love while life shall last, smooth your path shall love divine; A languor chilled the living stream, And time is past. She sunk upon the mould of death: And when your mortal blissful land is thine." Say did she sleep as those who dream, This visioned Or sleep as those who slept beneath? He ceased,—the maiden raised her eye, Her sleep was not that mortal night His radiant form she could not mark; In which the spirit leaves the clay; She heard the music fall and die 'Twas wak'ning to a vision bright The vision pass'd, confused and dark. Of light and everlasting day. She felt her heart give fitful thrill- in another sphere, 'Twas wak'ning She felt the life-stream slowly play holier, higher; A fairer, purer, She thought she heard tlie lark sing shrill- Where all is eye, where all is ear, She thought she saw the breaking day. Where all is gratified desire.

She felt impressed a glowing kiss. Burst on her sight that world of bliss. She heard the well-known accents move Where woe and death may never come; She started round— powers of bliss! She heard the hymns of Paradise, 'Tis Allan Samradh— he, her love! Where not a tuneful breeze is dumb.

Can fleeting visions sense enslave? She saw Life's river flowing wide. she doth not sleep; With Love and Mercy on the brim, No, these are past, 'Tis he for whom she death could brave, Compared unto its crystal tide For whom her eyes in heaven could weep. The splendour of our sun was dim.

bright And on that tide were floating isles, The sun above the mountains and sea; With bowers of ever-verdant green, Streamed liquid gold o'er land did float in light. Where sate beneath th' eternal smiles Earth, ocean, sky, Those who on earth had faithful been. And Nature raised her hymns of glee.

She heard the hallelujahs rise Our lovers saw not sea nor sun, From those who stood before the throne; They heard not Nature's matin hymn Their souls were pour'd from one to one- other's eyes, all else was dim. Kilullin, literally the burying-place of Ullan.—Ed. Each ; ; ; — ;

222 LOED KINLOCH.

'Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh Oil, WILL YE WALK] I carena to be seen "Oh, Avill ye Avalk the wood wi' mel Her lightsome love I'd freely g .e Oh, will ye walk the green? For half a blink frae Jean." Or will ye sit within mine arms, ain kind Jean?" My "Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds,

1 ken for her ye green; "It's I'll not walk the wood wi' thee, Wi' her yc'll get a purse o' gowd Nor yet will I the green; Ye'U naething get wi' Jean." And as for sitting in your arms. It's what I dinna mean." "For doity Madge o' Miryfaukls ill to thole. "Ohl slighted love is I dinna care a preen I compleen; And weel may The purse o' gowd I weel could want, better niayna be, But since that If I could hae my Jean." I e'en maun thol't for Jean."

"Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh, "Oh yes! I'll walk the wood Avi' thee; Ye saw her late yestreen Oh yes! I'll walk the green; YVU find in her a lightsome love But first ye'll meet me at the kirk. Ye winna find in Jean." And mak' me aye jour Jean."

LOED KINLOCH

Born 1801 — Died 1872.

William Penney, although not one of the face, "as a collection of thoughts rather than great masters of song, is entitled to a niche in poems. My design is simply to present, day our gallery as the author of numerous meri- by day, a brief exercise of devout reflection, torious religious poems. He was the son of which, actually performed by one Christian, ^Ir. William Penney, a respectable Glasgow may be fitly repeated by othei-s: expressed in merchant, and was born in that city Aug. 8, that form of language, which, as it is peculiarly 1801. He was educated at the university appropriate to the divine praise, is on that there, and selecting the profession of the law, account specially fitted to be the vehicle of he passed advocate at the age of twenty-three. religious meditation. The object of the volume His talents and industry insured him suc- is not an exhibition of poetic fancy, but an cess, and in 1858 he was appointed a judge expression of Christian life." Times Treasure of the Court of Session, taking the title of has been favourably received, and has passed

Lord Kinloch. His first publication, entitled through four editions. Lord Kinlocli's other Tlie Circle of Christian Doctrine, appeared in works are Faith's Jervels, 2^resent<'d in Verse 1861, followed in 1863 by " Time's Treasure, Studies for Sunday Evening; Headings in Holy or Devout Thoughts for Every Day in the Writ; and Devoid Moments: a selection from Year, expressed in verse, by Lord Kinloch." Time's Treastire. He died at Hartrigge, near "I offer this volume," he remarks in the pre- Jedburgh, Oct. 30, 1872.

GIFTS TO GOD.

I gathered, Lord, of flowers the fairest, But thou mine off'er so preventedst, For thee to twine; By gift from thee, beyond my thought. I hoarded gems, of hue the rarest, That, whilst I took what thou presentedst, To make them thine: I was ashamed to give thee ought. ; ;

LOED KINLOCH. 223

My gifts appeared so poor and meagre, Yet as a son into his father's hands. Matched with thy boon, The Saviour gave his spirit, 'midst his bands; I straightway grew to hide them eager; Do thou the same, when run thy latest sands. But thou, full soon, Smil'dst, as thou saidst, " Hast nought to As he upon his cross, so, on thy bed. render Be thou, amidst the darkness, free from dread; ?" at last be said. Of all thou from my grace hast gained And find "'Tis finished," may Then all I gave thee; and the tender thy rock to undermine. From thine acceptance worth obtained. The earthquake,deemed Serves but to rend the veil, which masks the shrine And make the holiest of holies thine. A LOST DAY.

Say not thou hast lost a day, If, amidst its weary hours. DESIRE OF DEATH. Gloomy thoughts, and flagging powers. Thou hast found that thou could'st pray. AVhen strongest my desire of death, I least am fit to die; By a single earnest prayer, Because the will, which keeps my breath, Thou may'st much of work have done; I then would fain deny. Much of wealth and progress won, Yielded not by toil and care. Why would the servant, ere the time, Enter the Master's room. To thy dear ones, then embraced. Who may, as for a heedless crime, Thou may'st wondrous help have lent; To longer waiting doom? Message full of love have sent Given a fortune free from waste. The angel, who would change his place. For work or watch ordained, If one thought was upward thrown, God might well exile from his face. 'Twas to eyes in heaven a sign; As one with folly stained. 'Twas to heavenly treasures coin; 'Twas in house above a stone. 'Tis the same course, the saint above. And earthly fellow suits; In God's book of weal and crime. To serve and sing, to look and love. Many days, in which thou thought' st And bring the Lord his fruits. Thou full well and hardly wrouglit'st, idle Bear the blot of time: I must, by longer stay on earth. Better for heaven prepare: Whilst the day, to which may f;ill I may not go, with such a dearth One short prayer alone for mark, Of graces needful there. Writ may be, midst bright and dark, As thy gainfullest of all. God more of strength for duty give; More patience Christ supply: When longer I am fit to live, I shall be fit to die. DYING IN DARKNESS.

The Saviour died in darkness; thus he gave A thought from sinking to despair to save. THE STAR IN THE EAST. When gloom surrounds the entrance to the grave. I sought for wisdom in the morning time. the hills; and strove to The Saviour bowed his head; and meekly went When the sun cleared climb To death, 'midst all its woes and pangs content, Where I could further see; but all in vain To teach thee how to meet its worst event. The efforts made: 'twas but unwearying Thy Saviour felt forsaken, as he died: strain

No marvel, if with such a fear be tried At truth ; nor had of knowledge save the The sinner, who with him is crucified. pain. 224 WILLIAM WILSON.

There rose star i' a th' cast, before 'twas night, Lord, when human praise we seek, And spoke of God; but only spoke of migiit, AVhen we run beyond the weak, And height, and distance; in a gathering And approach the topmost peak, mist, Keep us meek. I lost the star; I could not but persist Lord, To seek, but how to find it nothing wist. when rusheth whelming ill. When our sins their pledge fulfil. I journej'ed long and darkly; but at last And Ave see in woe thy will. Tiie star appeared; and now its beams were Keep us still. cast On a poor stable, where, in swaddling bands, Lord, when nought can more be had, An infant lay in virgin mother's hands; To our life an hour to add. And the Fixed tiiere it stood, and fixed for me still parting-time is sad, stands. Make us glad.

I found where wisdom dwelt; and, in my joy, Brought forth my gifts; gold, though it held alloy, BREAD ON THE WATERS. Which dimmed its worth; incense from forth a breast, Time rolls on; and, in its flow, Warm witii new love; myrrh, througii all Thoughts are dropped, which, day by day. life possessed, Float away. Fragrant to make the couch of earth's last And from reach of memory go. rest. Are they then for ever gone? Or will these, upon thy sea. Eternity,

LITANY. Rise to startle us anon ?

Lord, when earthly pleasures lure. Oft are found, on after morn, When the bad our doubts assure. Themes which random words disperse, And to sin appears secure, Or which verse Keep us pure. Hath, like ark of rushes, borne.

liOrd, when strife we meet and wrong, All at once, on devious way. Judgments harsh, and angry throng. Juts a corner of the stream. For that we to Christ belong, With a gleam, Keep us strong. Briglit remembrance to convey.

Lord, Avhen in our stores we find On the waters I have cast Wealth amassed, like idol shrined. Thoughts on which, like hallowed bread, And the fortune threats the mind. I have fed, Keep us kind. 'Midst the scenes of moments past.

Lord, when sickness brings its qualm, All may quickly sink from sight; Or when sorrow finds not balm. Yet enough in heaven to view And the prayer supplants the psalm, One, who grew, Keep us calm. Therebj', unto peace or light.

WILLIAM WILSON

Born 1801 — Died 1860.

William Wilson, the youngest but one of and his wife Agnes Ross of Inverness, was born a family of eight children boru to John Wilson at CrieiFon Christmas day, 1801. His family —

WILLIAM WILSON. 99,TO had settled in Perthshire in the seventeenth James Sibbald, the literary antiquary and century, and the poefs great-grandfather, editor of the Chronicle of Scottish Poetry. At Allan AVilson, fell fighting gallantly for Prince this period his charming conversation and Charlie at Culloden.^ At an early age young manners, and his excellent singing of Scottish AVilson was imbued with a passionate love of songs, made the young poet a welcome guest in poetry, derived from his mother, who sang with the literary circles of Edinburgh. At the house of great beauty the old Jacobite songs and ballads Mrs. Grant of Laggan he was a frequent visitor, of her native land. AVhen five yeai's old he lost and so great was this gifted lady's attachment his father, and the misfortunes of the family at to the handsome young Highlander, that she that time came not singly, but in battalions. claimed the privilege of giving her husband's The generous merchant's death was preceded by name to his eldest son by his second marriage, his failure in business through the knavery of and of possessing the poet's portrait painted those whom he had trusted; and a bachelor by an eminent artist. brother's fortune in Jamaica was in some way AVhen thirty-two years of age AYilson removed lost to his children, for whom it was intended. to the United States, and settled at Pough- His widow, a high-spirited woman, steadily keepsie, on the Hudson, Avhere he engaged in refused pecuniary aid from sympathizing the business of bookselling and publishing, friends, prefei'ring to rely upon her industry which he continued till his death, August 25, and economy for her own and her children's 1860. During his residence in the New maintenance, so that Wilson's early life, like AVoi-ld he occasionally contributed in prose that of his friend Robert Chambers, was one and verse —generally anonymouslj'—to various of honourable poverty, dignified by hard and American periodicals, and now and then sent honest work, which ultimately brought its due a paper or poem to Blackwood or Chambers' reward. Journal. Selections of his poems appeared in Young Wilson composed verses when ten the Cabinet, Whittle Binkie, Book of Scottish years of age. At twenty-two he became the Song, the Modern Scotti-vh Minstrel, and other editor of the Dundee Literary Olio, a large pro- similar publications; but he never issued them portion of the contents of which, both in prose in a volume or even collected them, and it was and verse, was from his pen. In 1826 he was not till the green grass was growing over his induced by influential friends to remove to grave in the Episcopal burial-ground at Pough- Edinburgh, where he established himself in keepsie, where his second wife and four of his business. "There was," wrote Eobert Cham- children now sleep by his side, that a portion bers, "at this time something very engaging of his poems was published, accompanied by a in his appearance: a fair open countenance, memoir by Benson J. Lossing. A second edi- ruddy with the bloom of health ; manners soft tion, with additional poems, appeared in 1875. and pleasing." In the same year he lost his Many of the poet's musical compositions young and devoted wife, to whom he had been were much admired. One of his earliest was married in 1819, and he sought relief from his frequently sung by an eminent songstress at great sorrow in composition. His contribu- the Edinburgh Theatre; and his latest —an air tions were welcomed in the Edinburgh Literary of great beauty —was composed during the last Journal^ and other leading periodicals. In year of his life for one of Ainslie's sweet songs. 1830 Wilson married for his second wife Miss The music and the words of many of AVilson's Sibbald of Borthaugh, a descendant of Sir lyrics wei'e written chiefly for the pleasure of Andrew Sibbald of Balgonie, and a niece of Dr. hearing them sung in his own house, for he rarely permitted his musical compositions to 1 The poet's aunt, Jane Wilson, wife of Captain Mun- be published. roe, comniauder of an armed merchant vessel owned in Inverness, received an autograph letter of thanks from Queen Chai'lotte, and a life-i)ension, for her gallantry were in the armies of the North during the American in fighting her husband's ship after lie was wounded civil war, and one was mortally wounded at the battle and carried below, capturing tlie enemy's vessel, a of Fredericksburg. Ed. French privateer; and Wilson's eldest brother was with - To this periodical, conducted by his friend Henry Wellington in all his Peninsular battles and in his Glassford Bell, late sheriff of Lanarkshire, Wilson con- crowning victory at Waterloo. Three of the poet's sons tributed in the course of thi-ee years thirty-two poems. Vol. II.—P ——

226 WILLIAM WILSON.

Willis pronounced one of Wilson's pieces wi' me,' were two of his strong features; while " the best modern imitation of the old ballad humour, deep feeling, and tenderness were style that he had ever met with;" and Bryant, prominent in all he said or wrote, and oh ! the another distinguished American poet, said: pity that he did not give us mora 'Jean Linns' "The song in which the writer personates and 'Auld Johnny Grahams' in his native Richard the Lion-hearted during his imprison- tongue. I loved him as a man, a poet, and a ment is more spirited than any of the ballads brother, and I had many proofs that my feel- of Ay to un." ings were reciprocated." Hew Ainslie, who still survives his friend, The idea of this AVork originated with writes to the Editor: " Having summered and William Wilson, but urgent demands upon his wintered it for many long years with your dear time, together with failing health, interfered father, I ought to know something of the base with its execution. The task devolved upon and bent of his genius, though, as he hated his son, who has, as an act of filial duty no all shams and pretensions, a very slight ac- less than as a labour of love, endeavoured to quaintance with him showed that independence complete his father's unfulfilled literary pro- and personal manhood, 'As wha daur meddle ject.

TO MY CHILDREN.!

Yes, my young darlings, since my task is done. But, like blithe birds from clime to clime that fly, Again I'll mingle in your freaks and fun: Each change brought blossoms and a cloudless Be glad, be gay, be thoughtless, if I can. sky. And merge the busy worldling in the man. " But now papa's grown strange, and will not Not the stiff pedagogue, with brow severe, speak, Authoritative air, and look austere. Nor play at bUnd-raan's buff, or hide-and-seek; But the fond sire with feelings long repress'd, Tell no more stories ere we go to bed. Eager to bless as eager to be bless'd, Nor kiss us when our evening prayers are said; Longing, in home's dear sanctuary, to find But stiU, with thoughtful look, and brow of The smiling lips, the embrace, the kiss so kind, gloom, The cloudless brow, the bearing frank and free, He stalks in silence to his study-room, The gladdening shout of merriment and glee, Nor ever seeks our evening sports to share; And all the luxury which boisterous mirth Why, what can dear papa be doing there?'' Scatter'd erewhile around our social hearth. Such were the thoughts which oft in tears gush'd forth sweet ones, with what "pomp Kemeraber ye, my Amid the pauses of your infant mirth, circumstance" of glee we used to romp And And dimm'd the lustre of your bright blue eyes— room, o'er tables, stools, and From room to As wandering clouds obscure the moonlight skies, chairs, Making their misty mellowness even more the stairs, O'erturning hoiisehold gods—now up Soul-soothing than the glorious hght before. Now under sofas, now in corners hiding. Now in, now out, now round the garden gliding ? 'Mid laurel'd literature's Elysian bowers, Remember ye^—when under books and toys I've been a-roaming, culling fadeless flowers, The table groan'd, and evening's tranquil joys And these collected treasures at your feet Soothed your excited spirits to repose I lay, ye beautiful! " sweets to the sweet!" of daw^l rose ? How blithe as larks at peep ye Yet all too soon I dedicate to you Pleased every moment, mirthful every hour. Flowers of such rich perfume and varied hue. As bees love sunshine, or as ducks the shower; O'er which the deathless fire of genius breathed; pleasures pall'd, No ills annoy'd you, never And all too soon this garland I have wreathed, Cares ne'er corroded, nor repinings gall'd, To win me favour in your infant eyes; Though years may come ^^•hen ye will fondly prize 1 This justly admired composition was written for to his friend John Aitken, editor of Conitable's Miscellany Affection's fond memorial, given prove and the London Cabinet, to the third series of which The doating fondness of a father's love; work it was prefixed by Mr. Aitken as a dedication to Love full as ocean's waters, firm as faith, his children.— Ed. Wide as the universe, and strong as death. ; — —

WILLIAM WILSON. 22";

A mettl'd, but canny young yaud for the yokin' When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me. SWEET LAMJIA.S MOOIS'. and tend " I'll hap ye and fend ye, and busk ye Sweet Lammas moon, thy silvery beam ye, Brings many blissful thoughts to me, And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e; and daut ye and dear Of days when in my first love dream, I'll comfort and cheer ye, I blest thy light on Craigie Lea. ye, As couthy as couthy can be. And well I might—for thy young ray " since first, a bit bairn, Ne'er shone on fairer love than mine; I've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, knowe to meet me; Xor ever youth met maiden gay Ye ran up the bonnet wi' blue-bells an' fern, Beneath a brighter gleam than thine. An' deckit my Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee.

And well I might—for Mary's charms "An' noo woman growTi, an' mensefu' an' fair. Upon my bosom lay reclined, An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be While round her slender waist my arms Will ye tak' an auld carle wha ne'er had a care In fondest love were closely twined. For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?" And there and then, in that blest hour, Sae, aunty, ye see I'm a' in a swither. plighted vows of changeless faith; We What answer the bodie to gie— Tows breathed with passion's warmest power, But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither. broken by the hand of death. And And let puir young Tibby abee.

Sweet Lammas moon, then thy young ray Shone on my Mary's peerless bloom Now waningly, in slow decay, Thou beamest coldly on her tomb. A WELCOME TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH.^

Oh, the queer auld man, the dear auld man, Christendie— GRAHAM. The drollest in AULD JOHNNY Wha sae aft has beguil'd doure care till he smil'd— He's comin' his kinsfolk to see! think ye o' auld Johnny Dear aunty, what He's comin' to daud frae his bonnet a blink. Graham ? The stoure o' classic ha's carle sae pawkie and slee! toun, The He's hung up his goun i' the guid auld tend his bein hame. He wants a bit wifie to An' brunt his critic's taws. And the bodie has ettled at me. Chorus— Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an' owerlay sae clean. He's a dear auld man, he's a queer auld man. An' ribbon that waved boon his bree, He's a free auld man, he's a slee auld man— He cam' doun thecleugh at the gloamin' yestreen, Frae the Aristook to the Raritan, An' rappit, an soon speert for me. Ye'll no find the fier o' our spree auld man.

I bade him come ben whare my minnie sae thrang a paik. Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie. But his pike-staff o' aik whilk mony An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang Has i-ung on timmer crowns Ere he tauld out his errand to me. An' his birken crutch ye'll find few such. For soberin' senseless loons; "Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land, Thae switches strang—the short an' the lang. Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie, The pawkie auld carle brings; An', meikle man- gear shall be at yer command, An' wae to the pate o' the blether-skate Gin ye will look kindly on me. On whilk their vengeance rings. He's a bauld auld man, he's a yauld auld man. " that rout i' the glen, Yon herd o' fat owsen He's a leal auld man, he's a hale auld man— nibble the lea; Sax naigies that An' there's no a lady in a' the Ian' and the sheep i' the pen, The kye i' the sheugh, Wi' a bly thesomer e'e than our braw auld man. I'segie a', dear Tibby, to thee.

to Professor Wilson on hear- gowd in a stockin', 1 Written as a welcome "An", lassie, I've goupins o' Ed. ing of his intention to visit tlie United States.— An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e; — — —

228 WILLIAM WILSON.

But a kindly wit has Scotland's Kit, But dreamt na' that hour, as we sat in that As kind a heart an' smile bower. An' the saft words flung- frae his witchin' tongue, That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn, The gled frae the lift wad wile; Tiiat fortune would tak' sic a turn. For a' kinds o' lear— his presence be here! An' a' kinds o' knowledge has he, Ye Ijusk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn! Baith Latin an' Greek he as gUbly can speak, Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw!

As ye wad the ABC. Yer daddy's a laird, mine's i' tlie kirkyard, He's a grave auld man, he's a brave auld man, An' I'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, He's a frank auld man, he's a swank auld man. Jean Linn, At fleechin', or preechin', or cloovin' a pan— An' I'm your puir ploughman, Jock Law. There's nae peer to our north countree auld man.

Sae lads to your shanks, an' thegither in ranks, Let's welcome gude Kit to our shore. RICHARD C(EUR DE LION. In our costUest braws—wi' our loudest hurrahs. Till the wondering welkin roar; Brightly, brightly the moonbeam shines For kings are but caff, an' warld's gear draff On the castle turret-wall; Engulphed by the tide of time. Darkly, darkly the spirit pines. But the heaven-bom mind, lovin' a' mankind. Deep, deep in its dungeon's thrall. Till dooms-day shall tower sublime. He hears the screech-owl whoop reply He's a grand auld man, he's a bland auld man. To the warder's drowsy strain, He's a yare auld man, he's a rare auld man, And thinks of home, and heaves a sigh terror o' sumph an' o' charlatan. Tho' the For his own bleak hills again. He's a kind-hearted debonair auld man. Sweetly, sweetly the spring flowers spread. When first he was fettered there; Slowly, slowly the sere leaves fade. JEAN LINN. Yet breathes he that dungeon's air. All lowly lies his banner bright. foremost in battle streamed. Oh, hand na yer noddle sae hie, ma doo! That that in the fight Oh, liaud na yer noddle sae hie! And dim the sword meteor gleamed. The days that hae been may be yet again seen, Like midnight Sae look na' sae lightly on me, ma doo! But place his foot upon the plain, Sae look na' sae lightly on me! That banner o'er his head. Oh, geek na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn, His good lance in his hand again, Oh, geek na' at hame hodden gray! With Paynim slaughter red. Yer gutcher and mine wad thocht themsels fine The craven hearts that round him now In cleidin' sae bein, bonnie may, bonnie With coward triumph stand. may Would quail before that dauntless brow, In cleidin' sae bein, bonnie may. And the death-flash of that hand.

Ye mind when we won in Whinglee, Jean Linn, Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine. BRITANNIA.i An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn, Old England, warlike England, An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then. Thy lion wakes again! His roar through sunny Ind resounds Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn! As once it pealed in Spain. Oh, then ye were a' thing to me! An' the moments scour'd by like birds through 1 Though living under the " Stars and Stripes," Mr. the sky. Wilson never ceased to love, never forgot to render due When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn, homage to the land of his birth. The above piece, that When tentin' the owsen Avi' thee. might almost be ranked with some of Campbell's patri- otic effusions, shows that William Wilson always re- I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn, served a warm corner iu his heart wherein to cherish I twined ye a bower by the burn, the memories of our " sea-girt isle." PeojjU's Journal. "

WILLIAM WILSON. 229

so dear, In soul-arousing notes it rings, But he is low she lov'd Through Cathay's distant clime, And she a virgin widow now. And a wail The night was mirk, the stream was high. On the gale And deep and darkly down it came; cry Is blent with battle's hymn, He sunk— and wild his drowning "While the craven herds amaz'd behold Rose in the blast to Jeanie Graham. Triumph unstained by crime. Bright beams the sun on Garnet-hill, Old England, dauntless England, The stream is calm, the sky is clear; Thy conq'ring legions come! But Jeanie's lover's heart is still. The clansmen's gathering pibroch blends Her anguish'd sobs he cannot hear. With trumpet and with drum. Oh! make his grave in yonder dell, Bold Erin's battle cry bursts forth, Where willows wave above the stream. As on the dusky bands That every passing breeze may M-ail, With a cheer For broken-hearted Jeanie Graham. They career, And the traitors bite the sands. Or like the chaff by rushing wind. Are scattered through the lands. SABBATH MORXIXG IN THE WOODS. Old England, noble England! Thy hand ne'er drew the glaive Oh blessed morn! whose ruddy beam But from his foes to free the wronged. Of gladness mantles fount and stream, His fetters from the slave: And over all created things Yet ever gen'rous in thy strength A golden robe of glory flings. To spare a fallen foe, No stain On every tendril, leaf and spra}', Can remain A diamond glistens in the ray. On thy scutcheon's spotless snow, And from a thousand throats a shout Who strong in might upholds the right, Of adoration gushes out; And strikes the spoiler low. A glad but sweet preclusive psalm Which breaks the hallow'd morning's calm. Old England, glorious England, On this terrestrial sphere Each wimpling brook, each winding rill For truth, and worth, and majesty That sings and murmurs on at will, Where yet was found thy peer? Seems vocal with the blest refrain, tyranny. Thou treader down of "The Lord has come to life again! Thou tamer of the strong. Land and main And from each wild flower on tlie wold. Own thy reign. In purple, sapphire, .snow or gold. And round thy footstool throng, Pink, amethyst or azure hue. thee, While wand"ring nations worship Beauteous of tint and bright with dew. Thou queen of sword and song. There breathes an incense ofl'ering, borne Upon the wak'ning breeze of morn To the Creator, all divine! Meet sacrifice for such a shrine. JEANIE GRAHAM. Far down those lofty forest aisles, lang loose unbraided hair She whose AVhere twilight's solemn hush prevails. Falls on a breast o' purest snaw, The wind its balmy censer swings mild an' fair. Was ance a maid as Like odours from an angel's wings. stripling's heart awa'. As e'er wil'd Who, passing swift to earth, had riven shade has dimm'd her e'e. But sorrow's Their fragrance from the bowers of heaven. And gathered round her happy hame. wherefore sad ? and where is lie. Yet And through each sylvan tangled hall. The plighted love of Jeanie Graham? Where slanting bars of sunlight fall. sounds of hallelujahs sweet. The happy bridal day was near, Faint ear would seem to greet. And bfythe young joy beam'd on her brow. The tranced ! ;— —— —

230 THOMAS ATKINSON.

raise choral of As if the holy seraphim To the welcome renown. Were choiring here their matin hymn. And crown us with an everlasting crown.

God of all nature! here I feel Thy awful presence, as I kneel In humble heart abasement meet, WANING LIFE AND AYEARY.i Thus lowly at thy mercy seat; Waning life and weary, And while I tremble, I adore; Fainting (Like him by Bethel's stone of yore), heart and limb, Darkening road and dreary, For this thy vouchsafed presence given, Flashing eye grow dim; Hath made this place the gate of heaven. All betokening nightfall near Day is done, and rest is dear.

Slowly stealing shadows IS PRAYER. WORK Westward lengthening still. O'er the dark brown meadows, Lahorare est orare. O'er the sunlit hill. Oh grant us faith to work, and hope to win. When jocund youthhood's morning sun is shining, Gleams of golden glory 'Tis time the work of warfare to begin. From the opening skj', The Christian soldier's warfare wag'd with sin. Gild those temples hoary

Lahorare est orare. Kiss that closing eye: Oh Father, let our toil seem ever sweet Now drops the curtain on all wrong WTien duty bids us still the task be plying; Throes of sorrow, grief and song. The task that brings us daily to thy feet To catch new glimpses of thy mercy-seat. But saw ye not the dying. Ere life passed away, Lahorare est orare. Faintly smiled while eyeing Though stern the harvest toil, the day's work long, Yonder setting day With thankful hearts our scanty sheaves we'll gather. And, his pale hand signing in trusting strong, And strong in confidence, Man's redemption sign Still with our tears wUl mingle bursts of song. Cried, with forehead shining, Father, I am thine! Lahorare est orare. hath passed, We soon must lay our earthly armour down. And so to rest he quietly the at last. And in the heavenly land are legions waiting And sleeps in Christ Comforter

THOMAS ATKINSON

Born 1801 — Died 1833.

Thomas Atkinson was born at Glasgow, Napoleon Bonaparte. In 1826-27 he edited December 30, 1801. He was apprenticed to a and issued Tlte Ant, a work in two volumes, bookseller, and subsequently entered into part- comprising original and selected matter. His nership with David Robertson, a Glasgow book- next publication was The Chameleon, a work seller and publisher. Although engrossed with of the character of the annuals of that day, the management of an extensive business, Avhich commenced in 1831 and extended to Atkinson found time to cultivate his taste for three volumes. The contents of this hand- literature, and made his first appearance as

a writer by the publication of Tlce Sextuple 1 Written in a feeble and faltering hand by the Alliance, a series of poems on the subject of author a few days before his death. Ed. — ! — ——! —

THOMAS ATKINSON. 231

some work were mostly his own composition, He died October 10, 1833, during a voyage to and many of his songs were set to music by Barbadoes for the restoration of his health, and himself. Atkinson Avas a keen politician of was buried at sea. A monument to his memory the Liberal school, and distinguished as a public was erected in the Necropolis of his native city. speaker. Hs was an unsuccessful candidate He left a considerable sum of money to accu- for parliament at the election held subsequent mulate for a time in the hands of the city cor- to the passing of the first reform bill, and the poration, and then to be aj^plied in the erection exertions of his political canvass produced an of a building in Glasgow for scientific pur- illness which terminated in pulmonary disease. poses, to be called the Atkinsonian Institution.

They perish not! —Thou melfst in light, TO THE AURORA BOREALIS. While they in bliss but merge away. Exhaled in all that's pure and bright, Banner of midnight—vagrant light As thou by yonder coming day Aui'ora of the darken'd pole, Why shouldst thou here, in fitful flight, Why thus unfurl thy portent scroll?

Yet, as we gaze on thee, to see THE PROUD HEART'S PAIN. The future pictured, as of old, Lo! thou shut'st up our destiny There's na ane cares for me now, In many a quick and antic fold! In a' this warld wide; Say, comest thou rushing, with wild wing. I'm like a withered tree now, Whar a' are green beside! To warn us of some pending ill? There's nae heart that can love For still belief will fondly cling. me Wi' love sae leal's ain; When nought remains of prophet skill! my Yet why should a' this move me. Yes! o'er the peaceful front of heaven Or gie my proud heart pain! Methinks the charging squadrons fly! Look! o'er.yon steep battalions driven! The hand o' warmest greeting, Hark to the missiles hurtling by AVhen placed in mine, grows chill; And if blythe's the hour o' meeting, 'Tis past! the rustling strife is o'er, Fareweel seems blyther still! But 'thwart the broad expanse of blue, The lowliest are above me. Where madly flickered light before. They've ane they ca' their ain! Now spreads a silent, holy hue. Yet why should a' this move me. Or gie my proud heart pain! And, folding like the radiant wings Of the adoring cherubim. The mither dear that bore me. Thy more than sapphire lustre flings In sorrow and in pine; On earth the radiance of a dream. Yet hung in gladness o'er me, The lad-wean o' langsyne, Then let me, as our fathers did. Even wi' her leal breast drappin' In thee behold the coming time! The bluid, when milk was nane. The future may not all be hid Now cares na what may happen And oracles have spoke in rhyme! To gie my proud heart pain.

When the brief strife of Might and Right, them on I doated, The last that will be here, is o'er. And whom Then Peace and Truth, like yon calm light. Wi' a mair than brither's heart, IIow^ blythely forgot it. Shall lend to earth one glory more! they've An' ne'er heed to take my part! But thou wilt pale when morning's ray My kith an' kin will listen Makes bright yon wide expanse of sky: When my name is lichtly ta'en; Shall these, like thee, too, fade away. An' nae e'e wi' tears will glisten.

And all their light and lustre die? Though my proud heart be in pain I — —! ! — : :

232 THOMAS ATKINSON.

Oh ! clear, dear love o' Avoman Beside thee, in thy father's hall, amid the Sae fond but fearfu' too, banquet throng. 0, the ills, bye past or com in', For me was kept tiie place of pride— for me How much I owe to you! Avas given tiie song! Dead now are a' who loved me, What had I done— what can I do— my title to Though the grave may not ha'e ta'cr. approve? This —this of a' hath moved me. Alas! this lay is all my thanks—my heart is And gien my jjroud heart pain! dead to love.

It is not that heart is cold, The frien's that ancc I trusted, my nor yet is vow'd . away; Ha'e left me in my need; But tiiat, amid the spring They were gaen, before I wist it, of youth, it feels Or Avord ripen'd into deed! itself decay; "He'll maybe rise above me," The wither'd bloom of early hopes, and darings, Said ilka ane that's gane, hope above, Encrust it now, But why should a' this move me. and dim its shine— Alas! I Or gie my proud heart pain! cannot love!

They tell me that my broken lute once Avrouglit I fed on hope and dreamin', on thee its spell; Through lang, lang years o' toil, They whisper that my voice, now mute, in For the licht of fame seemed gleamin' speech could please thee well In the distance a' the while! Pale brow, blue eye, and Saxon locks, they 'Twas the shot-star that beguiled me, .say, thy heart could move And then left me thus alane, More tlian red cheeks or raven curls— yet, ah! 0! tliat fause, fause licht has wiled me, I cannot love! To half my proud heart's pain

It may be— as I trust it is —that in my willing ae is But thing yet left me. ear Which I will never tine; They pour'd the dew of flattery, and that thou, Though Fate of a' bereft me. lady, ne'er This wealth still mine! wad be Hadst thoughts that friendship would not own The leal proud heart that never for souls like thine can prove Hath bowed beneath its pain, How much of kindred warmth may glow with- But that forgives the giver, out a spark of love! And can throb wi' love again!

One only passion now will cure this pal.sy of the heart: Ambition's .spell, if aught, will lure; but what- soe'er the part. ALAS! I CANNOT LOVE! In after life, I do or dree, the praise shall all be thine, Sweet lady, there was nought in me to win a And all I hope, and all I win, be offered at heart like thine; thy shrine! No stamp of honour'd ancestry, that spoke a noble line;

Nor wealth that could that want repay, had I to lure thine eye, MARY SHEARER. When all, but thee and thine, still pass'd the boy-bard coldly by. She's aff and awa', like the lang summer day, And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome Can T forget the blushing hour when by thee and dreary; led to the dance. The sun-blinks o' June will come back owre the all the proud on lowcr'd, And who me with brae, haughty glance? many a But lang for blithe Mary fu' mouy may weary. A radiant smile there was for me— for them a For mair hearts thine mine lofty look, Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer; Which graced my very bashfulncss, and gave But nane mair will pine their s:orn rebuke! For the sweet Mary Shearer! — — ! — ————

EGBERT WILSON. 233

She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers, Sae across the braid world for a while I'm a And the bluebell and Mary baith blossom'd ranker: thegither; Though I try to forget

The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours, In my heart still I'll wear her, But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come For mine may be yet, hither. —Name and a' —Mary Shearer! Their sweet breath is fled Her kind looks still endear her; For the heart maun be dead That forgets Mary Shearer. THE HOUR IS COME.

Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung; The hour is some—too soon it came An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced onalover; When you and I, fair girl, must sever; Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying But though as yet be strange thy name. tongue, Thy memory will be loved for ever. Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed "We met as pilgi-ims on the way. cover. Thy smiles made bright the gloomiest wealhei',

Oh ! he maun be blessed Yet who is there can name the day

Wha's allowed to be near her; When we shall meet again together ? For the fairest and best 0' her kind's Mary Shearer! Be that as 'twill, if ne'er to meet, At least we've had one day of gladness; But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch And oh! a glimpse of joy's more sweet Striven, That it is seen through clouds of sadness. My countiy and kin, —since I've sae lov'd the Thus did the sun—half-hid to-day stranger; Seem lovelier in its hour of gleaming. \Vhare she's been maun be either a pine or a Than had we mark'd its fervid ray heaven Through one uutired day of beaming.

EOBEET WILSON.

Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Social Condition of France, and a volume of Carnbee, Fifeshire, in 1801. He was edu- poems published in 1856 at Boston, Mas- cated for the medical profession, and practised sachusetts. Since that date he has contributed for some time at St. Andrews. For many many poetical pieces, ciiiefly lyrical, to the years he has lived in retirement at Aberdour, periodicals, which have not yet been repub- a watering-place on the coast of Fife celebrated lished in a collected form. Dr. Wilson is also for the beauty of its scenery. Dr. Wilson is the author of several brochures on subjects of the author of Lectures on the Game Laws, The a socio-political character.

AMERICA.

Honour to him on whose prophetic brain Gave patriot-blood the tyrant's thirst to slake, First dawned the woodlands of the western main; Fii-e to the fagot, victims to the stake, Wlio realized at last his youthful dreams. Freedom, from warring Europe long exiled. And found the New World, with her woods and Found a safe refuge in the forests wild. streams, Wlien future martyrs met their trembling flocks Where living verdure fringed the circling floods, To worship God among the woods and rocks. And red men wandered in primeval woods Then many a worshipper, to shun the brand. Left for his father's faith his father-land. Wlien persecution scourged with iron rod And, in the western woodlands far away, The worshippers of liberty and God; Sought fearlessly the house of God to pray; — —

234 EGBERT WILSON.

Once more their pious bosoms proudly swell Adown whoso glittering steps the ships shall go To the broad waters of the lake below. To list the tinkling of the Sabbath-bell. And where the Indian maid, with barbarous rite. And thither pilgrims flocked from many a clime, Mourns for her lover slain in savage fight, Where love to God or freedom was a crime; And, with the bow and quiver in his hand. And when at last, across the severing wave, Equips her warrior for the Spirit's Land, A giant-arm was stretched to crush the brave, There human relics shall in peace be laid. When Britain strove to impose the tyrant-yoke, And o'er the sad ruin mournful honours paid. 'Twas then the glorious cry for Freedom woke: Blended with faith that Christ will come again The stirring memory of want and wrong. To raise and beautify the prostrate fane. Sustained in various lands from whence they sprung. Bound in one resolute devoted band The scattered children of that foster-land: The patriot-ranks the stalwart woodmen own, HUMBIE WOOD, ABERDOUE. Beneath whose arm majestic forests groan. At sultry noon or close of day peasant, lingering round his home, surveys The Alike I love the woodland way. cabin 'midst the flowering maize; His log-built In Hillside's shady walks to stroll, Then leaves his sobbing spouse and sportive child. Or thread the path by hedge or rill To wrestle for his treasures in the wild. That leads to Humbie's wooded hill, The aged sire, whose now-reposing arm Conspicuous for its beauty still, The waste transmuted to the cultured farm. Though trees crown every knoll. In hopes to spend his age among his race. sweet spot in the desert place. Fights for the Thei'e visions charm the inward sight; To such a glorious band, 'mong whom was none And waking dreams tiiat please to-night Who could not call some spot of earth his own, Will yield again their bliss to-inorrow; What are the tools that tyi-ants cast away, When on the leafy copse I look, When at their game of lives they chance to play ? Or soaring tree, or flowery nook, Freedom prevailed, and left this truth sublime Or list the scarce-seen bickering brook To her fond worshippers of future time, That runs the forest thorcfugh. All have the power who wish but to be free; A truth we owe, America! to thee. Or mark the chestnut's floral crown, And ancient pine of solemn brown Long has the venturous, woe-worn exile-band That knows the cushat's indraw crush; Proclaimed thy woody shore the poor man's land. Or watch, to waving boughs sublime, Where all may boast some little spot of earth. The graceful squirrels nimbly climb, Where waves their grain, and glows the social minstrels' mingled chime hearth. While the plumed That sunny spot becomes a guiding star Is heard from brake and bush. To suffering kindred in their homes afar, But not these woodland sounds alone To lure the victims sad of want and power To the rapt dreamer's ear is known; To happier shores in Fortune's troubled hour. But oft in opening glade it meets Where work the peasant and mechanic's hand love hear. Changes more rapid than enchanter's wand. Familiar sounds we to stoops the plough to steer; Where late the jaguar shvmned the noonday heat. From him who hillocks near. The laden wain rolls up the crowded street; Or oxen low on And whei-e the youth has marked the wild deer Or gamesome lambkin bleats. shake Our piney wood and mountain thyme Their forked antlers by the crystal lake, The gorgeous flower of southern clime And, never daunted by the woodman's axe. fragrance far exceed; O'er the smooth water hold their arched necks. In spicy Ere the few gladsome years of youth have flown. Nor Araby a perfume knows Has marked the commerce of a busy town; More rich than sweetbriar or the rose, And in the lately silent creek has seen Or where the bean or hawthorn blows, The havened barks amid the foliage green. Or hay-cock scents the mead. Where the cold ague's treacherous poison sleeps. Awhile tardy steps are stayed And o'er its bed the noxious serpent creeps. my shade, Soon shall the homesteads with their cornfields Beside a beech prolix of shine, Delicious in the summer noon; Beside the smooth canal's long silvery line, Where in tlie cool sequestered bower —— ; ——

EOBEET WILSON. 235

The speedwell grows, my fav'rite flower. The milkmaid opes the paddock gate, Or dandelion, that tells the hour, AVhere kine distended meekly wait The herdboy's clock in June. That stated fill her shining pail. No more the rustics drudge and moil. Or o'er the ground the trees between. Untrodden lies the fallowed soil, ivy its The spreads matted green; And all the sounds of ruder toil And honeysuckle climbs the tree Are hushed within the vale. Its odours sweet the insects note, AVhich through the sylvan allej'S float, The daisy knows the dewy hour. And lure from mossy haunts remote And careful folds tlie tender flower The blossom -loving bee. Which opens to the morning sun; The star of eve appears to view; For where the honeysuckle climbs, Thin wreaths of smoke, so faintly blue. And ample spread the luscious limes. From hut and hamlet rise anew toilsome bees their nectar sip; The And the long day is done. There too the nuts and berries grow. Whose ripening time the schoolboys know- The berry blue, and purple sloe. The hazel and the hip. LINES Emerging from the forest glade. Scenes fair as mortal e'er surveyed COMPOSED IX THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF Burst sudden on the raptured view: ABERDOUR. For now the gleams of parting day Tint rock and ruin, inch and bay. The stately Norman church that shows And softly tip with slanting ray Its arches to the open sky, The wavy Pentlands blue. The chancel where tall seedling grows. And vault where nobles lie; The boatman hoists his slender sail The nameless grave, the lettered stone. To catch the new-born coming gale, To me are more congenial themes AVhile sidelong lies the idle oar On whiclx to muse an hour alone And sweetly musing feels the power Than all ambition's dreams. Of summer gloaming's witching hour. mother, children own When gazing on fair Aberdour Here father, spot of common earth, And its enchanting shore. Some little And cluster round the pillared stone Or from the blue unruffled bay As round the parent hearth. Goes the Avheeled bark no calms delay. While some beneath those hillocks pressed Or winds deter, these coasts between; Together share the dreamless sleep, And from its deck the gazer sees Whose kindred take their lasting rest Wood-fringed shores that ever please. By distant shore and deep. Or the high Hewes' majestic trees. And rocks with ivy green. Some sleep on India's sultry shore, One where the ocean waves o'erwhelm. Northward, to woodland wanderers dear, Some 'neath this antique sycamore, elm. Cullalo hills their barrier rear. And immemorial Their summits with rich forest clad Yon tablet in the churchyard wall, While downward severing clumps are seen. Eeared by a sister's tender care, that haps to all And slender lines of hedgerow green. Records the fate are there. With sloping sheltered fields between. The household's names For coming harvest glad. And stones around are thickly strewed. But now around the welkin's brim Which still tlie fond survivor rears, Gather the shades of evening dim, Where homely rhymes and sculpture rude That soon familiar sights confuse; Speak to our hopes and fears; Far-parted forests Seem to meet, And holy text and humble lay AVhere swains in glade with hawthorn sweet, Foretell the Christian's endless bliss. still point the As here, the tale of love repeat, While star and sun way And fameless poets muse. To brighter worlds than this. ; — : ;

236 EOBEET MACNISH.

And see, all eloquent of death, Beyond the sycamores I mark Are skull and cross-bones side by side; Th' inconstant ocean ebb and flow, The shuttle quaintly carved beneath O'er which the full-sailed barge and bark, Tells how the moments glide. Like wandering pilgrims go; The rose's stony petals there While in the sheltered haven nigli, Speak of a transient breath and bloom, Meet images of perfect rest, Fit emblems of the loved and fair Some safe from storms together lie, Who find an early tomb. In peaceful pennons dressed.

And spindles rudely carved disclose Below, the water of the Dour, How fine the thread of life is spun; Like mortal being, glides away This sandglass to the gazer shows Aloft, the weather-wasted tower How soon his race is run. Looks down in proud decay The muse in artless numbei's sings The ash-tree's verdant branches wave Her tribute to the good and just, Above the heaving, hallowed mould, AVhile cherubim with outstretched wings That soon shall shed o'er tomb and grave Protects the honoured dust. Their leaves of paly gold.

The worn and Aveary here at last Though here no more the anthems swell, Eepose upon their lowly bed, And holy men no longer preach, And text and arrow tell how fast Stream, tower, and tree of frailty tell; Death's fatal weapon sped While texts and verses teach. And how for them fond eyes were dim. Inscribed above the mortal dust And tender hearts were torn; Which gathers round the house of praj'cr, While sculptured crowns still speak of Him That all who place in God their trust Who wore the crown of thorn. Immortal bliss shall share.

EGBERT MACNISH

Born 1802 — Died 1837.

TIosERT JIacnish, M.D., author of the With the medical prelections of Broussais and Anatomy of Drunkenness, the Pliilosophy of the surgical ones of Dupuytren he was much Sleep, and various contributions to Blackwood's delighted; he met Cuvier, and formed an Magazine, was born at Glasgow, February 15, acquaintanceship with Gall. On his return 1802. After receiving the elements of educa- to Scotland he settled in Glasgow, which con- tion in his native city he was placed under the tinued to be his place of residence until his charge of the Rev. Alexander Easton of Hamil- death. ton, at that time at the head of a flourishing In 1826 Dr. Macnish became a contributor academy. The acquirement of the French of prose and verse to the most celebrated language principally engaged the period be- magazine of the day Blackwood. His elabo- tween his leaving this school and his entering rate treatises, more especially the Anatomy of upon the study of medicine with his grand- Drunkenness and the Philosophy of Sleep, father and father, who were then associated in gained for him great reputation at home, and practice in Glasgow. Having at the age of carried his name to the United States, from eighteen passed an examination before the whence the degree of Doctor of Laws was sent College of Surgeons, he obtained from the to him. They were also translated into the University of Glasgow the degree of Magister French and German languages. Di-. IMacnish Chlrurgke. After eighteen montlis of country died Jan. 16, 1837; and so perished in the prime practice in Caithness, where his health failed, of life, and in the bloom of his fame as well he went abroad and spent a year in Paris. as of his professional usefulness, a man whom — —— — — — —

EOBEET MACNISH. £37

written by his friend Scotland may well number among her gifted with a memoir of his life the author of many beautiful children. A critic said of him — "There was Dr. D. M. Moir, productions, was published in London. always a spring of life about him that vivified poetical are indebted for the subjoined his pages and animated and delighted his To this work we for the facts contained in readers." A few years after Macnish's death poems, as well as two volumes of his essays, poems, and sketches, this brief sketch.

Of thunder—when thy waterfall TO THE EHINE. Grindeth his rebel waves to spray, And shadoweth with mist the day. Majestic stream! whose hundred fountains I love thee in thy gentle path Have birth among the heathy mountains, I love thee in thy moods of wrath Where .she who chains my soul doth dwell, I love thee when thou ghdest under I love thee more than words can tell. The boughs unheard— or roll'st in thunder. Yes, lordly stream, whose hundred fountains 'Tis not thy track o'erhung with towers Have birth among the heathy mountains. Of antique mould—and clustering bowers- Where she who chains my heart doth dwell, 'Tis not thy waves, romantic Rhine, I love thee more than words can tell. Eolling away 'mong hills of pine 'Tis not the matchless beauty given To thine o'erarching woods—as heaven Sighs o'er them with her airy spell- That bids thee in my memory dwell. THE LOVER'S SECRET.

in tender hght, by thine own beauty Far other ties, majestic river. Thou walk'st Have bound thee to this heart for ever. made. the shade; The mountains whence thy streams arise And all thou passest by are hidden in appear not so to me, Are gladden'd over by her ej'es Foi-ms fair to other eyes with thoughts alone of Her starry eyes whose glance divine So fully glows my heart Was oft in rapture tum'd on mine. thee. In vision like a radiant gleam, I dream of thee by night—I think of thee by day— I see her mirror'd on thy stream, form, where'er I go, o'ertakes me on my way; I hear her voice of silvery tone Thy thoughts— it fills mine hom-s Arising from thy waters lone: It haunts my waking of sleep, I hear her lute's bland echo come yet it glads me not, but only makes me With voice so soft—so all but dumb- And That sound hath well-nigh striven in vain weep: To mould the melancholy strain. weep—for though my spirit's Which empty silence fain would quell It only makes me shrine For ever in his voiceless cell. Is fill'd with thee, I know that thou can'st ne'er River of rivers! unto me be mine: raised up by Fate's Thy lucid breast shall ever be "Unconquerable bars," A shrine with thousand gifts o'erflowing decree. Stand, and will ever stand, between my soul and A spirit known, though all unknowing. Wlien by thy wizard banks I stray, thee! Unnumber'd thoughts bestrew my way- Hope long hath passed away, and nothing now Thoughts rising, like thy gushing fountains, remains Far off, from those romantic mountains For but bootless love—its sorrows, and its Where she doth dwell who rules my heart— me pains; A soUtary star apart And to increase each pang, I dare not breathe A wild flower in her native glen. thy name. Far from the busy strife of men. gentle ear, confess my secret flame. What wonder then—0! lordly stream- Or, in thy Since like an everlasting dream passed away, and still thou art Her pictured memory dwells with thee, Hope long hath enshrined That thou art all in all to me ? spirit fair—within the temple of my mind: Sweet is thy course, and even the call A — — —— — —

238 EOBEET CHAMBEES.

If I had loved thee less, the secret thou hadst I hear thy voice in dreams known Upon me softly call, "';Vliich strong affection binds, and binds to me Like echo of the mountain streams alone. In sportive waterfall. I see thy form as Avhen The secret thou hadst known—but terror, lest Thou wert a living thing, thy heart And blossom'd in the eyes of men In feelings such as mine should bear no kindred Like any flower of spring. part,

Enchains my soul, and locks within its silent urn Thy soul to heaven hath fled. which, Love perchance, from thee durst meet From earthly thraldom free; with no return. Yet, 'tis not as the dead That thou appear' st to me. In slumber I behold Thy form, as when on earth Thy locks of waving gold TO A CHILD. Thy sapphire eye of mirth.

Thy memory, as a spell I hear, in solitude. Of love, comes o'er my mind- The prattle kind and free As dew upon the purple bell Thou utteredst in joyful mood As perfume on the wind AVhile seated on my knee. As music on the sea So strong each vision seems.

As sunshine on the river My spirit that doth fill, So liatJi it always been to me, I think not they are dreams. So shall it be for ever. But that thou livest still.

EOBEET CHAMBEES

Born 1802 — Died 1871.

It may be doubted whether in recent years Some usefu' plan or book could make. the name of any literary man in Scotland has Or sing a sang at least." been more widely known than that of the late If the devoted lover of his native land did not Dr. Robert Chambers. His career was a kind live to sing such stanzas as Burns and Scott of which his native land can exhibit perhaps sang, he yet lived to write "Young Kandal" more e.xamples in proportion than any other and many other sweet songs which entitle him country, and of all her writers and poets of the to a place in our gallery, and to pi'oduce nineteenth century, not even excepting Sir upwards of seventy volumes, exclusive of de- Walter Scott or Professor Wilson, he was the tached papers, all illustrative of the history most thoroughly Scotch in his mind, feelings, and progress of Scotland—its literature, social and character. With his passion for reading, life, and antiquities. He wandered over and and his indomitable industry, he united an described all its classic scenes; he collected intense admiration for the land of his birth, and garnered up the fast-fading traditions and and an unconquerable determination from his national peculiarities of bygone days; and boyhood to celebrate in some way the glories recorded, as no other writer has done, the of Auld Scotia story of the rash and romantic military enter- prise of '• Bonnie Prince Charlie," which ter- "Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power\ minated in the ruin of the Stuart family. A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast; Eobert Chambers was born July 10, 1802, That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, in the ancient town of Peebles, lying in the ;

EOBEET CHAMBERS. 239

lovely pastoral vale of Tweed, and the scene From the first Robert was an efficient contri- of the celebrated old poem " Peblis to the butor to the Journal, his delightful essays, Play." He and his elder brother William pathetic and humorous, fixing the publication were educated at the schools of their native firmly in popular esteem. Animated by the town. Family misfortunes took their father same spirit, the brothers now joined in part-

to Edinburgh, and compelled Robert, Mho was nership, and it is unnecessary to particularize intended for the Church, to make choice of a the various enterprises in which they were

different career, and to forego the advantages unitedly concerned; suffice it to say that their of a university education. At the age of fifteen publishing house has become widely knoAvn he opened a small book-shop in Leith Walk, throughout both Great Britain and America. Edinburgh, his stock consisting entirely of the "You are aware," wrote Chambers in 1850 to wreck of the family library. He managed his William Wilson of Poughkeepsie, his life-long little business with so much industry that in friend and correspondent, "that my brother 1822 he was enabled to remove to a better and I conduct what you may call a great locality, and soon after issued his first work, en- literary factory. We are not publishers in the titled Illustrations of the Author of Waverley. ordinary sense of the word, but rather authors Two years later he published his Traditions of and editors working out our literary plans Edinburgh, certainly in the writer's judgment through the medium of a printing and pub- the most amusing book of local antiquities to lishing concern in the hands of a set of subordi- be met with. Eobert Chambers' next work, nates. Thus the literary man takes in our case issued in 1826, was the Popidar Ehymes of his naturally due place as the superior of the Scotland, and in the year following his Pictures mere tradesman publishei-. It is a curious pro- of Scotland appeared. The latter was a success- blem in literary affairs that we are solving, and ful effort to elevate topographical and archaeolo- probably something may be heard of it twenty gical details into the region of belles-lettres, years hence. The printing of the books written and it was for many years the best companion and edited by us gives occasion for ten printing for travellers in Scotland. Enlisted in the presses, the working of which is one of the corps of writers for Constables Miscellany, he sights of Edinburgh—a curious contrast with wrote successively five volumes embodying the the infancy of my concern in Leith Walk, histories of the Scottish rebellions, of which where you used to look in upon me!" that concerning the affair of 1745, while true Robert Chambers' next important work was as to facts, partakes of the charm of a romance. his Cyclopedia of English Literature, a pub-

Then followed two volumes q{ a. Life ofJames I. lication of higher rank than any previous com- three volumes of Scottish Songs and Ballads; pilation of a similar character. It was followed and four volumes of the Biographical Diction- by his Life and Letters of Robert Burns, ary ofEminent Scotsmen. In addition to writing including his poems. The profits of one edi- these various works, and giving attention to tion, amounting to £200, were presented to his business, he acted for a time as editor of the daughters of Burns' surviving sister, who the Edinburgh Advertiser, a well-established had herself previously received many kind- journal belonging to Donaldson, the founder nesses from her brother's editor and admirer. of the hospital in the Scottish capital which "A dear and faithful friend has Mr. Chambers bears his name. been to me," said the venerable lady to the In 1832, amid much political distraction, writer when he visited her in her cottage of there was a universal upheaving in favour of Bridgehouse, near Ayr, in the summer of 1855. popular education in Great Britain. At this Writing to the Editor from St. Andrews a critical juncture the elder brother projected short time before his death, Sir. Chambers

Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, the first num- said: "It is only last week, after an interval

ber of which appeared Feb. 4, 1832, six weeks of three years, that I have got once more settled before the appearance of the Penny Magazine. in a home of my own. My health, after being

It was a marvel in the literary world, and at out of order for an equal space of time, is now once met with surprising success, which, after a completely restored. I am setting up a house- period of over forty years, it continues to enjoy. hold with one young daughter and three grand- — — ! !

240 EOBEET CHAMBERS. children, hoping to have a few pleasant lei- sical suffering, and he passed peacefully away surely jears at the close of a life which has March 17, 1871. In the last letter the Editor perhaps been too active and laborious." received from Dr. Cliambers he wrote: " I feel In 1868 the University of St. Andrews con- greatly interested, my dear general, in your ferred on Eobert Cliambers the honorary degree proposed selections from the Scottish poets. of LL.D. In his well-known hospitable home You honour me much by introducing me into at St. Andrews the doctor dispensed a gen- the Work. I think the selection of my pieces erous hospitality, and liis dinners and even- as good as could be made. In answer to your ing parties here had something in them of query, the 10th of July, 1802, is the date of the smack of old times. The pen was now my birth. There are no portraits of Barbour, taken up only occasionally as an amusement Wyntoun, and Lyndsay, nor of any before in the preparation of a L^fe of Smollett, his Drummond, excepting the kings, and perhaps last literary work. The memoir when pub- Buchanan." In 1872 a memoir of Robert lished bore strongly, like the archbishop's Chambers, containing some of liis poems, with homily in Gil Bias, "the marks of mortal autobiographic reminiscences of William Cham- disease," though still a not unpleasing gossipy bers, Avas issued at Edinburgh, and immedi- narrative. The remaining span of his life was ately republished in New York, both editions happily accompanied by little if any phy- meeting with a wide circulation.

THE PEERLESS ONE.

Hast thou ne'er marked, in festal hall, Which in alternate tides of feeling, Amidst the lights that shone, Now thickening quick—now gently stealing Some one who beamed more bright than Throughout this lone and hermit breast, all- That festal night, my soul possess'd.

Some gay— some glorious one !

Some one who, in her fairy lightness, ! she was fairest of the fair. As through the hall she went and came, And brightest of the bright; And lier intensity of brightness, And there was many a fair one there, As ever her eyes sent out their flame. That joyous festal night. Was almost foreign to the scene; A hundred eyes on her were bent, Gay as it was, with beauty beaming, A hundred hearts beat high; Through which she moved : —a gemless queen, It was a thing of ravishment, creature of different A a seeming God ! to meet her eye From others of a mortal birth But 'midst the many who look'd on. An angel sent to walk the earth! And thought she was divine, 0, need I say that there were none Oh, stranger, if thou e'er hast seen W^ho gazed with gaze like mine And singled such a one. The rest were like the crowd who look And if thou hast enraptured been All idly up to heaven. And felt thyself undone; And who can see no wonder there If thou hast sigh'd for such a one. At either morn or even; Till thou wert sad with fears; But I was like the wretch embound If thou hast gazed on such a one Deep in a dungeon under ground, Till thou wert bUnd with tears; Who only sees, through grating high, If thou hast sat obscure, remote. One small blue fi-agment of the sky. In comer of the hall, Which ever, both at noon and night. Looking from out thy shroud of thought Shows but one starlet shining bright, Upon the festival; Down on the darkness of his place. Thine eye through all the misty throng With cheering and unblenching grace; Drawn by that peerless light, The very darkness of my woe As traveller's steps are led along Made her to me more brightly show. By wild-fire through the night: Then, stranger, haply dost thou know At length the dancing scene was changed The joy, the rapture, and the woe, To one of calmer tone, ! !

EGBERT CHAMBERS. 241

And she her loveliness arranged Land of the uncorrupted heart, Upon fair Music's throne. Of ancient faith and glory Soft silence fell on all around, Like dew on summer flowers; Like mother's bosom o'er her child. Bright eyes were cast upon the ground, The sky is glowing o'er me; Like daisies bent with showers. Like mother's ever-smiling face. And o'er that drooping stilly scene The land lies bright before me. A voice rose gentle and serene, Land of my home, my father's land; A voice as soft and slow Land where my soul was nourish'd; proceed tongue. As might from angel's Land of anticipated joy. If angel's heart were sorrow-wrung. And all by memory cherish'd! And wish'd to speak its woo. Oh Scotland, through thy wide domain The song was one of those old lays AVhat hill, or vale, or river, Of mingled gloom and gladness, But in this fond enthusiast heart Which first the tides of joy can raise, found a place for ever? Then still them down to sadness; Has or shaw. A strain in which pure joy doth borrow Xay, hast thou but a glen The very air and gait of sorrow. To shelter farm or shelling, And sorrow takes as much alloy That is not fondly garner'd up From the rich sparkling ore of joy. Within its depths of feeling? Its notes, like hieroglyphic thing, Spoke more than they seem'd meant to sing. Adown thy hills run countless rills, I could have lain my life's whole round With noisy, ceaseless motion; Entranced upon that billowy sound, Their waters join the rivers broad, Nought touching, tasting, seeing, hearing. Those rivers join the ocean; And, knowing nothing, nothing fearing. And many a sunny, flowery brae. Like Indian dreaming in his boat, Where childliood plays and ponders, As he down waveless stream doth float. Is freshen'd by the liglitsonie flood, But pleasure's tide ebbs always fast. As wimpling on it wanders. And tliese were joys too loved to last. Within thy long-descending vales, There was but one long final swell. And on the lonely mountain. Of full melodious tone, How many wild spontaneous flowers And all into a cadence fell, Hang o'er each flood and fountain! And was in breathing gone. The glowing furze, the " bonnie broom,' And she too went: and thus have gone The thistle and the heather; All — all I ever loved; The bluebell and the gowan fair. At first too fondly doted on. Which childliood likes to gather. But soon—too soon removed. Thus early from each pleasant scene There ever has been reft Oh for that pipe of silver sound. The summer glow—the pride of greon, On wliich the shepherd lover. And but brown autumn left. In ancient days, breathed out his .soul, And oh, what is this cherished term. Beneath the mountain's cover! This tenancy of clay, Oh for that Great Lost Power of Song, When that which gave it all its charm So soft and melancholy.

Has smil'd —and pass'd away ? To make thy every hill and dale A chaplet whence the flowers are fall'n, Poetically holy! A shrine from which the god is stolen ,\nd not alone each hill and dale, Fair as they are by nature. But every town and tower of thine, SCOTLAND. And every lesser feature; For where is there the spot of earth Scotland! the land of all I love, Within my contemplation. The land of all that love me; But from some noble deed or tiling Land, whose green sod my youth has trod, Has taken consecration! Whose sod sliall lie above me. Scotland! of all I love, Hail, country of the brave and good ; the land Hail, land of song and storv; The land of all that love me; Vol. II.—Q ! — —

242 ROBERT CHAMBERS.

Land, whose green sod my 3-outli has trod, And where the heart has had no part, Whose sod shall lie above me. God holds his creature clean." Ilail, country of the brave and good; Hail, land of song and story; Then Jardine sought a holy man Land of the uncorrupted heart. To lay that vexing sprite; Of ancient faith and glory And for a week that holy man Was praying day and night.

And all that time in Spedlins house Was held a solemn fast. THE TRISOXER OFSPEDLINS. Till the cries waxed low, and the boglcbo In the deep lied Sea was cast. To Edinburgh, to Edinburgh, The Jardine he maun ride; There lies a Bible in Spedlins ha', He locks the gates behind him. And while it there shall lie, For lang he means to bide. Nae Jardine can tormented be

With Porteous' starving cr\-. And he, nor any of his train,

While minding thus to flit, But Applegarth's an altered man Thinks of the weary prisoner, He is no longer gay; Deep in the castle pit. The thought o' Porteous clings to him Unto his dying day. They were not gane a day, a day, A day but barely four, AV^hen neighbours spake of dismal cries Were heard frae Spedlins Tower. YOUNG EANDAL. They mingled wi' the sigh of trees. And the thud-thud o' the lin; Young Fiandal was a bonnie lad when he gaed But nae ane tliocht 'twas a deein' man awa', Tiiat made that eldrich din. Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', At last they mind the gipsy loon, 'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and In dungeon lay unfed; thritty-twa. But ere the castle key was got, That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa. The gipsy loon was dead. It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie, They found the wretch stretch'd out at length To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie, Upon the cold, cold stone. That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee, With starting eyes and hollow cheek, And monie mae friends in tlie North Countrie. And arms peeled to the bone! He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha', Now Spedlins is an eerie house. His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters For oft at mirk midnight twa. The wail of Porteous' starving cry And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the Fills a' that house wi' fright. castle wa',

And mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'. " 0, let me out, let me out. Sharp hunger cuts me sore; " Oh, whan will ye be back?" sae kindly did she If ye suffer to perish so, me speir, I'll haunt you evermore!" "Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?" sad, sad was the Jardine then. "Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear. His heart was sorely smit; To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear." Till he could wish himself had been Left in that deadly pit. Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa' But " Cheer ye," cried his lady fair, Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed " 'Tis purpose makes the sin; awa', — " ; — ——

THOMAS AIRD. 243

And in his bonnie e'e a spark glintit high, The chiefs that were foremost of old, Like the merrie, raerrie look in the morning sky. Macdonald and brave Lochiel, The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham, Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came With their clansmen true as steel; hanie Who foUow'd and fought with Montrose, A sair altert man was he whan he came hame; Glencairn, and bold Dundee; Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all, And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame. And would aye rather fa' than flee. Och on a rie, &c. He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring. Tlie hills that our brave fathers trod And down came a ladye to see him come in, Are now to the stranger a store; And after the ladye came bairns feifteen The voice of the pipe and the bard " Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?" Shall awaken never more. Such things it is sad to think on " Wliatna stoure carle is this,'' quo' the dame, They come like the mist by day " Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and And I wish I had less in this world to leave, sae lame ? And be with them that are away. " Oh, tell me, fair madame, are ye bonnie Jeanie Och on a rie, &c. Graham?" " In troth," quo' the ladye, " sweet su-, the very same." THE LADYE THAT I LOVE. He turn'd him about wi' a waefu' e'e. And a heart as sair as sair could be; Were I a doughty cavalier He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee. On fire for high-born dame, And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee. Witli sword and lance I would not fear To win a warrior's fame. Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie. But since more stern deeds of blood And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie, no And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be; Tiie gentle f;iir may move, For they've wreck'd the bravest heart in this I'll woo in softer, better mood hale countrie. The ladye that I love.

For helmet bright with steel and gold, And plumes that flout the sky, mould, FOR THE OLD HIGHLAND I'll wear a soul of hardier LAMENT And thoughts that sweep as high. WARRIORS. For scarf athwart my corselet cast, y-wove, Oh, where are the pretty men of yore? With iier fair name I'll have her pictur'd in my breast. Oh, where are the brave men gone ? Oh, where are the heroes of the north? The ladye that I love. Each under his owai gray stone. No crested steed through battle throng Oh, where now the broad bright claymore ? Shall bear me bravely on. Oh, where are the trews and plaid ? But pride shall make my spirit strong, Oh, where now the merry Highland heart? Wliere honours may be won. In silence for ever laid. Amidst the great of mind and heart, Och on a rie, och on a rie, prowess I will prove, Och on a rie, all are gone; My Och on a rie, the heroes of yore. And thus I'll win, by gentler art, Each under his own gray stone. The ladye tliat 1 love.

THOMAS AIED.

Born 1802 — Died 1876.

Thomas Aird, who early distinguished him- shire, August 28, 1802. He was educated at self as a poet, was born at Bowden, Ro.xburgh- the University of Edinburgh, where he formed 244 THOMAS AIRD.

the acquaintance of Professor Wilson, Dr. Moir, quishing the editorship of the Z)M»)/rie«/7e?-oW, and otlicr literary men. He studied originally and retii-ing into private life in 1863, Mr. Aird for the ministry of the Church of Scotland, but, was entertained at a public dinner in Dum- clianging his purpose, he embraced the freedom fries, and presented with a handsome testi- of a literary life, and became a frequent contri- monial subscribed for by men of all shades butor in prose and verse to Blackwood' s Ma

' w;is in 1835 appointed editor of the Dumfries and here he used to watch the autumn sun as Herald and Register, a Conservative journal, he sank in crimson clouds behind the hills of which met with great success under his editor- Galloway, and flushed the river with his dying sliip, extending over a period of twenty -eight glory. The numerous visitors, who came from years. Its pages were enriched with some of far and near, were also dear to him, amongst his choicest verses and criticisms, and the whom every season was Thomas Carlyle, his generous editor was always glad to receive the honoured contemporary and friend. His death, contributions of the youthful talent which though not unexpected, has cast a shadow on gathered around him. Aird's next volume was Dumfries, which will miss for long his familiar a collection of admirable tales and sketches, presence and the quiet dignity of his dail}' entitled The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish walk. It is pleasing to know that his remains

Villaeie. A fter the death of his friend Dr. Moir, will rest in the place which is associated with he edited an edition of his poems, for which his name, not far from the grave which holds he prepared a memoir. In 1848 his poems the sacred ashes of Burns, and from the vener- were published in a collected form, -with some able church of St. Michael, in which for forty new ones; tlie volume was Avell received, and years he was a reverent worshipper." reached a fourth edition in 1863. Some of In a letter to the Editor Mr. Aird remarks, these pieces are of wild imaginative grandeur; "I leave it to your own judgment to select the poem "My Mother's Grave," it has been what pieces you think most suitable for your said, "deserves a place beside Cowpers im- publication. But if you ask myself, I Avould mortal lines: it breathes a spirit of yearning say that ' Frank Sylvan,' ' The Holy Cottage,' tenderness and intensest pathos." On relin- and ' The River' seem to be the best liked."

THE CAPTIVE OF FEZ.

(extract. )

Gray morn appeared. " My horse!" Zemberbo His battle-horse —from Araby a gift, cried; AVhite as the snows, and as the breezes swift: And forth was broug'ht, shrill neicching in his A chosen foal, on Yemen's barley fed, pride, In size and beauty grew the desert-bred. — —

THOMAS AIRD. 245

Fit present for a king: his bnniished chest, Then, with the stress of numbers hemming rouml Branched o'er with veins, and muscles ne'er at That king, they bore liini from the embattled rest. ground. Starts, throbs, and leaps with life; his eyeballs And bore his son; but not one wounding blade glow; Was dealt on them, for so Zemberbo bade: Quick blasts of smoke his tender nostrils blow. Thus Julian and his sire were captive made. The chieftain sprung on him. The rolling drum Their capture smote with fear the Fezzan host; Announced his signal that the hour was come It paused, it wavered, tui-ned, fled —all was lost. His men should move. Trumpet and deep-smote gong Quell to the draining march the closing throng. On through the short defile, compact and slow, Betwixt the vales, Zemberbo's squadrons go. THE PtlYER. Lo! the king's host. The mutual armies seen. the weeping hills, Fierce shouts arose, and claimed the space be- Infant of tween. Nursling of the springs and rills, Paused not the rebel phalanx. On each hand Growing river, flowing ever, Hung cloudy swarms, w-hence, ranging in a band, \Vimpling, dimpling, staying never, The stepping archers, with their pause com- Lisping, gurgling, ever going, pressed. Lipping, slipping, ever flowing,

Let loose the glancing arrows from their breast. Toying round the polished stone, • Nor less from loyal bows the arrowy rain Kiss the sedge and journey on. Dark on the advancing column fell amain, Here's a creek where bubbles come. Advancing still: in crescent-shaped array, Whirling make your ball of foam. The Fezzan host in its embosomed bay There's a nook so deep and cool, Receives it deep; but sharpens round away, Sleep into a glassy pool. Till curling- to the column's flanks it turns, Breaking, gushing. And turning bores them with its piercing horas. Downward rushing. Yet onward still, still onward through the fight. Narrowing green against the bank, column pushed its firm continuous might, That AVhere the alders grow in rank, widening out, it spread a breastwork far Till, Thence recoiling, Across the plain, and mingled deep the war. Outward boiling, But where is Julian ? At the break of day Fret, in rough shingly shallows wide, Came on his father with a bold array, Your diflicult way to yonder side. Brought by the message of his son ; but fear Thence away, aye away, Disdaining for himself, himself is here nickering down the sunny day, Leading the warriors on, sooner to bar In the sea, in yonder west. Zemberbo's rise, and end a long-protracted war. yourself, and be at rest. O how rejoicing to his native band Lose darkness weeping out, Did Julian leap! His father, hand in hand Thus from Flows our infant life away. He'll fight with him ! And through that stormy day Murmuring now the checks about, They crossed Zemberbo in his fellest way. Singing now in onward play; Faint toiled the staggering battle. Fresh and Deepening, whirling. strong, Darkly swirling, A giant troop came dashingly along. Downward sucked in eddying coves; Grim set, reserved for this: Lo! bare of head. Boiling with tumultuous loves; The black compacted turm Zemberbo led; Widening o'er the worldly sands; Low couching, forward bent; and stern and still Kissing full the cultured lands; His sword intensely waited on his will. Dim with trouble, glory-lit. his side. Across his path Held pointed by Heaven still bending over it; Resistance came, and eased his rigid wrath, Changing still, yet ever going, down. How towering ^Vhich bowed him corded Onward, downward ever flowing. rose to be a boy once more. The mighty creature, and made shreds of foes; Curly-headed, sitting singing His face, as far he bounded to destroy. Midst a thousand flowerets springing. Bright with the sunshine of his wariike joy! In the sunny days of yore, He pointed to the thickest of the fight, In the sunny world remote, There fought the King of Portugal, with might With feelings opening in their dew, There Julian fought; deep plunged into the fray fairy wonders ever new. That sable corps, and cleared the crush away; And ! •

246 THOMAS AIED.

And all the budding quicks of thought! The river blue that lapses through the valley, to be a boy, yet be hears thee sing, From all my early follies free! And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy But were I skilled in prudent lore, light-dipping wing. The boy were then a boy no more. The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper Short our threescore years and ten, gloom is seen. Yet who would live them o'er again ? When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's All life's good, ere they be flown, silvery sheen. AVe have felt, and we have known. ]\[ore than mortal Avere our fear, The silent Power that brings thee back with If doomed to dwell for ever here. leading-strings of love Yet O, from age to age, that we To haunts where first the summer sun fell on flight rise a day old earth to see! thee from above. ]\Iountains high, with firs, nodding Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music 0"er you the clouded crystal stirs, of our leaves, Tresh as of old, how fresh and sweet! For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, here the flowerets And at my feet. shall glad thee in our caves. Daisy, daisy, wet witli dew, And all ye little bells of blue, 1 know you all; thee, clover bloom, Tliee the fern, and thee the broom: And still the leaves and breezes mingle With twinklings in the forest dingle. THE HOLY COTTAGE. through all wildering worlds I'd know lly own dear place of long ago. "Come near, my child! " the dying father said. Life's twilight dews lay heavy on his Pleased would the yearning spirit then brow. How softly o'er him did that The doings learn of living men, daughter bow! She wiped those dews away, she raised his droop- The rise and fall of realms and kings. ing head. And a thousand homely things. Deeper our care considerate He looked upon her with a long, long look, To know of earth's diviner state: Thinking of all her winning little ways, IIow speeds the church, with horns of light, His only gladness from her infant days, To push and pierce the heathen night? Since God from them away the wife and mother AVhat promise of the coming day, took. When sin and pain shall pass awaj'. And, under love's perpetual prime, Oft to the moorland places he his child Joy light the waving wings of time? Led by the hand, or bore upon his back. The curlew's nest he show'd her in their track. And leveret's dewy play upon the whinny wild.

THE SWALLOW. The while he dug, his coat she quaintly dressed With flowers, aye peeping forth lest he might The little comer's coming, the comer o'er the see sea, The unfinished fancy; then how pleased when he. The comer of the summer, all the sunny days Much wondering, donned her work, when came to be. his hour of rest! IIow pleasant through the pleasant sleep tliy early — twitter heard Down sate she by him; and when hail or rain sAvallow Oh by the lattice! glad days be thy Crossed that high country with its streaming reward cloud, She nestled in his bosom o'er her bowed. Thine be sweet morning, Avith the bee that's Till through the whitening rack looked out the out for honey-dew; sun again. And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshop- per and you; And when his axe was in the echoing wood, And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the sun Down its shy depths, looking behind her oft. to light thee home! She o'er the rotting ferns and fungi soft What can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the Thro' boughs and blinding leaves her bursting morrow come. way pursued. ! !

THOMAS AIRD. 247

The di'y twig, matted in the spear-like grass, And if, his hand upon the Book still laid, Y/here fresh from morning's womb the orbfed His spectacles upraised upon his brow, dew Frail nature slept in him, soft going now Lies cold at noon, cracked as she stepped light She screened the sunny pane, those dear old through. eyes to shade. Startling the cushat out close by the startled lass. Then sitting in their garden-plot, they saw With what delicious clearness the far height heart Her fluttering was ready then for fear: Seemed coming near, and slips of falling light Through the far peeping glades she thought Lay on green moorland spot and soft illumined she saw shaw. Forms beckoning, luring her; the while with awe, Turned to the sunny hills where he was nursed, The air grew dark and dumb, listening for The old man told his child of bloody times. something drear. Marked by the mossy stone of half-sunk rhymes; And in those hills he saw her sainted mother The ferns were stin-ed, the leaves were shaken, first. rain Fell in big drops, and thunder muttered low; "I see thy mother now! I see her stand Back burst the flushed dishevelled girl, and Waiting for me, and smiling holy sweet; How glad was she to hear her father's axe again The robe of white is flowing to her feet; And our good Lord Clu-ist, He holds her by Blithe, sitting in the winter night, he made the hand! Or mended by the fire his garden gear; " Farewell, my orphan lamb! To leave thee thus She with her mates, their faces glancing clear Is death to me indeed! Yet fear not thou! From shade to ruddy Ught, quick flitting round On the Good Shepherd I do cast thee now: him played. 'Tis but a Uttle while, and thou shalt come to us.

And aye some sly young thing, in rosy joyance, Looked up between his knees, where she was "0 yes! no fear! home to us in the skies hid; His everlasting arms will carry thee. see, as I do see! Humming he worked till she was found, then Couldst thou thy mother chid, My child!" he said, and died. His daughter But in a way that just lured back the dear closed his eyes. annoyance.

Up grew the virgin in her blooming beautj'. Filling her father's ordered house with grace. And ever o'er the Word she bowed her face, MY MOTHER'S GRAYE. Binding her days and nights in one continuous duty. rise, and sit in soft attire! When Sabbath came, she plucked him mint Wait but to know my soul's desire! and thyme. I'd call thee back to earthly days, And led him forth, what hour from farms To cheer thee in a thousand ways around Ask but this heart for monument, By stile, and sunny croft, and meadow ground. And mine shall be a large content! The parti-coloured folk came to the bell's sweet chime. A crown of brightest stars to thee! How did thy spirit wait for me, The simple people, gathered by the sod And nurse thy waning light, in faith Of the new grave, or by the dial-stone. That I would stand 'twixt thee and death! way, and blessed her as she led him on Made Then tarry on thy bowing shore, With short and tottering steps into the house Till 1 have asked thy sorrows o'er! of God.

1 came not, and I cry to save And holy was their Sabbath afternoon, life from the forgetful grave The sunlight falling on that father's head Thy I well declare Through their small western casement, as he One day, tliat may read How I have thought of all thy care. Much to his child of worlds which he must And love thee more tlian I have done. visit soon. And make thy days with gladness run. ; —! — !

248 WILLIAM BENNET.

I'd tell thee where my j-outh has been, And I upon thy bosom grew; Of perils past, of glories seen; Thy life was set my life upon; I'd tell thee all my youth has done, And I was thine, and not my own. And ask of things to choose and shun. And smile at all thy needless fears, Because I know there is not one But bow before thy solemn tears. To think of me as thou hast done, From morn till starlight, year by year: Come, walk with me, and see fair earth, For me thy smile repaid thy tear; And men's glad ways; and join their mirtlil And fears for me, and no reproof,

Ah me ! is this a bitter jest? When once I dared to stand aloof! AVhat right have I to break thy rest? Well hast thou done thy worldly task. My punishment, that I was far Nothing hast thou of me to ask. When God unloosed t'.iy weary star! My name was in Ihy faintest breath, ISFen wonder till I pass awa}', And I was in thy dream of death; They think not but of useless clay: And well I know what raised thy head, Alas for Age, that this should be! AVhen came the mourner's muffled tread ! But I have other thoughts of thee; And I would wade thy dusty grave. Alas! I cannot tell thee now To kiss the head I cannot save. I could not come to hold thy brow. And wealth is late, nor aught I've won for life's power, that I might see Were worth to hear thee call thy son

Thy visage swelling to be free I In that dark hour when bands remove. Come near, burst that eartliy cloud. And none are named but names of love. And meet me, meet me, lowly bowed! Alas! in corded stiffness pent. Alas for me, I missed that hour; Darkly I guess thy lineament. My hands for this shall miss their power For thee, the sun, and dew, and rain. 1 might have lived, and thou on earth, Shall ne'er unbind thy grave again, And been to thee like stranger's birth. Nor let thee up the light to see. Mother; but now that thou art gone, Nor let thee up to be with me! I feel as in the world alone: The wind which lifts the streaming tree. Yet sweet thy rest from care and strife. The skies seem cold and strange to me: And many pains that hurt thy life! Turn to thy God—and blame thy son I feel a hand untwist the chain To give thee more than I have done: Of all thy love, with shivering pain. Thou God, with joy beyond all years.

From round my heart: This bosom's bare. Fill up the channels of her tears ! And less than wonted life is there. Ay, well indeed it may be so! Thou car'st not now for soft attire, And well for thee my tears may flow! Yet wilt thou hear my soul's desire; To earth I dare not call thee more. Because that I of thee was part, But speak from off thy awful shore: Made of the blood-drops of thy heart ask this heart for monument. My birth I from thy body drew, And mine shall be a large content

WILLIAM BENNET.

William Bennet was born in the parish of of rhyming, and in his nineteentli year pub- Glencairn, Dumfriesshire, Sept. 29, 1802. His lished a volume of poems, which brought him parents were in humble circumstances, and he into connection with the newsjiaper press. He was early apprenticed to a mechanic in a neigh- became a contributor to the Dumfries Courier, bouring parish. From boyhood he was fond edited by the poet MacDiarmid, and in 1825-26 WILLIAM BENNET. 249 conducted the Dumfries JIaijazlne, for which lived at Burntisland. In a letter to the Editor he wrote many interesting articles. In Decem- he says:— " I have been engaged for twenty- ber, 1826, Bennet was offered and accepted the five years on a new translation of the Scrip- editorship of the Glasgow Free Press, a Liberal tures, and have finished the whole of the Old newspaper which took an active part in the Testament, having recovered the genuine mean- struggle then going on for political reform. ing of its own original Hebrew; so that part A few years afterwards he withdrew from the of the Word of God now shines forth in native Liberal party, and along with Sir Daniel Sand- brightness and intelligibility, clear of all that ford established the Glasgow Constitutional, the apostasy has shrouded it Avith from the a Conservative journal, the editorship of which ebbing of the Pentecostal effusion until now. he resigned in 1836. I have also Avritten a grammar and dictionary Mr. Bennet published a second volume of of the recovered tongue, to let every person see poetry under the title of Songs of Solitude, fol- and judge for himself whether the ore of its lowed by a third entitled The Chief of Gleii- true meaning has been reached or not. All orchaij, a poem in five cantos, illustrative of this you would take to be quite suppressive of H ighland manners and mythologj^ in the middle my 'rhythmic gift.' On the contrary, how- ages. Both his poetry and his prose contain ever, that gift has enabled me to versify the many sentiments that reflect credit on his whole of the Psalms, after translating them heart and indicate a lively and healthy ima- into prose like the other books. It was only

gination. He is also the author of Pictures last week that I put the finishing hand to all of Scottish Scenes and Character, and Sketches these labours, so that they could at once go to of the Isle of Man. After leaving Glasgow the press; and now I am about to commence Mr. Bennet resided successively in Ireland and with the New Testament, and do my best to

England, and for the past twenty years he has recover it from mistranslation also."

BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT. When the first peep of dawn Warns them of parting. Blest be the hour of night, And from each dewy lawn Blythe birds are starting. When, his toils over, her swain The swain with a heart so light. Fondly she hears they sever. Meets with his lover! Yow, though again, Sweet the moon gilds their path, Soon they shall meet Arm in arm straying; Mated for ever. Clouds never rise in wrath. Chiding their staying.

Gently they Avhisper low; I'LL THIXK OX THEE, LOVE. Unseen beside them Good angels watch, that no I'll think on thee, love, when thy bark far across the deep; 111 may betide them. Hath borne thee is bright or dark, Silence is everywhere, And, as the sky Save when the sighing 'Twill be my fate to smile or weep; waters keep Is heard, of the breeze's fall, For oh, when winds and Fitfully dying. In trust so dear a charge as thee, My anxious fears can never sleep How the maid's bosom glows. Till thou again art safe with me! While her swain's telling The love that's been long, she knows. Ill think on thee, love, when each hour In his heart swelling! Of twilight comes, Avith pensive mood. How, when his arms are thrown And silence, like a spell of power, Tenderly around her. Piests, in its depth, on field and wood; Fears she, in words to own And as the mingling shadows brood AVhat he hath found her! Still closer o'er the lonely sea. ! ;

2.30 HUGH MILLER.

Here, on the beach where first we woo'd, When all was bliss without one shade of ill. ril pour to heaven my prayers for thee. And all was hope that bliss would crown me still.

To those delightful days, so long by, Then liaply on the breeze's wing, gone How oft from darker now I turn my eye, That to me steals across the wave, And bid the sunshine on thy hills descend. Some angel's voice may answer bring The gorgeous rainbows o'er thy valley bend; That list'ning heaven consents to save. The shadows chase each other o'er thy lea, And oh, the further boon I crave Which were my playthings while I dwelt in thee! Perchance may also granted be, That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave For me no more the blackbird's evening song The wanderer's perils on the sea! From hazel copse is poured thy vale along; Nor cuckoo's herald voice, announcing spring, " Nor coo of dove, nor whirr of woodcock's wing. Nor do thy nuts, on bending hazel tree. Or thy green wild sloes, ripen more for mc. THE ROSE OF BEAUTY. Yet in my absence, nature still supplies Amang the breezy lieights and liowes Thy wonted charms to ravish others' eyes; Where winds the milk sae clearly, Even as the flowerets on our graves that grow, A rose o' beauty sweetly grows, Bloom for the living, not for those below. A rose I lo"e most dearly. Still does thy stream in bright meanders run. Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun, With many a troutling flashing in the sun Still do thy maids, amid the fragrant hay, How^ blooms my rose divinely! With tales of love beguile the summer day; And lang ere blaws the winter roun'. Thy swains still laboin- in the cultured field. This breast shall nurse it kin'ly. Or court the balmy health thy mountains yield; still the sun awakes to May heaven's dew aye freshly weet And smile on thee, And sinks to glorious rest beyond Craignee. My rose at ilka gloamin', And oh, may nae nnhallow'd feet Bloom on, sweet vale—and flow, Craigdarroch Be near it ever roamin'i stream And yet of other bards be oft the theme! shall bu}' I soon a snug wee cot, But, ah! when cold the hand that in thy praise And hae my rose brought thither; First waked the lyre, and wreathed thee with his And then, in that lowne sunny spot, bays, We'll bloom and fade thegither. Where once he lived, shall there another rise To mark thy beauties with such fjartial eyes?

Shall all my dreams of youth to him be kno^\^l, And all those cherished joys were mine alone. ODE TO CRAIGDARROCH WATER. Whose bright reflection yet my memory tills. Sweet as the moonlight sleeping on thy hills!

Sweet native vale ! amid whose calm repose No! though his lyre should more divinely sound. Once set my days as joyful as they rose; And more of nature in his verse be found. When, like the dawii arrayed in orient light. There still are feelings mingled with tliis strain, Life's cloudless morning shone before my sight;- Which, dead with me, can ne'er be felt again.

HUGH MILLEE

Born 1802 — Died 1856.

Hugh Miller, the distinguished geologist, hewer in the Old Red Sandstone quarries of was born at Cromarty, October 10, 1802. In Cromarty that he achieved those discoveries in his sixteenth year he was apprenticed to a that formation which marked a new epoch in stone-mason, and it Avas while engaged as a geological science. On finishing his appren- HUGH MILLER. 251

autobiographic story of his early ticeship he removed south, and worked at his an interesting appeared in 1854. His lust trade for two years at Niddry, near Edinburgh. struggles, which on which Having been attacked by the disease peculiar work, the Testimony of the Pocks, much time and intense to stone-masons he was obliged to return to he had bestowed posthumously in 1857. his native town, and several montlis elapsed thought, was published health had been before he recovered. He then began to execute For some years ISIiller's of incessant sculptured tablets and tombstones in Cromarty gradually failing — the result labour, and in a measure had affected and its neighbourhood, a task for which his mental On the night of December 24, skill as a workman and perceptions of the his reason. attacked by one of the horrible beautiful admirably qualified him. In 1828 1856, he was proved too strong for him, for he he removed to the more important town of trances that after writing a most Inverness, and while employed in the same rose from his bed, and and children, he way here became known to the editor of the affectionate note to his Avife the morning his body, Inverness Courier. Miller had for many years committed suicide. In found lying dead upon the been in the habit of devoting some of his half dressed, was left lung being pierced by a bullet leisure hours to poetry as well as geological floor, the this melancholy way inquiry, and a number of his lyrics now from his pistol. In useful life. appeared in the columns of the Courier, from ended an honourable and Brown, in his charming //or«'/S'»6- which office was published in 1829 a small Dr. John men are endowed with such volume with the title Poems written in the seciva;, says, "Few Miller—huge, active, con- Leisure Hours of a Journeyman Mason. a brain as Hugh

fierceness ; and therefore Soon after the publication of this volume a centrated, keen to fear, even if they misuse and branch of the Commercial Bank was opened in few men need turn, as Cromarty, and Miller abandoned his work- overtask theirs as he did, that it will him, and rend its master." Sir man's tools to become its accountant. During it did with Brewster said of him, "With the excep- his first year of office he published his Scenes David uneducated genius which and Legends of the North of Scotland, a prose tion of Burns the Scotland during the last work of very great merit, which confirmed and has done honour to that natural widely extended his reputation as an author. century has never displayed taste and intellectual Shortly after he married Miss Lydia F. refinement and classical all the writings of our Fraser, a lady to whom he had been long energy which mark asserted, after engaged, and who survived her husband until author;" and Thomas Chalmers of Sir Walter Scott, "that Hugh ]\Iarch, 1876. After acting for some years as the death bank- accountant, during which a part of his Miller was the greatest Scotchman alive." entitled to a place among leisure time was occupied in writing for Wil- Hugh Miller is Scotland, but it is as a sons Tales of the Borders and Chambers s the minor poets of powerful prose Journal, Miller in 1840 was offered and ac- geologist and one of the most that he is now, and cepted the editorship of the Witne.'^s, a semi- writers of his native land world-wide weekly Edinburgh newspaper established by will hereafter be, indebted for his date of his decease a the party in the Church of Scotland who reputation. Since the Sketches, with a seceded at the Disruption in 1843. As a con- volume of his Tales and Miller, has been published; troversial writer on ecclesiastical topics Miller memoir by Mrs. E-isays, Historiccd and Bio- at once attained a high rank among contem- also a volume of Social, Literary and porary editors. His first publication after his graphiccd. Political and Peter Bayne. The removal to Edinburgh was the Old Red Sand- Scientific, with a preface by written an exhaustive stone, followed hy First Impressions ofEmjland same gentleman has biography of the eminent geologist, in the and its People, a work on the physical and received much assist- social aspects of that country. Then came his preparation of which he authoress powerful work the Footprints of the Creator, ance from Mrs. Miller, herself the under the nom-dc- in reply to the Vestiges of the Natural His- of several books written of " Harriet Myrtle;" and an excellent torij of Creation. Among his other works we plume was pub- may mention My Schools and Schoolmasters, complete edition of Miller's works —

252 HUGH MILLER. lished in 1872 in thirteen volumes. A son of written a biography of Sir Roderick I. ^Murclii- Hugh Miller is treading in his father's .steps son, and is now engaged on the geological sur- both as a geologist and a writer. He has vey of England.

OH! SOFTLY SIGHS THE WESTLIN' BREEZE.

Oil! softly sighs the westlin' breeze Not then like now my life was wae. Through iioweries pearl d \vi' dew; Not then this heart repined, And brightly lemes the gowden sky, Nor aught of coming ill I thought, That .skirts the mountain blue. Nor sigh'd to look behind. An' sweet the birken trees amang, Swells many a blithesome lay; Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray, An' loud the bratlin burnie's voice An warm'd wi' minstrel fire, Comes soundin' up the brae. Th' expected meed that maiden's smile, I strung my rustic lyre. But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' spring That lyre a pitying muse had given Can glad my wearied e'e; To me, for, wrought wi' toil. Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom She bade me, wi' its simple tones, Gi'es ought o' joy to me. The weary hours beguile. Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers. An' sad the mavis' sang, Lang had it been my secret pride, An' little heart hae I to roam Though nane its strains might hear; These leafy groves amang. For ne'er till then trembled its chords To woo a list'ning ear. She's gane! she's gane! the loveliest maid! The forest echoes to its voice An' wae o'erpress'd I pine; Fu' .sad, had aft complained, The grass waves o'er my Alyra's grave, Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain, Ah! ance I ca'd her mine. Murmur'd the midnight wind. What ither choice does fate afford, Than just to mourn and dee! Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praised Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky. The wild and artless strain; The beam that bless'd my e'e? In pride I strung my lyre anew. An' waked its chords again. At gloamin' hour alang the burn The sound was sad, the sparkling tear Alane she lo'ed to stray, Arose in Myra's e'e. pu' the o' To rose crimson bloom, An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap An' haw-flower purple gray. Than a" the warl' could gie. Their siller leaves the willows waved,

As pass'd that maiden by; To wean the heart frae warldly grief, And sweeter burst the burdies' sang Frae warldly moil an' care. Frae poplar straight an' high. Could maiden smile a lovelier smile. Or drap a tend'rer tear? Fn* aften have 1 watch'd at e'en But now she's gane, —dark, dark an' drear. These birken trees amang, Her lang, lang sleep maun be; To bless the bonnie face that turn'd But, ah! mair drear the years o' life To where the mavis sang; That still remain to me! An' aft I've cross'd that grassy path, To catch my Myra's e'e; Whan o'er the raging ocean wave Oh! soon this winding dell became The gloom o' night is spread, A blissful haunt to me. If lemes the twinkling beacon-light. The sailor's heart is glad; Nae mair a wa.sting form within, In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm, A wretched heart I bore; If sinks the warning ray. Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone, Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul, The warl' I wandcr'd o'er. O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae. HUGH MILLEE. 253

Gray stone, o'er thee the lazy night Passes untold away. SEEING A SUN-DIAL IN A OX Nor is it thine at noon to teach CHURCHYARD. When falls the solar ray. In death's dark night, gray dial-stone. all the works of men. Gray dial-stone, I fain would know Cease AVhat motive placed thee here, In life, if Heaven Avithholds its aid. Where darkly opes the frequent grave, Bootless their works and vain. And rests the frequent bier. while yet thy shade Ahl bootless creeps the dusky shade Gray dial stone, those hours are mine. Slow o'er thy figured plain; Points out early morn I rise, \Vhen mortal life has pass'd away, While yet at decline; Time counts his hours in vain. And rest at day's Would that the sun that formed thine, on me. As sweep the clouds o'er ocean's breast His bright rays beam'd When shrieks the wintry wind, That I, thou aged dial-stone. So doubtful thoughts, gray dial-stone. Might measure time like thee. Come sweeping o'er my mind.

I think of what could place thee here. Of those beneath thee laid, if thou wert not raised And ponder SISTER JEANIE, HASTE, WE'LL GO. In moL-k'ry o'er the dead.

Sister Jeanie, haste, we'll go Nay! man, when on life's stage they fret. To where the white-starr'd gowans grow, May mock his fellow-men; Wi' the puddock-flower, o' gowden hue. In sooth their sob' rest pranks aflFord The snawdrap white, and the bonnie vi'let blue. Rare food for mock'ry then. But ah! when pass'd their brief sojourn, Sister Jeanie, haste, we'll go When heaven's dread doom is said. To where the blcssom'd Ulacs grow, high. Beats there a human heart could pour To ^^ here the pine tree, dark and Light mock'ries o'er the dead? Is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky.

mony a merry lay - Tiie fiend unblest, who still to harm Jeanie, young-leaved woods to-day; Directs his felon power. Is sung in the on light wing the dragon-flee, May ope the book of grace to him Fhts hums on the flowerie the big red bee. Whose day of grace is o'er. And But sure the man has never lived, Doun the bumie wirks its way In any age or clime, Aneath the bending birken spray, Could raise in mock'ry o'er the dead An' wimples roun the green moss-stane, The stone that measures time. An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane.

Gray dial-stone, I fain would know Jeanie, come! thy days o' play What motive placed thee here, Wi' autumn tide shall pass away; heaves the frequent sigh, Where .sadness Sune shaU these scenes, in darkness cast, the frequent tear. And drops Be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast. Like thy carved plain, gray dial-stone, mourners be; Grief's weary Though to thee a spring shall rise. to them, Dark sorrow metes out time An' scenes as fair salute thine eyes; Dark shade marks time on thee. An' though, through mony a cloudless day, My winsome Jean shall be heartsome and gay; Yes! sure 'twas wise to place thee here. To catch the eye of him He wha grasps thy little hand To whom earth's brightest gauds appear Nae Linger at thy side shall stand, Worthless, and dull, and dim. Nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae bonniest way. We think of time when time has fled Lead thee the lownest an' the The friend our tears deplore; green, The God our light proud hearts deny, Dost thou see yon yard sae mossy stane? Oar grief-worn hearts adore. Speckled wi' mony a ; — — —

254 ANDREW B. PICKEN.

A few short weeks o' pain shall fly, In thee, whan came proud England's might, An' asleep in that bed shall thy puir brother lie. Wi' its steel to dismay and its gold to seduce, Blazed the bright soul o' the Wallace wight. thy Then mither's tears awhile And the patriot thoughts o' the noble Bruce. May chicle thy joy an' damp thy smile; Thine were the rousing strains that breathed But soon ilk grief shall wear awa', Frae the warrior-bard ere closed the fray; And I'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'. Thine, whan victory his temples wreathed, The sang that arose o'er the prostrate fae. Dinna think the thought is sad; Life vex'd me aft, but this maks glad An' loftier still, the enraptured saint. When eauld my heart and closed my e'e, When the life o' time was glimmering awa'. Bonnie shall the dreams o' my slumbers be. Joyful o' heart, though feeble and faint, Tauld in thee o' the glories he saw C the visions bright o' a coming life, 0' angels that joy o'er the closing grave. An' o' Him that bore turmoil ODE TO an' strife. MY MITHER TONGUE. The children o' death to succour and save.

I lo'e the tones in mine ear that rung An' aft, whan the bluid-hounds track'd the heath. In the days when care was unkind to me; Whan follow'd the bands o' the bluidy Dundee, Ay, I lo'e thee weel, my mither tongue, The sang o' praise, an' the prayer o' death, Though gloom the sons o' lear at thee. Arose to Heaven in thee; Ev'n now, though little skilled to sing, In thee, whan Heaven's ain sons were call'd I've rax'd me doim my simple lyi-e; To sever ilk link o' the papal chain, 0! while I sweep ilk sounding string, Thunder'd the ire o' that champion bauld Nymjjh o' my mither tongue, ius2)irc! Wliom threat'ningsand dangers assailed in vr.in.

I lo'e thee weel, my mither tongnae. Ah! mither tongue! in days o' yore, An' a' thy tales, or sad or wild; Fu' mony a noble bard was thine; Right early to my heart they clung, The clerk o' Dunkeld, and the coothy Dunbar, Right soon my darkening thoughts beguiled- An' the best o' the Stuart line; Ay, aft to thy sangs o' a langsyne day, An' him wha tauld o' Southron wrang That tell o' the bluidy fight sublime, Cowed by the might o' Scottish men; I've listen'd, till died the present away. Him o' the Mount and the gleesome sang. An' return'd the deeds o' departed tims. And him the pride o' the Hawthornden.

An' gloom the sons o' lear at thee ? Of bards were thine in latter days

An' art thou reckoned poor an' mean ? Sma' need to tell, my mither tongue; All! could I tell as weel's I see. Right bauld and slee were Fergie's lays. Of a' thou art, an' a' thou'st been! An' roared the laugh when Ramsay sung; In thee has sung the enraptured bard But wha without a tear can name

His triumphs over pain and care; The swain this warl' shall ne'er forget ? In courts and camps thy voice was heard Thine, mither tongue, his sangs o' fame, Aft heard within the house o' prayer. 'Twill learning be to ken thee yet!

ANDEEW B. PICKEN.

Born 1802 — Died 1849.

Andrew Belpbage Picken, the third son wlien Sir Gregor Macgregor's infamous pro- of Ebenezer Picken of Paisley, was born at spectus was issued at Edinburgh, the specious

Edinburgh, November 5, 1802. Left an orphan promises and glowing pictures set forth in it and his own master at an early age, and being caused Picken eagerly to embark his little all naturally of a roving and adventurous spirit, in the vain hope of securing possessions on the it is not greatly to be wondered at that in 1822, Mosquito shore. He became a leading indi- ; —

ANDREW B. PICKEN. 255 vidual in the unfortunate expedition to Poyais, most of the principal cities of the L'nion, and and the sufferings and privations endured by passing through many vicissitudes of fortune, himself and his companions during their voyage ultimately settled in Montreal, where he was and on their landing are vividly described in well known as an artist and teacher of painting several of his poems and sketches. On leaving and drawing. Mr. Picken was a constant con- this scene of liis misfortunes he engaged with tributor to the newspapers and magazines of a mahogany merchant in one of the AVest India Montreal, and continued to be so until a short

Islands, but soon becoming tired of the dull time before his death, which took place July 1, monotony of liis new occupation he returned to 1819. His principal poem is " The Bedouins," his native land. in three cantos. Of his prose tales that entitled In 182S Picken published a collected edition "The Plague Ship" is considered the best. of his poetical compositions, entitled "The Several of this author's poetical compositions IJedouins, and other Poems," and contributed have been erroneously attributed to Andrew a series of tales and sketches under the title of Picken, a native of Paisley, who wrote some "Lights and Shadows of a Sailor's Life" to occasional verses and several popular novels, the Edinburgh Observer. In 1830 he left Scot- including the Black Watch and the Dominie's land for the United States, and after visiting Lerjacy.

THE BEDOUINS.

(extract.)

It is the hour that green Kashmeer Like sunny clouds together twined Its loveliest aspect seems to wear. And cWven before the samoor wind. When clouds, hke blight ships, sailing on In the red wake of the sinking sun. Now is the hour when lovers meet The last pale pilgrims of his train. Far in the sandal bowers, Are wending towards the western main; And the lone bulbul singeth sweet While o'er the hushed lake faintly creep To his own harem flowers, Their dim reflected gleams, And o'er the folded lotus bell Like a maiden's eyes, half locked in sleep. The wearied smi-bee hymns his prayer. Seen smiling through her dreams; That the coy flower may ope her cell And cedar heights and mountain crown And let him nestle there. Have caught the shade of evening's frown Ah! many a soft and silver tongue And groups of topaz-coloured lights. Weaves at this hour such wily song. Such as on stilly moonless nights Come shining down the Ganges oft. Xow is the hour when token flowers When 'mid the tall cane tufts that shake Are from Zenana's wickets thrown. On its green shores, in accents soft, By guis that pine through weaiy hours, The Hindoo girls their gazzels wake, Unnoticed and alone; And speed their floating lamps along And through the silken curtains peep With all the spells of sighs and song. Glimpses of rich lips and bright eyes. Lights like to these are winking now Like those that haunt the Moslem's sleep In many a far fantastic row, With promises of paradise; Tracking the long street and tall spire. And Peri hands, to groups that stray Through all the vale, with lines of fire. Beneath them, wave invitingly; These are the painted lanterns hung And cinnamon and basil blooms, From Bani roofs and galleries. Such as are found on lovers' tombs, Where ye may hear the Alme's song, And bear a language of their own And see the small white hanil that flies That lovers understand alone, The \'ina's silver wires athwart. Are dropped from time to time to them

Awakening tones that fill the heart. That dare their passionate promise claim There ye may see the dancing girls. Dare lean their hearts to the floweret's prayer, And hear then- golden cymbals clashing, And borrow love's pinions to woo them there As their gay groups in mazy whirls In their gilded prisons —so far above Are past the lighted casements dashing, The reach of every power but love. —

253 ANDEEW B. PICKEN.

There was a "worm i' the bud" whose fold THE HOME FEVER. Defied the leech's art; Consumption's hectic plague-spot told A RECOLLECTION OF THE WEST INDIES. A tale of a broken heart.

" Oh it's hame—an" it's hame, an' it's hame fain wad I be, The boy was dying—but the grave's long sleep Hame—hamu—hame to my ain country." Is bhss to those that pine, and " watch, and weep." We sate in a green verandah's shade, He died; but memory's wizard power, Where the verdant "tye-tye" twmed With its ghost-like train, had come Its fairy net-work around us, and made To the dark heart's ruins at that last hour, A harjj for the cool sea-wind, And he murmured, "Home! home! home!" That came there, with its low wild tones, at night. And his spirit passed with its happy dream. Like a sigh that is telling of past delight. . Like a bird in the track of a bright sunbeam.

And that wind, withits tale of flowers, had come Oh, talk of spring to the trampled flower. From the island groves away; Of light to the fallen star, And the waves, like wanderers returning home. Of glory to those that in victory's hour To the beach came wearily: Lie cold on the fields of war! And the conch's far home call, the parrot's cry. But ye mock the exile's heart when ye tell Had told that the Sabbath of night was nigh. Of aught out the home where it pines to dwell.

We sat alone in that trelliced bower, And gazed o'er the darkening deep; And the holy calm of the twilight hour Came over our hearts like sleep: MEXICO. And we dreamt of the "banks and bonny braes" I have come from the south, where the free That had gladden'd our childhood's careless days. streams flow 'Mid the scented valleys of Mexico; And he, the friend by my side that sate, I have come from the vines and the tamarind Was a boy, whose path had gone bowers 'Mid the fields and the flowers of joy, that Fate, With their wild festoons and their sunny flowers, Like a mother, had smiled upon. And wonder not that I turned to part But, alas ! for the time when our hopes have wings, From that land of sweets with an aching heart. And when memory to gi'ief, like a syren, sings! I have come from the south, where the landward His home liad been on the storaiy shore breeze Of Albyn's mountain land: Comes laden with spices, to roam on the seas. His car was tuned to the breakers' roar. And mingle its spells with the sea-boy's lay And he loved the bleak sea-sand; As he carols aloft to the billows' sway. And the torrent's din, and the howling breeze, And wonder not that I come with sighs Had all his soul's wild sympathies. To this colder clime and these dreary skies.

They had told him tales of the sunny lands I have roamed through those Indian wild woods oft That rose over Indian seas. When the hot day glare fell shadowed and soft. Where gold shone glancing from river sands. And nought in their green retreats was heard. And strange fruit bent the trees. But the notes of the hermit humming-bird. They had wiled him away from his father's hearth. Or the wayward murmurs of some old song. With its voice of peace, its and hght of mirth. That stole through my reverie, sad and long.

Xoir, that fruit and the river gems near. were I have stood bj-^ those shaded streams at night, And he strayed 'neath the tropic sun; And dreamt of the past, when the sweet starlight But the voice of promise that thrilled in his ear And the sound of the water came over my soul, At that joyous time was gone: And its joys lay hushed in their deep control; And the hope he had chased 'mid the wilds of And the dead and the severed on memory crept. night, With a tale of my youth, and I wept— I wept! Had melted away like a firefly's light.

Oh ! could my footstep but wander now Oh! I have watched him gazing long Where those wood paths wind and those dark Where the homeward vessels lay, streams flow! Cheating sad thoughts with some old song. Oh, could I but feel on my brow once more And wiping his tears away! The fragrant winds of that golden shore. well And I knew that that weary breast, How my heart would bound as it hailed thee mine, Like the djve of the deluge, pined for rest! Oh Mexi3o! land of the olive and vine! -

ROBERT WHITE. 257

EOBEET WHITE.

another Egbert White was born at Yetholm, Rox- for private circulation "The AVlnd," he printed, also privately, burghshire, ill 1802. His youth was spent at poem; and in 1856 " to his Otterburn, in Eedesdale, Northumberland, England," a poem, which he dedicated In 1857, having drawn where liis father cultivated a small farm. generous benefactress. Robert was fond of reading, and their land- up a full and authentic account of the Battle of in a volume of 188 lord, who had a good library, kindly allowed Otterburn, it was published the him the us3 of his books, and in 1825 ob- pages. In the same year he contributed to Newcastle tained a clerk's situation for him with a trades- Arclmologla jEllana, issued by the account of the man in Newcastle. In 1850 his employer, who Society of Antiquaries, a full Durham. In was a bachelor, died, and left his whole estate battle of Neville's Cross, near work a in Mr. AVhite's hands as executor on behalf of 1859 he contributed to the same Flodden, with a list his sister. Being a high-minded and honour- sketch of the Battle of Scot- able man, the lady reposed her entire confi- of all the noblemen and gentlemen of engagement. dence in him, and at her death, in the latter land who fell in that memorable songs, part of 186i, "she made me her executor, and Mr. AVhite in 1867 collected his poeni.s, which were published at left me quite independent. I live in a fine and metrical tales, deservedly popu- house of my own, situated in the best part of Kelso. Many of his lyrics are a place in numerous the town. I possess the best private library in lar, and have obtained song. is well the district, and after forty years' faithful Avork collections of Scottish He enthusiastic antiquary, and has I have at my command more capital than I known as an ver.sc to Richard- shall ever require." contributed both prose and Mr. AVhite, soon after his removal to New- son's Local Historian's Table- Booh of Nor other Avorks castle, became a frequent contributor both in thumherlaml and Durham, and an prose and verse to the Newcastle Magazine. of an antiquarian character. In 1858 In 1829 the Typographical Society of Newcastle edition of the poems and ballads of Dr. edited by ]Mr. printed at their own cost his poem of "The John Leyden was published, Tvnemouth Nun. " In 1853 Mr. White printed White.

LADY JEAX.^

By Bothal Tower sweet AA'ansbeck's stream Yet swecr is she to don the dress Runs bickerin' to the sea; That's fitting for a bride. Aloft, within the breeze o' morn. " haste! Lord Dacre's on his way; The banner's wavin' free. Ye hae nae time to spare; There's joy in Bothal's bonnie bowers. Come let me clasp that girdle jimp. There's mirth within the ha'; And braid your glossy hair. But owre the cheeks o" Lady Jean " 0' a' the ladies i' the land, The tricklin' tear-draps fa'. Ye'se be surpass'd b}' nane; velvet robe She sits within her chamber high, The lace that's on your Iler cousin by her side; AVi' goud'U stand its lane.

family; and the place 1 The scenery of this ballad is in Northumberland. Umphrevilles, a distinguished celebrity in Border histojy and song Bothal Castle is beautifully situated on the Wansbeuk, has acquired great between the heroes a few miles below Morpeth. At Otterburn stood a from the battle fought there in loSS tower or castle which was long in possession of the Douglas and Percy.— Ed. Vol. II.—R —! ——• — ———— —

258 EGBERT WHITE.

" Tliis jewell'il chaplet ye'll put on, "0 Ellen! tlirow the casement up, Tliat broiderd necklace gay; Let in the air to me: For we maun hae ye buskit weel Look down within the castle-yard. On this, your bridal day." And tell me what ye see."

" Oh! Ellen, ye would think it hard "Your father's stan'in' on the .steps. To wed against your will Your mother's at the door; I never loo'd Lord Dacre yet; Out thro' the gateway comes the train. I dinna like him still. Lord Dacre rides before.

" "He kens, though oft he sued for love Fu' yauld and graeefu' liclits he doun, Upon his bended knee, Sae does his gallant band; Ae tender word, ae kindly look, And low he doffs his bonnet plume, He never gat frae me. And shakes your father's hand.

"And he has gained my mothers car, "List! lady, list a bugle note! My father's stern command; It sounds not loud but clear; Yet this fond heart can ne'er be his, Up! up! I see aboon the wa' Altho' he claim my hand. Your true love's pennon'd spear!"

"Oh! Ellen, softly list to me! An' up fu' quick gat Lady Jean;

I still may 'scape the snare; Nae ailment had she mair: AVhen morning raise o'er Otterburne, Blythe was her look, and firm her step. The tidings would be there. As she ran doun the stair.

"And hurrying on comes Umfreville, An' thro' amang the apple-trees. His spur is sharp at need; An' up the walk she flew; Until she reach'd her true love's There's nana in a' Northumberland s'.de Can mount a fleeter steed. Her breath she scarcely drew.

Lord Dacre fain would see the bride. "Ah! weel I ken his heart is true. He sought her bower alane; He will — he must be here: But dowf and blunkit grew his look Aboon the garden wa' he'll wave When Lady Jean was gane. The pennon o' his spear." —

Sair did her father stamp an' rage, " Far is the gate, the burns are deep, Sair did her motlier mourn; The broken muirs are wide; She's up and aff wi' Umfreville Fair lady, ere your true love come, To bonnie Otterburne. Ye'll be Lord Dacre's bride.

" Wi' stately, solemn step the priest Climbs up the chapel stair: Alas! alas! for Umfreville MY NATIVE LAND. His heart may weel be sair! Fair Scotland, dear as life to me " Keep back ! keep back ! Lord Dacre's steed: Are thy majestic hills; Ye maunna trot, but gang. And sweet as purest melody And haste ye! haste ye! Umfreville! The music of thy rills. Your lady thinks ye lang." The wildest cairn, the darkest dell, Within thy rocky strand, In velvet sheen she wadna dress; Po.ssess o'er me a living spell, Nae pearls o'er her shone; Thou art my native land! Nor broider'd necklace, sparkling bright, AVould Lady Jean put on. I breathed in youth thy bracing air For many a summer tide; Up raise she frae her ctishion'd seat. And saw with joy thy valleys fair And totter'd like to fa'; Beneath me stretching wide. Her cheek grew like the rose, and then Amid thy classic haunts I found

Turned whiter than the snaw. . My glowing heart expand; ! —————— — - !

EOBEET WHITE. 259

For each to me was sacred ground, I mark'd thy forests waving free Jline own inspiring land 1 heard thy rushing streams: Thy mighty dead in life came forth: Endear'd to me is every trace I knew the honour'd band: Of what in tliee hath been! We spoke of thee— thy fame—thy worth, I prize each consecrated place, Thou high-exalted land! Each thought-awakening scene. bosom rush I love thine ancient towers o'ertlirown What feelings through my By time's unsparing hand, To hear thy favour'd name! Where dwelt thy patriots of renown, And when I breathe an ardent wish, Thou independent land! 'Tis mingled with thy fame. If prayer of mine prevail on high. Loved country, when I muse upon Thou shalt for ever stand Thy dauntless men of old. The noblest realm beneath the sky. Whose swords in battle foremost shone My dearly-cherish'd land! Beside thy Wallace bold. And Bruce, who, for our liberty. Did England's sway withstand, I glory I was born in thee, MORXIXG. Aly own ennobled land! Awake, my love! the shades of night Ah! precious is the dust of those Depart before the rising light; AVho, by such heroes led, The lovely sky, all dappled gray, For sake of thee, against thy foes, Gives welcome to the god of day; In fiercest conflict bled! Yet fair and brightly though he shine, All unremember'd though they be. His radiance cannot equal thine! With steadfast heart and hand They sold their lives to make thee free, Arise, my dearest! come away! Thou spirit-rousing land! To mark the morning let us stray: The genial air, so mild and calm, Xor less thy martyrs I revere, Is fresher than the purest balm, Who spent their latest breath Where sweets from every shrub combine To seal the cause they held so dear. To emulate that breath of thine! And conquer'd even in death: Their graves proclaim o'er hill and plain, come, my gentlest! come Mith me! see; iS'o bigot's stern command The deep-green earth in splendour Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain. But, gazing on her gorgeous dress My dear, devoted land! Throughout those vales of loveliness. To where the distant hills decline, And thou hast ties around my heart Her beauty cannot vie with thine! Attraction stronger stili, The gifted poet's sacred art. Come forth, my love, the sky is blue: The minstrers matchless skill: Both blade and flower are gemm'd with dew Yea, every scene that Burns and Scott The rich unfolding rose appears Have touch'd, w ith magic hand, Blushing amid its pearly tears. Is in my sight a hallow'd spot, And with the lily would entwine, Wme own distinguished land! As if to match that hue of thine!

Due-reverenced be thy bards each one, Welcome, my love! both land and sky Whose lays of impulse deep Resound with vocal harmony; Abroad upon the world have gone Yet all the strains that warblers sing, Far as the M-ind may sweep. Of melting music, cannot bring ear of mine Be mine to linger where they moved Such pure delight to Where once they stood to stand, As those mellifluous words of thine! And muse on all they knew and loved Come, let us go! the brightest flower, In thy romantic land! Tiie liveliest bird in forest bower, not in the season's pride 0, when I wander'd far from thee, Exult art by side; I saw thee in my dreams, As I, when thou my — ! :

260 JOHN EAMSAY,

Nor shall I hence at aught repine, Now drooping lone must I remain Ennobled by that love of thinel A captive till I die!

With thee all trial I can brave, No landscape fair attracts my sight; Wander o'er earth and stem the wave, No stream runs wimpling by; Though winter freeze or summer sigh. I scarcely see the radiant light Nor deem that harm shall come me nigh That beams on earth and sky. U'hiie I possess a sacred shrine The breeze brings not to me its balm; Within that spotless breast of thine! No pleasure comes with morn; Nor will my fluttering heart be calm All praise to Him whose wondrous care When all its ties are torn. Is mirror'd in a world so fair! Here, in a grated prison pent, AVhose goodness through the joyful spring I cannot stretch my wing; Awakes from sleep each living thing. And did I give my bosom vent. And, kinder still, whose power divine How sadly I would sing! Framed me that hand and heart of thine! 'Tis cruel if my lady deem That I can warble clear; Or raise, to suit a pleasing theme, The music she would hear.

THE CAGED BIRD. What pity! from the forest tree That man should thus beguile To other climes on changing wing A little harmless bird to be Has fled the wintry blast; Shut up in durance vile! And, robed in verdure, joyful spring May I consoling aid impart

Comes to our land at last. To those who comfort seek ? The dew is on the daisied ground, Remove a sorrow from the heart, Leaves deck the forest tree; A furrow from the cheek] But thus in weary thraldom bound

Can I delighted be ? Oh! but it were a welcome time Of harmony and mirth. In dark green foliage, nestling warm, Could bondage base and wanton crime I first beheld the day: Be banished from the earth 'Mong all that eye or ear could charm, Then love in dance with friendship dear. I flew from spray to spray. And summer, strewing flowers. A happy dream my life was then Again would make the world appear An endless feast of joy: Like Eden's blissful bowers.

JOHN EAMSAY.

John Ramsay, the author of a small volume hethen formed the resolution of earning alivell- of poems entitled Woodnotesqf a Wanderer, hood by the publication of his poetical writings, was born at Kilmarnock in 1802. He received and personally pushing the sale of the volume. but little education, and was early sent to For a period of fifteen years he travelled over learn the trade of a carpet-weaver in his native Scotland selling his IFocxZ/iOf'e^, when he became town. Whilst employed in the carpet-factory agent of a benevolent society in Edinburgh. Dr. he contributed some vcrj' respectable verses to Robert Chambers says of Ramsay's productions the columns of the Edhihi(r(jh Lita'ary Jour- " I have been struck with wonder at finding ex- ncd. He afterwards tried business on his own pressions so forcible and eloquent — for so they account as a grocer, but without success; and deserve to be termed —proceeding from an —

WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON. 261 individual who describes himself as occupying in such matters." Ramsay's two best produc- so obscure and remote a situation in society, tions, " Eglinton Park Meeting" and the and who might have been so little expected, "Address to Dundonald Castle," are of con- when his education and circumstances were siderable length ; the latter contains much taken into account, to display accomplishments picturesque and pathetic beauty.

At once dissolved the pleasing spell, OX SEEING A REDBREAST SHOT. And hushed the song; The little warbler lifeless fell All ruddy glowed the darkening west. The leaves among. In azure were the mountains drest. Her veil of mist had evening cast Thus the young bard, in some retreat O'er all the plain. Remote from learning's lofty seat. And slowly home the reapers passed, The critic, prowling, haps to meet, A weary train. And strikes the blow, That lays him, with his prospects sweet, On old Dundonald's hills I lay, For ever low. And watched the landscape fade away; The owl come from the turret gray. And skim the dell, AVhile leaves from autumn's sapless spray FAREWELL TO CRAUFURDLAXD. Down rustling fell. Thou dark stream, slow wending thy deep rocky While on a thorn that widely spread way. Its moss-grown lowly bending head, By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day, Where long the winter's storm had shed I've viewed thee witli pleasure, but now must Its baneful power, with pain, And oft returning summer clad Farewell! for I never may see you again. In leaf and flower; Ye woods wlience fond fancy a spirit would bring, That trimmed the bright pinions of thonglat's A redbreast sang of sunshine gone. hallowed wing, And dreary winter coming on: Your beauties will gladden some liappier swain, What though his strains had never known Farewell! for I never may see you again. The rules of art, They woke to notes of sweetest tone I've roamed you unknown to care's life-sapping The trembling heart. sigh. When prospects seemed fair, and my young Bade days return that far had fled. hopes vfete high; And hopes long laid among the dead. These prospects were false, and those hopes have And forms in fairy colours clad, proved vain, Confused appear; Farewell! for I never may see you again. While melting Feeling kindly shed Her warmest tear. Soon distance shall bid my reft heart inidergo Those pangs that alone the poor exile can know When, lo! a flash, a thundering knell, Away! like a craven why should I complain?

That startled Echo in her cell. Farewell ! for I never may see you again.

WILLIAM M. HETHEEINGTON.

Born 1803 — Died 1865.

William JiIaxwell Hetherixgtox, D.D., of Troqueer, which, though adjoining the town

LL.D., was born June 4, 1803, in the parish of Dumfries, is situated in the stewartry of 262 WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON.

Kirkcudbriglit. His early education was of Miiiiste7-'s Famtltj, which had a large circula- the most limited character, and lie was nineteen tion in Great Britain and the United States. years of age before he began the study of Latin Three years later he published the Ultitori] of or Greek. After nine months of insti'uction tlie Church of Scotland, his most important in the classics he enrolled himself as a student contribution to literature, and the one by in the University of Edinburgli, where he which he will be best known to posterity. afterwards attained a Iiigh rank for scholar- This was followed in 1843 by his Ilhtory of ship. During his college days lie devoted the Westminster Assemh/i/ of Divines. much of his leisure to the cultivation of his Mr. Hetherington took a leading part in the poetic proclivities, celebrating the scenes and " Non-intrusion " controversy, and at the seces- manners of his native county. In 1829 he sion in 1843 he joined the Free Church of Scot- published his first work, entitled "Twelve land. He was afterwards transferred to St. Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Andrews, that his talents might be turned to ac- Poetry of Scotland," full of gentle feelings, count not only in gathering an influential con- lively pastoral descriptions, and agreeable pic- gregation, but in instructing the Free Church tures of Scottish character; but the failure of students attending the university in that town. Mr. Hetherington's publisher prevented the During the first year of his residence here he

volume meeting with the success which it established the Free Church Mar/azine, v,\i\L-h he would otherwise have had. In these " Sketches" continued to edit till the year 1S4S, when he ac- the young author introduced a number of songs cepted the position of ministerof Free St. Paul's in the style of the "Gentle Shepherd," many Church, Edinburgh. During his residence in of them very beautiful and popular. Edinburgh ho was a frequent contributor to Mr. Hetherington was licensed as a proba- the reviews and religious periodicals, especially tioner of the Established Church, and in 1836 the British and Foreign EvanfjeUccd Beview. was ordained to the ministerial charge of the In 1857 he was unanimously appointed by the parish of Torphichen, in the presbytery of General Assembly to the chair of Apologetics Linlithgow. He proved an eloquent preacher, and Systematic Theology in the Free Church and although diligent in the discharge of his College of Glasgow. He died May 23, 1865, pastoral duties, he found time in his seques- and in accordance with his own I'cquest was tered rural charge for the prosecution of lite- buried in the Grange Cemetery, Edinburgh, rary composition. In 1838 he produced per- the last resting-place of Hugh Miller, Dr. haps the most popular of his works, I'he Chalmers, and Dr. Guthrie.

THE HEART'S DIRGE.

I wake not thus at midnight's hour, What wert thou when young life was thine ': Resting my head, in mom-nful mood, Did Hope, the angel, round thee cast Upon my hand, to muse on power, Her glorious forms of joy divine

Begirt by all her battle brood; To tempt, then sweep in mockery past ? Nor do I frame the lay to tell Did Passion, like the siroc wind, How heroes, crown'd with victoiy, fell, That leaves no living thing behind,

When war-fiends peal'd their frantic yull Speed thy career, impetuous, blind, '

Upon the fields of blood. To leave thee thus at last ?

No! Midnight's smouldering passions urge Say, wert thou one whose pulses rose

The wailings that I wake to pour; As the clear war-note swell'd the gale ? An unheard, melancholy dirge, Joy'dst thou, amid encountering foes,

A broken heart's sad relics o'er. Grimly to bid Destruction hail ? Poor sport of many a bitterest ill, When Victory her pajan rung, Of Misery's pang, and Rapture's thrill, Responsive to the cannon's tongue, Soon niny'st thou, must thou, slumber still. Hast thou from l)loody housings sprung. Nor wish to waken more! As rout roared down the vale? ! ; ——! — !

WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON. 263

The past before the rapt eye brings— Or did thy love-aspirings pant Forth stalk the phantom shades of kings. For that immortal, holiest fame, loud the warrior's bugle rings The bard's high lays alone can grant— And O'er gory fields of blood! A stainless and a star-like name ? Had Nature in her bounty smil'd I see the Roman eagle whet On thee, her desert-wandering child, Its hungry beak, I see it soar; While each oasis in the wild It stoops, I see its pmions wet. Show'd groves of verdant flame ? Ruffled and wet with its own gore: see the Danish raven sweep Or, had Love's wondrous magic wrought I dark bosom of the deep, Around thy core a fatal spell, O'er the Its scatter'd plumage strews the steep Till at a look, a word, a thought. Of rugged Albin's shore. Was brightest heaven, or darkest hell? And still, whatever doom was thine, Lo! England's Edward comes!—the plain Wert thou for aye a hallow'd shrine, Groans where his marshall'd thousands wheel. Where One, an image all divine. Grim Havoc stalks o'er heaps of slain. In sanctity might dwell ? Gaunt Famine, prowling, dogs his heel for Scotland! blood and woe! Aloft the warrior's war-brand rusts Ah! woe Fierce and relentless is the foe, In peace, when age has tamed his fire; treason points the murderous blow, The bard to future times intrusts And Edges the ruthless steel His fame—his soul's one strong desire ? The lover,—Ah! he ne'er may rest! But who is he with dauntless brow. No balm, no solace to his breast, And dragon crest, and eagle eye, even in despairing blest. Till, Whose proud form never knew to bow His breaking heart expire Its lofty port and bearing high? him close a glorious band, Yes! thine has been the lover's doom— Around but the chosen of the land; The love that kills well hast thou known! Few— the Torwood Tree they stand, Behind the darkness of the tomb Beneath Freedom to gain, or die! star of life is set and gone! Thy t Did she for whom thy pulse beat high, 'Tis he, the bravest of the brave! Turn from thy disregarded sigh Champion of Scotland's liberty, proud ear, and imperious eye, Her Whose mighty arm and dreadful glaive And let thee break alone 'i His mother-land could thrice set free! hero-patriot, whose great name Warrior, or bard, or lover true, That rank may claim Whate'er thou wert, or mightst have been, Justly the foremost that grace the rolls of fame— Rest thee, while o'er thy wreck I strew Of all Wallace of Elderslie! Pale flowers, and leaves of darkest green; Primroses, snowdrops, lilies fair, Yes, oft the Torwood Oak has bent Spi-ing's firstlings—Autumn blossoms rare, Its broad boughs o'er his noble head; That, trembling in the wintry air. Oft, in his hour of peril, lent Shrink from its breathings keen: The shelter of its friendly shade; though rude Time and stern Decay The cypress let me gather too, And stem have swept away. The willow boughs that ever weep, Its moulder'd name there dwells for aye And blend them with the sable yew. The hero's A name that cannot fade! To shade thy last, cold, dreamless sleep. Rest thee, sad heart! thy dirge is sung. The wreath funereal o'er thee hung. The pall of silence round thee flung, THE HAWTHORN TREE. Long be thy rest, and deep! sweet are the blossoms o' the hawthorn tree. The bonnie milky blossoms o' the hawthorn tree, When the saft wastlin' wind, as it wanders o'er THE TORWOOD OAK. the lea. Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree. The Torwood Oak! How Hke a spell the dewj' month o' June, potent wizard breathed, that name Lovely is the rose in By sunny the lily gently bending beneath the • Bids every Scottish bosom swell. And noon And burn with all a patriot's flame! — — —— — —

264 WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON.

But the dewy rose, nor lily fair, is half sae sweet And on their low homes fall; to me, The Almond, gurgling down the vale. As the bonnie milky blossoms o' the hawthorn tree. Pours, ever pours, their deep dirge-wail.

0, blythe at fair and market fu' aften ha'e I been, Where are the mounds, that, like twin waves, And wi' a crony frank and leal some happy hours I've seen; Young children of the deep. But the blythest hours I e'er enjoy'd were shar'd, With gentle swell should mark the graves my love, wi' thee, AVhere side by side they sleep? In the gloamin' 'ueath the bonuie, bonnie haw- They, too, have melted quite away. thorn tree. Like snow-wreaths, lessening day by day Time's wasting touch can sweep Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody Even Death's sad records from Earth's face. glen, Leaving of man no lingering trace. And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, licht ower the dewy plain And be it so! Their once fair clay, But thy saft voice and sighing breath were Like dew-drops in the stream. sweeter far to me. Like leaves in the wan year's decay. While whisjiering o' love beneath the hawthorn Like the sky-meteor's gleam, tree. Though with its mother element, Auld time may wave his dusky wing, and chance Now undistinguishably blent. may cast his die. That human dust may seem, And the rainbow hues o' flattering hope may Refined and purified shall rise, darken in the sky. To bloom immortal in the skies. Gay summer pass, and winter stalk stern ower the frozen lea. How vain the pompous tomb appears Nor leaf nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn Piled o'er the mighty dead, tree; AVhile viewing through the mist of tears Where the beautiful are laid! But still maun be the pulse that wakes this Yes! in the gales that glowing heart of mine. round me moan. For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor sum- The stream, the grove, the letter'd stone. mer blossoms shine. Even in the dust I tread, I feel And low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be the presence of a power false to thee. Guarding this consecrated bower. Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the haw-

thorn tree. Thrice hallow'd is this lonely dell. Three spirits, all divine Love, Innocence, and Friendship— dwell Here, in one common shrine; OX VISITING THE GRAVES OP BESSIE Here youth and virgin fair may meet. BELL AND MARY GRAY. May plight their vows by moonlight sweet. May heart and hand entwine: No faithless foot this turf may tread. 'Tis hallow'd ground 1 hush'd be my breath I Uncover'd be my head! For here tliey reign—the Sacred Dead! Let me tlie shadowy Court of Death Witli softest foot.step tread!

The spirit of the place I feel,

And on its sacred dust I — kneel THE VOICE OF STREAMS. For Iiere all lowly laid, As ancient legends sootlily say. Awake, awake I ye voices that dwell Rest Bessy Bell and Mary Gray. In streams, as they race on their own bright way! Scotia's brown pines in silent gloom Ye are awake! for I feel the spell Commingle, broad and tall, Around my heart of your mystic lay! As Nature's self iiad o'er their tomb The shrill and the gleeful laugh of youth, Hung her own solemn pall; The timid sigh of the maiden fair. A few faint straggling beams of day, The lover's lute, and his vows of truth, , Amid the blent boughs shifting, stray, And the moans of breaking hearts, are there. — — ; !

ALEXANDER BETHUNE. 265

There is innocent bliss in that playful song, Hark! wild and dread is the swelling strain Rolling its rippling voice on mine ear; That booms on the mustering night wind by! Light leaps my heart as it glides along Like the shout of strife, and the groan of pain, In spring-tide joyousness fresh and clear; And the psean of victory loud and high: For ne'er can the bosom-chords sleep to the sound Of manhood it tells in the noon of his might, Of the brooklet that luU'd pure childhood's rest; When glory beams on his lofty brow Recalling oft, as it flutters around, Wlien bursts on his bosom the torrent of fight. Sweet Eden dreams to the tinie-chill'd breast. And the powers of nature before him bow.

O, voice of the stream! thou art sweet and dear Now it saddens away from its war-note prouil, In the dewy eve of the flowery Maj^ And heaves its querulous murmurings forth. When thy Fairyland music, hovering near, Beneath the gloom of night's one huge cloud. Fills each soft pause in the lover's lay: Like a dirge-wail sung o'er the shrouded earth! But the young and the beautiful Death spares not, 'Tis the plaint of age in his winter-eve dim,

The trysting-place—what is it now ? Laden with longings, regrets, and woes, Alas, alas! 'tis a haunted spot, When hope is a dream of the dead to him. And a gushing, endless wail art thou. And pall-like the grave shadows o'er him close.

There is mirth and sport in thy altering voice, Breatlie on, breathe on ! thou voice of the stream I hear it dancing adown the vale. To thousand fancies thy notes give birth While the shout and the song bid echo rejoice. In my musing spirit, and still they seem And laughter rides on the joy-wing'd gale: The storied records of man and earth: The bleating of lambs on the sunny braes. For thou hast partaken his mirth or moan. The lightsome maiden's petulant tongue, Since first from Eden his steps were driven Blent with the shepherd-boy's rustic lays. And his fate shall speak in thy changeful tone, Free on the wandering breeze are flung. Till the exile returns to his home in heaven.

ALEXANDER BETHUNE.

Born 1804 - Died 1843.

The elder of two remarkable brotliei's, Alex- their publication in the Edinhurgli Journal. ander Bethune was born in the parish of Several articles from his pen soon after ap- Monimail, Fifeshire, in July, 1804. The ex- peared in the columns of that periodical, and treme poverty of his parents enabled them to thus began Bethune's literary career. Tales give liim but a scanty education at the village and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry, part school, which was supplemented by some in- of which was written by his brother John, struction in writing and arithmetic at home. appeared in 1838, and was most favourably His boyhood was passed in the most abject received. The year following Lectures on poverty', and at fourteen lie followed the occu- Practical Economy, the joint production of the pation of a common labourer, working on two brothers, was published. In 1843 another farms, in a quarry, and in breaking stones volume from Alexander's pen appeared, en- on the public highways. In spite of these titled The Scottish Peasant's Fireside, which obstacles, however, he eai'ly contracted a taste met with the same kind reception extended to for literature, and devoted his evening hours the Tales and Sketches. But this was the to reading and the composition of verses and last of his intellectual efforts, and his life tales. AVhile employed in breaking stones in of struggle was drawing to a close. He had 1835 he wrote a very clear and characteristic been offered the editorship of the Dumfries letter to the ]\Iessrs. Chambers of Edinburgh, Standard, with a salary of £100 per annum, in which lie expressed a desire to submit some but impaired health compelled him to decline of his articles for inspection with a view to a position which would have been so congenial — — — —— — : —

266 ALEXANDEE BETHUNE.

to him, and for which his talents well fitted of his L'lfe, Correspondence, and L'terary him. He became rapidly worse, and died at Remains was publislied in 1845 by William Mount Pleasant, near Newburgli, June 13, M'Combie. On the death of his brother in 1839, 1843, in his thirty-ninth year. His remains Alexander collected his poems, and prepared

were interred in the grave of his brother John a memoir of his life, which was published tlie in Abdie churchyard. An interesting volume vear following.

Not like the traveller, though he sleep well. MUSINGS OF CONVALESCENCE. Not like the artisan or hvimble hind. Or the day-labourer worn out with his toil, After seclusion sad, and sad restraint, Who pass the night scarce conscious of its passing, the welcome breeze wafted far Again comes Till morning with its balmy breath return. Across the cooling bosom of the lake, And the shi-ill cock-crow warns them from their To fan my weary limbs and feverish brow, bed- Where yet the pulse beats audible and quick That sleep shall be more lasting and more dream- And I could number every passing throb. less the pressure which physicians use. Without Than aught which living men on earth may know. As easily as I could count the chimes Well, be it so: methinks my life, though short. which the clock flight of time. By sums up the Hath taught me that this sublunary worlil Yet it is pleasing, from the bed of sickness, Is something else than fancy wont to paint it the cottage, And from dingy to escape A world of many cares and anxious thoughts, For a short time to breathe the breath of heaven, Pains, sufferings, abstinence, and endless toil, And ruminate abroad with less of pain. From which it were small i^enance to be gone. Let those who never pressed the pillow, thorny Yet there are feelings in the heart of youth, To which disease oft ties its victim down Howe'er depress'd by poverty or pain, For days and weeks of wakeful suffering Which loathe the oblivious grave; and I would never knew to turn or be turned Who live. From side to side, and seek, and seek in vain, If it were only but to be convinced For ease and a short season of repose That " all is vanity beneath the sun." Who never tried to circumvent a moan, Yes ! while these hands can earn what nature asks, And tame the spirit with a tyrant's sway. Or lessen, by one bitter drop, the cup To hear what must be borne and not complain Of woe, which some must drink even to its dregs, Who never strove to wring from the writhed lip Or have it in their power to hold a crust And rigid brow, the semblance of a smile. To the pale lip of famished indigence, To cheer a friend in sorrow sitting by, I would not murmur or rei^ine though care. Nor felt that time, in happy days so fleet. The toil-worn, frame-tired ami, and heavy foot, Drags heavily along when dogged by pain, Should be my portion in this pilgrimage. Let those talk well of Nature's beauteous face, But when this ceases, let me also cease, And her sublimer scenes; her rocks and moun- If such may be thy will, God of Heaven! tains; Thou knowest all the weakness of my heart. Her clustered hills and winding valleys deep; And it is such, I would not be a beggar Her lakes, her rivers, and her oceans vast, Nor ask an alms from charity's cold hand In all the pomp of modern sentiment; I would not buy existence at the price But still they cannot /fc/ with half the force. Which the poor mendicant must stoop to pry. 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 ho felt— A MOTHER'S LOVE. Not fancied—as is frequently the case. L'^nliko all other things earth These feelings lend an impulse now, and hope knows, (All else fail Again would soar upon the wings of health; may or change) love in Yet is it early to indulge his flight. The a mother's heart that glows When death, short while ago, seem'd hovering Nought eartlily can estrange. near; Concentrated, and strong, and bright, And the next hour perhaps may bring him back, A vestal flame it glows And bring me to that "bourne" where I shall With pure, self sacrificing light, sleep Wiiich no cold shadow knows. — —

DUGALD MOORE. 267

by each successive grief, All that by mortal can be clone Watered fresher, greener leaf: A mother ventures for her son; Puts forth a streams unite in one. If marked by worth or merit high, Divided round her only son; Her bosom beats with ecstacy; And deepen are gone, And though he own nor worth nor charm, And when her early friends lives and breathes in him alone. To him her faithful heart is warm. She Though wayward passions round him close, And fame and fortune prove his foes; Through every change of good and ill, loves him still. Unchanged, a mother OX HIS BROTHER'S DEATH. Even love itself, than life more dear, Its interchange of hope and fear; When evening's lengthened shadows fall Its feeling oft akin to madne.ss; On cottage roof and princely hall, joys, and anguish-sadness; Its fevered Then brothers with then- brothers meet, moods of tenderness, Its melting And kindred hearts each other greet, wrongs, and fond redress. And fancied And children wildly, gladly press. form so strong a tie Hath nought to To share a father's fond caress: As her deep sympathies supply. But home to me no more can bring broken And when those kindred chords are Those scenes which are Ufe's sweetening. Which twine around the heart; "When friends their farewell word have spoken. No friendly heart remains for me, And to the grave depart; Liks star to gild life's stormy sea. When parents, brothers, husband die. No brother, whose affection warm And desolation only The gloomy passing hours might charm. At every step meets her dim eye. Bereft of all who once were dear, wont to cheer; Inspiring visions lonely, Whose words or looks were friend, and brother gone, Love's last and strongest root below, Parent, and Which widow'd mothers only know. I stand upon the earth alone.

DUGALD MOOEE.

Born 1805 — Died 1841.

by inflammation, January 2, 1841. He died DucvLD ]iIooKE, a poet of very superior unmarried, having resided all his life with his power, well known in the west of Scotland, mother, to whom he was much attached. In was born in Stockwell Street, Glasgow, August circum- the Necropolis, where he lies buried, a massive 12, 1805. His parents were in humble monument surmounted by a bust was erected and at an early age he was apprenticed stances, and Street, to his memory by his personal friends to Mr. James Lumsden, stationer. Queen admirers. in whom he found his earliest and mo.st efficient Moore was pre-eminently self-taught, his edu- patron. By Mr. Lumsden's exertions his first cation at school having been of the most scanty work. The African, and other Poems, was description. All his works, though subject in brought out in 1821). This was succeeded poems, some cases to objection on the score of accuracy by no fewer than five other volumes of marks of 1839, or sound taste, di.splay unequivocal all published between the years 1829 and pecuniary genius. He possessed a vigorous and fertile and all liberally subscribed for. The imagination, great force of diction, and free- success of his early publications enabled Moore dwell in his dom of versification. His muse loved to to set up as a bookseller and stationer nature. in on the vast, the grand, the terrible in native city, where he was gradually rising dealt little iu matters of everyday life or wealth and reputation, when suddenly cut off He ! —: —! — — " — —

263 DUGALD MOOEE. everyday feeling. Professor Wilson said of of Glasgow, whose poems both volumes { — arc hh Af)-lcan and other Poems, &m\ Bard of the full of uncommon power and frequently ex- Xorth, "My ingenious friend Dugald Moore hibit touches of j true genius.

The wild waves, flung by giant death THE VOICE OP THE SPIRIT. Above that lone, that struggling crew Shrunk backward, when my viewless breath Sister! is this an hour for sleep? Came o'er their bosoms blue; Should slumber mar a daughter's prayer, I saw beneath the lightning's frown, When drinks her father, on the deep. Our father on the billows roll, Death's chalice in despair ? I smote the hissing tempest down, Though I have rested in the grave, And clasp'd his shrinking soul. Long with oblivion's ghastly crowd, Yet the wild tempest on the wave Then, hand in hand we journey'd on. Hath roused me from my shroud Far—far above the whirlwind's roar. And laugh'd at death, the skeleton. 'Tis but a few short days since he, Who could not scathe us more! Our father, left his native land. Around, the stars in beauty flung And I was there, when by the sea Their pure, their never-dying light. Ye wept, —and grasp'd each parting hand; Lamps by the Eternal's fiat hung I hover'd o'er you, when alone To guide the sph-it's flight. The farewell thrill'd each wounded heart The breeze then raised its warning tone, And bade the ship depart.

I saw the bark in sunshine quit TO THE CLYDE. Our own romantic shore; Thou heard'st the tempest— it hath smit When cities of old days The proudest —now no more; But meet the savage gaze, Amid the ocean's solitude. Stream of my early ways. Unseen, I trod its armed deck. Thou wilt roil, And watch'd our father when he stood Though fleets forsake thy btcast. In battle and in wreck. And millions sink to rest, Of the But stronger than a spirit's arm bright and glorious west Is His who measures out the sky Still the soul. Who rides upon the volley 'd storm When it comes sweeping by. AVhen the porch and stately arch, AVhich The tempest rose;—I saw it burst, now so proudly perch Like death upon the ocean's sleep; O'er thy billows, on their march The warriors nobly strove at first. To the sea, But iierish'd in the deej). Are but ashes in the sliower; Still the jocund summer hour, High floating on the riven storm, From his cloud will weave a bower I hover'd o'er the staggering bark Over thee. Oh God! I saw our father's form Sink reeling in the dark When the voice of human power I hung above the crew, and drank Has ceased in mart and bower; Their wild—their last convulsive prayer; Still the broom and mountain flower One thunder roll, then down they sank. Will thee bless: And all was blackness there! And the mists that love to stray Our father strove in vain to brave O'er the Highlands, far away. The hurricane in all its wrath, Will come down their deserts gray My airy foot was on the wave To thy kiss. That quench'd his latest breath I smoothed the sea's tremendous brim, And the stranger, brown with toil. The fearful moment that he died. From the far Atlantic's soil, And spread a calmer couch for him Like the pilgrim of tiie Nile, Than those who perish'd by his side. Yet may come ; — ! — — —

WILLIAM ANDEESON. 209

fair domams, To search the solemn heaps Yes, 'mid thy vast and sitt'st in terror still, Tliat moulder by tlij' deeps, Thou this okl heart, and these shrunk veins, Where desolation sleeps. While to spill; Ever dumb. Have one scant cb-op Even in the glory of thy fame Though fetters vet should clank Thou shrinkest still at Afric's name,— O'er the gay and princely rank 'Tis not a joyous thrill; yet forgotten quite Of cities on thy bank. Thou hast not fight! All sublime; The hurricane of Cannae's Still thou wilt wander on, Though chased from shore to shore, I yet Till eternity has gone, Can smile, proud land, at thee; And broke the dial-stone And though my coimtry's glory set, Of old Time. Her warrior still is free On prostrate millions thou may'st tread, But never on this aged head Ne'er forge base bands for me! HANNIBAL, OX DRIXKIXG THE This arm, which made thy thousands vain. POISON. May wither—but ne'er wear thy chain.

of fame And have I thus outlived the brave True, they are gone—those days Who wreath'd this wrinkled brow? — Those deeds of might—and I And has earth nothing but a grave Am nothing—but a dreaded name. by: To shield her conqueror now ? Heard like storms rushing sweet Ah, glory! thou'rt a fading leaf, Then welcome, bitter draught—thou'rt Thy fragrance false—thy blossoms brief— To warrior spirits that would meet And those who to thee bow Their end—as men should die, Worship a falling star—whose path Hearts that would hail the darksome grave, Is lost in darkness and iu death. Ere yet degraded to a slave.

I lay Yet I have twined the meed of fame Carthage—farewell! My dust This ancient head around, Not on thy summer strand; And made the echo of my name Yet shall my spirit stretch away A not undreaded sound To thee, my father's land. for thee— Ay— there are hearts, Italia, yet I fought for thee— I bled Within thee, who may not forget I perish now to keep thee free; invader's band Our battle's bloody mound, And wlien the When thy proud eagle on the wing Thy children meet on battled plain, again! Fell to the earth, a nerveless thing! My soul shall charge for thee

WILLIAM ANDEESON.

Born 1805 — Died 1866.

William ANDERso>f, an industrious and pro- acquaintance of Allan Cunningham and other letters. some years after this he lific writer, was born at Edinburgh, December men of For employed on the Journal 10, 1805. After being educated in his native resided in Abei'deen, of that city; and in city he became clerk to a Leith merchant, but and Advertise)- newspapers contri- he afterwards gave up this situation and entered 1836 he returned to London, where he to magazines. In 1839 the office of a writer in Edinburgh, with the buted extensively the handsome intention of making the law his profession. his Landscape Lyrics appeared in a published a In 1830 he published a volume entitled Poeti- quarto volume, and in 1842 he Scottish Bio- cal Aspirations. In the year following he valuable work, The Popular the editor of a proceeded to London, where he formed the fjraphy. Mr. Anderson was also —

270 AVILLIAM ANDEESON. series of fire volumes, Treasury of History and Fullarton & Co. in three large volumes, engaged Bio'jraph]/, Treasury of Nature, Science, and its author for nearly twelve years, and is likely his literary Art, &c. ; an edition of Lord Byron's works to prove most enduring monument. with a memoir and notes; and various other In 1855 he published the "Young Voyager," publications. He was connected for some time a poem descriptive of the search after Sir John with the Witness newspaper, and in 1845 re- Franklin, and intended for juvenile readers. moved to Glasgow to assist in establishing the Mr. Anderson ended a life of much literary Daily Mail, the first daily newspaper issued activity August 2, 1866, aged sixty-one years. in Scotland. In 1853 he began an important The following pieces are selected from a col- and extensive work, entitled The Scottish Na- lected edition of his poems published in 1845, tion; or the Surnames, Families, Literature, and from which the author omitted many of Honours, and Biographical History of the his earlier compositions, not deeming them People of Scotland. This work, published by "worthy of further reprint."

Thy leaves my memory tell TO A WILD FLOWER. Of .sights, and scents, and sounds, that come again. Like ocean's murmurs, when the balmy strain In what delightful land. Is echoed in its shell.

Sweet-scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth ? The meadows in their green. Thou art no offspring of the common earth. Smooth-running waters in the far-off ways. By common breezes fanned! The deep-voiced forest where the hermit prays, In thy fair face are seen. Full oft my gladdened eye, In pleasant glade, rivei-'s marge has traced on Thy home is in the wild, if there the of Taste), (As planted by hand 'Mong .sylvan .shades, near music-haunted springs. Sweet flowers of every dye; Where peace dwells all apart from earthly things, Like some secluded child. But never did I see. In mead or mountain, or domestic bower, The beauty of the sky. 'Mong many a lovely and delicious flower. The music of the woods, the love that stii's One half so fair as thee! Wherever nature charms her worshippers, Are all by thee brought nigh. Thy beauty makes rejoice My inmost heart. — I know not how 'tis so, I shall not soon forget Quick-coming fancies thou dost make me know, What thou hast taught me in my solitude; For fragrance is thy voice: My feeUngs have acquired a taste of good, Sweet flower! since first we met.

And still it comes to me, Thou bring'st unto the soul In quiet night, and turmoil of the day. A blessing and a peace, inspiring thought! Like memory of friends gone far away. And dost the goodness and the power denote Or, haply, ceased to be. Of Him who formed the whole.

Together we'll commune. As lovers do, when, standing all apart, No one o'erhears the whispers of their heart. Save the all-silent moon. AT E'ENING AVHAN THE KYE.

Thy thoughts I can divine, At e'ening whan the kye war in, Although not uttered in vernac'lar words; An' lasses milking thrang, Thou me remind'st of songs of forest birds; A neebour laird cam' ben the byre, Of venerable wine; The busy maids amang; Of earth's fresh shrubs and roots; He stood ahint the routin' kye Of summer days, when men their thirsting slake An' round him glowered a wee. In the cool fountain, or the cooler lake. Then stole to Avhar young Peggy sat, While eating wood-grown fruits: The milk pail at her knee. ;! ! —

WILLIA^I ANDERSON. 271

gi-eet whan I think hoo my siller dccreast, "Sweet Peggy, lass," thus spoke the lainl, I conld In the feasting o' those who came only to feast. "Wilt listen to iny tale?" "Stan" out the gate, laird," Peggy cried, The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie "Or you will coup the pail; for I thought a' the time was intended me. here's a timorous beast. Mind, Hawkie But whancver the end o' my money they saw, you." An' no acquent wi' Their friendsliip, like it, also flickered awa'. "Ne'er fash," quo' he, "the milking time's far and The sweetest time to woo. My ad^-ice ance was sought for by folk near, " Ye ken, I've aften tauld ye that Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear, that's trae. I've thretty kye and mair, I'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, I'm naebody An' ye'd be better owning them But I may jist baud my wheesht, for noo. Than sittin' milkin' there. My house is bein, and stocket weel In hadden and in ha', An' ye've but just to say the word DRYBL'RGH ABBEY. Tae leddy be o' a'." By Tweed's fair stream, in a secluded spot, "AVheesht, laird," quo' Peggy, "diuna mak' Rises an ivy-crowned monastic pile; Yersel' a fule an' me, Beneath its shadow sleeps the Wizard Scott; I thank ye, for your offer kind. A ruin is his resting-place— no vile But sae it canna be. Unconsecrated graveyard is the soil; yer weel stocked house and farm. Jilaybe Few moulder there, but these the loved, the thretty lowing kine, An' good, win some ither lassie's heart. May The honoured, and the famed; and sweet hae nae charms for mine; They flowers smile Around the precincts of the Abbeyhood, "For in the kirk I hae been cried, While cedar, oak, and yew adorn that solitude. My troth is pledged and sworn, the I like mysel' An' tae man shades all hail I— Hail, Dryburgh ! to thy sylvan I'll married be the morn." As to a shrine, from places far away, The laird, dumfoundered at her words. With awe-struck spirit, to thy classic vale Had nae mair will to try'r; Shall pilgrims come, to muse, perchance to But turned, and gaed far faster out, pray; Than he'd come in the byre. More hallowed now than in thy elder day, For sacred is the earth wherein is laid The Poet's dust; and still his mind, his lay. And iiis renown, shall flourish undecayed. not I'M NAEBODY NOO. Like his loved country's fame, that is doomed to fade. I'm naebody noo, though in days that are gane, Whan I'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain, There war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise, And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days! THPvOUGH THE 'WOOD.

wad visitors thrang, Ah! then roun' my table Through the wood, through the wood. joke, and applauded my sang, Wha laughed at my Warbles the merle! the tane had nae point, and the tither Though Through the wood, through the wood, nae glee; Gallops the earl But of coorse they war' grand when comin' frae me Y'et he heeds not its song As it sinks on his ear. WTaan I'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack, For he lists to a voice There war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak' music more dear. But whanever the water grew scant at the well, Than its I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'. Through the wood, through the wood, Once and away. Whan I'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to The castle is gained. proffer. And the lady is gay; And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer; 272 HENEY G. BELL.

When her smile waxes sad, Their chieftain in sorrow And her eyes become dim, Js seeking his daughter. Iler bosom is glad, If she gazes on him! Through the wood, through the wood. Warbles the merle; Through tlie wood, through tlie wood, Through the wood, through the wood. Over the wold. Prances the earl; Rides onward a band And on a gay palfrey Of true warriors bold; Comes pacing his bride: They stop not for forest, While an old man sits smiling, Tliey lialt not for water; In joy, by her side.

HENEY G. BELL

EoRN 1805 — DiKD 1874.

IIexry Glassford Bell, the son of James important and honourable office with distinc-

Bell, advocate, was born in Glasgow in 1805. tion until his death, January 7, 1874. His early life was spent chiefly in Edinburgh, In 1831 jMr. Bell published a volume of to which city his father removed in 1811. poems entitled Summer and Winter Hours, Educated at the University of Edinburgh, he followed the year after by J/// Old Portfolio, early exhibited a predilection for literature, a collection of miscellaneous pieces in prose and at the close of his college curriculum he and verse. From time to time, at intervals wrote for Constable's Miscellany a " ilemoir snatched from the discharge of his professional of jMary Queen of Scots," in two volumes, duties, he gave to the world several volumes which was so popular as to pass through several and poetical brochures, the latest of which editions and to be translated into sevei-al appeared in 1865 with the title of Romances modern languages. In 1829 he established the and other Minor Poems. This volume fairly Edtnliuryh Literary Journal, which he con- entitles its author to a place in our Collection, ducted with marked ability for three years. containing as it does the fruits of mature As the editor of this periodical he formed an thought, with which much of the poetic fervour intimacy with many of the most distinguished of youthful feeling is beautifully blended. literary men who lived in Edinburgh at the Mr. Bell was also an acknowledged connois.seur beginning of the second quarter of the present in art, and did inestimable service to the century. He was the friend and frequent people of Scotland as well ^s to professional companion of Professor Wilson, who speaks of artists by his labours in establishing in 1833 Bell with respect and aflPection in his Noctes, the Pioyal Association for the Promotion of the where he appears under the name of Tallboys. Fine Arts in Scotland. He frequently appeared In 1832 Mr. Bell was admitted to practise as on the public platform as an eloquent speaker an advocate, when his literary and artistic on subjects relating to art, literature, and tastes became in some measure subordinated social science; and was for many years one of to the weightier business of his profession. In the best-known men in the western capital. 1839 he was appointed a sheriff-substitute of One of the journals of his native city said of

' Lanarkshire, a position in which his thorough Sheriff Bell : " There are two kinds of eminence, knowledge of law and his sound judgment and among the men who have concentrated gave such satisfaction, that in 1867, on the their lives on a single pursuit or a single death of Sir Archibald Alison, sheriff of Lan- problem Mr. Bell will not take a foremost arkshire, he received the vacant sheriffdom, rank. But rarely in the long list of our great and he continued to fulfil the duties of this lawvers has there been found one who has — — —

HENEY G. BELL. 273 combined a technical reputation so indisput- edly popular volumes of recent times. But ably high with accomplishments and sym- and in this respect also he is associated with pathies so varied and so acute. From the several of the most conspicuous of his country- time when, amid the regrets of his friends the men—though his works were good and his Ettrick Shepherd and others of the admiring work was excellent, the man was more excel- circle which gathered round the brilliant young- lent. As with Irving and Chalmers, and his Edinburgh advocate, he left the gardens of old friend John AVilson, what he has left the Muses for the courts of Themis, he devoted behind can give no adequate impression of the himself with an unsurpassed and unsurpassable space he filled in the minds and hearts of those assiduity to the duties of his profession. But, Avho were privileged to enjoy his companion-

as lias been the case with our greatest lawyers, ship. Henry Glassford Bell was in some his literary powers and tastes ever went hand respects the last of a race ultimns Eomanorum in hand with his keen logical perceptions; and — of the men who could think, and live, and those who knew him best can recall no pleas- talk, and revolve great problems in their anter hours of intellectual interest than those minds, and yet keep a cheerful face before all spent in his discussions of the speculative and the world. With that world he was always practical points at issue in the cases on which on good terms, but without surrendering an he was engaged. Mr. Bell was a great lawyer inch of his independence. He had almost the and a great deal more. He was one of the innocence of a child with the fortitude of a

first of our few good dramatic censors; among sage. If he had a fault, it was extreme good patrons of art a Mrecenas; of Scotch critics of nature. His own inner convictions might poetry among the best that our century has have taken a more vivid and trenchant form produced, and himself no mean poet. Many had he been less chary of letting others into of his writings in prose and verse will bear a the secrets known only to those nearest to favourable comparison with the most deserv- him."

MARY QUEEX OF SCOTS.

EUe f tait de ce monde ou les plus belles choses Ont le pile destiu.—Malhkbbe.

held I looked far back into the past, and lo! in bright That Scotland knew no prouder names— array, none moi-e dear than theirs; loveliest thought, before the I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd And Httle even the away. Virgin's shrine, Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty Stuart line; walls, Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their And gardens with their broad green walks, where flight, soft the footstep falls; And, as they flew, they left behind a long con- And o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping sha- tinuing light. dow crept. court, the And, all around, the noonday light m drowsy The scene was changed. —It was the radiance slept. gay court of Bourbon, lamps, a thou- No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the Whei-e, 'neath a thousand silver cloister dim, sand courtiers throng; pleased, I The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy And proudly kindles Henry's eye, well hymn. ween, to see of r.nd And there five noble maidens sat beneath the The land assemble all its wealth grace orchard trees, chivalry; has pass'd In that first budding spring of youth, when all Gray Montmorencj', o'er whose head its prospects please; a storm of years. stands, the first And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt Strong in himself and children, at vesper prayers, among his peers; Vol. II.—S ! — ! : — ! • ! ;! :

274 HENRY G. BELL.

Next him the Guises, who so well fame's steepest The past was bright, like those dear hills so far heights assail'd, behind her bark; And walk'd ambition's diamond ridge, where The future, like the gathering night, was ominous bravest hearts have fail'd, and dark! — And higher yet their path shall be, and stronger One gaze again—one long last gaze; "Adieu, fair wax their might, France, to thee!" For before them Montmorency's star shall pale The breeze comes forth—she is alone on the un- its waning light; conscious sea. There too the Prince of Cond^ wears his all unconquer'd sword. The scene was changed. — It was an eve of raw With great Coiigni by his side, —each name a and surly mood. household word And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood And there walks she of Medici, that proud Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with Italian line, the winds. The mother of a race of kings, the haughty That seem' d to suit the stormy state of men's Catherine! uncertain minds. The forms that follow in her train a glorious sun- The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek, her shine make, smile was sadder now A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glit- The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on tering wake: her brow; But fairer far than all the crowd, who bask on And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to fortune's tide. the field;

Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new- The Stuart sceptic well she sway'd, but the sirord made bride! she could not wield. The homage of a thousand hearts —the fond deep She thought of all her blighted hopes, the dreams love of one of youth's brief day, The hopes that dance around a life whose charms And summon'd Rizzio with his lute, and bade are but begun. the minstrel play They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle The songs she loved in other years, the songs of o'er her cheek. gay Navarre, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-soul'd The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by joy bespeak. gallant Chatelar: Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through They half beguiled her of her cares, thej' soothed all its brilliant hours. her into smiles, She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce

sunshine and its flowers ? domestic broils. But hark! the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' The scene was changed. —It was a bark that battle-crj'

slowly held its way, They come, they come ! and lo ! the scowl of And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light Ruthven's hollovv eye of evening lay; Stern swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, her And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tear- words, her prayers are vain. ful eyes The ruffian steel is in his heart—the faithful Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant Rizzio's slain rise. Then Mary Stuart brush'd aside the tears that No marvel that the lady wept, —there was no trickling fell; land on earth "Now for my father's arm," she said, "my !" She loved like that dear land, although she owed woman's heart, farewell it not her birth: It was her mother's land; the land of childhood The scene was changed.—It was a lake, with one and of friends; small lonely isle. It was the land where she had found for all her And there, within the prison walls of its baronial griefs amends; pile. The land where her dead husband slept; the land Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she where she had known should stoop to sign The tranquil convent's hush'd repose, and the The traitorous scroll that snatch'd the crown splendours of a throne fi-om her ancestral line No marvel that the lady wept, —it was the land " My lords, my lords!" the cajitive cried, "were of France, I but once more free. The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of With ten good knights on yonder shore to aid romance my cause and me. ;—— ! " ! ! — ——

HENRY G. BELL. 275

That parchment would I scatter wide to every A new star in the firmament, to light and glory breeze that blows, born! And once more reign, a Stuart queen o'er my Alas, the change! she placed her foot upon a

! remorseless foes triple throne. A red spot burn'd upon her cheek, stream'd her And on the scaffold now she stands, besids the rich tresses down; block, alone! She wrote the words—she stood erect, a queen The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all without a crown the crowd Who sunn'd themselves beneath her glance, and

round her footsteps bow'd ! The scene was changed. —A royal host a royal banner bore; Her neck is bar'd —the blow is struck—the soul has pass'd away! The faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen once more: The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay! She staid her steed upon a hill, she saw them marching by, A solemn text ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone. She heard their shouts, she read success in every flashing eye: Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne The tumult of the strife begins— it roars—it dies away. And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers

—where are they ? Scatter'd, and strewn, and flying far, defenceless THE KINGS DAUGHTER. and undone

God ! to see what she has lost, and think what It was a lord and a gentle maid guilt has won; Sat in a greenwood bower, Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no lag- And thus the brave Sir Alfred said gard's part; To the greenwood's fairest flower: Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow

in thy heart. " I have loved thee well, sweet Rosalie, With thee I could live and die; The scene was changed. —Beside the block a But thou art a maid of low degree, sullen headsman stood. And of princely race am I. And gleam'd the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood. "I have loved thee well, sweet Rosalie, With slow and steady step there came a lady I have loved a year and a day; through the hall. But a different fate is in store for me, And breathless silence chain'd the lips, and And I must no longer stay. touch'd the hearts of all; " Rich were the sable robes she wore, her white Thou art a cottage maiden, love. veil round her fell, And know not thy own pedigree; And from her neck there hung the cross—that And I must marry the king's daughter. cross she loved so well For she is betrothed to me." 1 knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom, There was a smile on Rosalie's lip. I saw that grief had deck'd it out —an offering But a tear in her blue eye shone; for the tomb! The smile was all for her lover's fate. I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once The tear perchance for her own. so brightly shone; I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd And down fell her ringlets of chestnut hair, with every tone; Down in a shoMer of gold; I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of And she hid her face in her lover's arms, living gold AVith feelings best left untold. I knew that bounding grace of step, that sym- metry of mould. Then slowly rose she in her bower, Even now I see her far away, in that calm con- With something of pride and scorn. vent aisle, And she look'd like a tall and dewy flow'r I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her That lifts up its head to the morn. holy smile, Even now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal She flung her golden ringlets aside, morn. And a deep blush crimsou'd her cheek, — " — — — ———

276 HENEY G. BELL.

"Heaven bless thee, Alfred, and th}- young "I never feared to die. Sir King,

bride. But my plighted faith I fear to break; Heaven give you the joy you seek! I never fear'd the grave's deep rest,

But the pangs of conscience I fear to wake." " Thou wert not born for a cottage, love. Nor yet for a maiden of low degree; Out then spoke the king's daughter. Thou wilt find thy mate in the king's daughter And haughtily spoke she, Forget and forgive thy Itosalie. " If Sir Alfred is vow'd to another love. He shall never be claim'd by me; Sir Alfred has flung him upon his steed. But he rides at a iaggaril pace; " If Sir Alfred is vow'd to another love, Of the road he is travelling he takes no heed, AVhy, let the knight go free: And a deadly paleness is on his face. Let him give his hand to his other love, There are hundreds as good as he!"

Sir Alfred has come to tlie king's palace, AVith And slowly Sir Alfred lias lighted down; a careless touch she threw back her veil, He sigh'd when he thought of the king's As if it by chance might be; daughter And who do you think was the king's daughter? He sigh'd when he thought of her father's His own— his long-loved Rosalie! crown. First he stood like a marble stone. "0! that my home were the greenwood bower, And she like a lily sweet, Under the shelter of the greenwood tree! Then a sunny smile o'er his features shone. 01 tiiat my strength had been all my dower. And then he was at her feet. " All my possessions Kosalie!

Sir Alfred has entered the royal liall 'Midst a thousand nobles in rich array; BLOSSOMS. But he who was once more gay than all, Has never, I ween, one word to say. It is a lesson sad and true. Of human life to me, The king sat high on his royal throne, To mark the swelling fruit push olF Tliough his hairs were gray, his arm was The blossoms from the tree, strong; "Good cousin," he said, in a jocund tone, The silver blossoms, ruby strcak'd. "Is it thou or thy steed that has stay'd so That scent the summer air. long? That gleam among the dark green leaves. And make a sunshine there; " But it boots not now— Bring forth the bride! Thou hast never yet my daugliter seen; The dew-drop's fragrant dwelling-place A woeful fate it is thine to bide. Through all the gentle night; For her hair is red and her eyes are green!" The latticed window's fairy screen From morning's flush of light, The bride came forth in a costly veil.

And nought of her face could Alfred see; No wonder that the young bird sits But his cheek grew yet more deadly pale. Among the boughs and sings; And he fell down faltering upon Jiis knee: He finds companionship in them, Soft-breathing lovely things! "Pardon! pardon! my liege, my kino;! And let me speak while I yet am free; No wonder that the fair child wreathes But were she fair as the flowers of spring. Their riches round her brow; To your daugiiter I never can husband be." The}' are themselves an emblem meet Of what that child is now. Lightning flash'd from the king's fierce eye, And tliunder spoke in his angry tone, Alas! like childhood's thoughts they die- " Then the death of a traitor thou slialt die. They drop—they fade away; And thy marriage peal shall be torture's A week— a little week— and then. moan!" The blossoms— where are thev ? ———! — —: —

HENRY G. BELL.

welcomed as the love for which my soul doth You tell me tlie\' make room for fruit, Bo A more substantial store; long? No, lady! love ne'er sprang out of deceit and But often stolen ere 'tis ripe, wrong. Oft rotten at the core.

I do not love the worthless gifts, That bend our childhood down, And give us for our chaplet wreath MY YIS-A-YIS. Ambition's leaden crown;

That olden lady !— can it be? I do not love the fruits that push Well, Avell, how seasons .slip away! Our flowery hopes away, Do let me hand her cup of tea The silver blossoms, ruby-strcak'd, That I may gently to her say Ahl dearer far are they "Dear madam, thirty years ago, When both our hearts were full of glee. In many a dance and courtly show

I had you for my vis-a-vis. I LOVED TIIEE. '•• That pale blue robe, those chestnut curls. I loved thee till I knew That Eastern jewel on your wrist, That thou had'st loved before, That neck-encircling string of pearls Then love to coldness grew, Whence hung a cross of amethyst, And passion's reign was o'er; I see them all,— I see the tulle What care I for the lip, Looped up with roses at the knee. Ruby although it be. Good Lord! how fresh and beautiful If another once might sip Was then your cheek, my vis-a-vis! Those sweets now given to me ? glance of soft affection full. What care I for the " I hear the whispered praises yet, If for another once it beamed as beautiful ? The buzz of pleasure when you camo, The rushing eagerness to get That ringlet of dark hair Like moths within the fatal flame: 'Twas worth a misei-'s store; As April blossoms, fiiint and sweet. It was a spell 'gainst care As apples when you shake the tree, That next my heart I wore; So hearts fell showering at your feet But if another once In those glad days, my vio-a-vis. Could boast as fair a prize. My ringlet I renounce, "And as for me, my breast was filled 'Tis worthless in my eyes: With silvery light in every cell: I envy not the smiles in which a score may bask, My blood was some rich juice distilled I value not the gift which all may have who ask. From amaranth and asphodel A maiden heart give me, Jly thoughts were airier than the lark That lock'd and sacred lay, That carols o'er the flowe/y lea; Though tried by many a key They well might breathlessly remark: That ne'er could find the way. ' By Jove! that is a vis-avis!' Till I, by gentler art, Touch'd the long-hidden spring. "0 time and change, what is't you mean? And found that maiden heart Ye gods! can I believe my ears? In beauty gUttcring; Has that bald portly person been Amidst its herbage buried like a flower. Your husband, ma'am, for twenty years? in its leafy bower. Or like a bii-d that sings deep That six-foot officer your son, Who looks o'er his m.oustache at me! No more shall sigh of mine Why did not Joshua stop our sun Bo heaved for what is past; When I was first your vis a-vis? Take back that gift of thine, It was the first—the last;— " Forgive me, if I've been too bold, Thou, mayst not love him now Permit me to return your cup; So fondly as thou didst. ]Mv heart was beating as of old, But shall a broken vow One drop of youth still bubbled up." Be prized because thou bid'st— ——— — ———

278 HENRY G. BELL.

So spoke I: then, like cold December, 'Tis not these fleshly limbs that think, Only these brief words said she: 'Tis not these filmy eyes that see; I do not in the least remember Tho' mind and matter break the link, I ever was vour vis-a-vis." Mind does not therefore cease to be.

Such end is but an end in part. Such death is but the body's goal; Blood makes the pulses of the heart. THE EXD. But not the emotions of the soul.

I know at length the trutli, my fiiend, Some ten or fifteen seasons more, And then for me there comes tiie end My joys and sorrows will be o'er. WHY 10 MY SPIRIT SAD? Kor deem I the remaining years, Which soon most come and soon must go. Why is my spirit sad? Which wake no hopes, excite no fears. Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year, Will teach me more than now I know. With something that it used to hold more dear Than aught that now remains; They'll bring the same unfrnitful round, Because the past, like a receding sail, The nightly rest, the daily toil, Flits into dimness, and the lonely gale The smiles that soothe, the slights that wound. O'er vacant waters reigns. The little gain, the feverish moil. Why is my spirit sad? As manhood's fire burns less and less, Because no more within my soul there dwell languid heart The grows cold and dull. Thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the moun- Alike indifferent to success, tain dell And careless of the beautiful. AVitli innocent delight; Because I am aweary of the strife Nought but the past awakes a throb, That with hot fever taints the springs of life, And even the past begins to die, Making the day seem night. The burning tear, the anguished sob.

Give place to listless apathy. Why is my spirit sad? Alas! ye did not know the lost— the dead, And when at last death turns the key. Who loved with me of yore green paths to And throws the earth and green turf on, tread Whate'er it was that made up me. The paths of young romance; Is it, my friend, for ever gone? Ye never stood with us 'ncath summer skies. Nor saw the rich light of their tender eyes Dear friend, is all we see a dream? The Eden of their glance. Does this brief glimpse of tim.e and space Exhaust the aims, fulfil the scheme Why is my spirit sad? Intended for the human race? Have not the beautiful been ta'en away, Are not the noble-hearted turned to clay Sliall even the star-exploring mind, Wither'd in root and stem? AVhich thrills with spiritual desire, I see that others, in whose looks are lit Be, like a breath of summer wind. The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,— Absorbed in sunshine and expire! But not —but not like them! Or will what men call death restore The living myriads of the past? I would not be less sad! Is dying but to go before J.Iy days of mirth are past. Droops o'er my brow The myriads who will come at last? The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now, The present is around me; If not, whence sprung the thought? and whence Would that the future were both come and Perception of a power divine, gone, "Who syml)ols forth omnipotence And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone, In flowers that bloom, in suns that shine? Crush'd feelings could not wound me! —; ;

GEOEGE ALLAN. 279

GEOEGE ALLAN

Born 1806 — Died 1835.

Georgk Allan Avas the youngest son of a Walter Scott, which enjoyed for years a wide farmer at Paradjkes, near Edinburgh, Avhere popularity; and he assisted Mr. Peter JIacleod he was born February 2, 1806. In his in preparing the Original National Melodies thirteenth year he lost both his parents, lie of Scotland, to which he furnished several con- became an apprentice to a writer to the signet, tributions. and in course of time a member of the profes- In 1831 Mr. Allan married Mrs. Mary Hill, sion, but soon abandoned legal pursuits and a widow, the eldest daughter of Mr. Wm. Pagan proceeded to London to begin the career of an of Curriestanes and niece of Allan Cunning- author. Here he formed the acquaintance of ham. In 1834 he obtained a situation in the Allan Cunningham and Mr. and Mrs. S. C. stamp office, which insured him a moderate Hall, who recognized his talents and encour- competence without depriving him of oppor- aged his literary aspirations. But his health tunity to prosecute his literary occupations. did not correspond with his litei'ary enthusiasm, But soon after this promising point was reached and in 1829 he accepted an appointment in his career was suddenly terminated. His in- Jamaica. The climate of the "West Indies not tellectual and poetical ardour had been too suiting him, he resigned his appointment and much for the frame it tenanted; the delicate returned home in 1830. Soon after he ob- nervous organization, which had both animated tained the editorship of the Dumfries Journal, and enfeebled him, sank under the too close a Conservative newspaper, and this situation application of his mind, and he died suddenly he held for three years with great popularity at Jauefield, near Leith, August 15, 1835, in and success. His next connection was as the thirtieth year of his age, leaving behind literary assistant to the Messrs. Chambers of him a name both as a prose writer and a poet Edinburgh. Whilst here he contributed many Avhich few so young are fortunate to establish. excellent articles to the Edinburgh Journal A large amount of unpublished manuscript, and wrote extensively for the Scotsman news- left behind by Mr. Allan, is now in the posses- paper. He was also the author of a Life of Sir sion of his family.

IS YOUR WAE-PIPE ASLEEP]

Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen. CLANSMAN. Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again! Is your war-pipe asleep, and foi- ever, M 'Crimman? Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever? m'crimman. Shall the pibroch that welcom'd the foe to Benaer, Be hushed when we seek the dark wolf in his lair, Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom.

To give back our wrongs to the giver ? As the bodings which light up thy bold spii'it now To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom, gone, And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd Like the course of the fire-flaught their clan.smen o'er his bi"ow. passed on, Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer, With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe And be clasped to the hearts of thy best beloved they have bound them. there And have ta'en to the field with their vassals But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, around them. never Then raise your wild slogan-cry—on to the foray! Never! Never! Never! — ;

280 GEORGE ALLAN.

Wlien o'er CLANSMAN. the heart come tiioughts o" wae, Like shadows on Glenfillan's tower. Wilt tlioii shrink from the doom tliou canst shun Is tliis the weird that I maun dree. not, M'Crimman? And a' around sae glad and gay. Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun Oh hon an righ, oh lion an rigii, not? Young Donald frac his love's away. If thy course must lie brief, let the i^roud Saxon

know The winter snaw nac mair docs fa', That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when The rose blooms in our mountain bower, foe a The wild flowers on the castle wa' Bared his blade in the land he had won not! Are glintin' in the summer shower. Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze But wliat are summer's smiles to me, behind, AVhen he nae langer here could stay; And the red heatlicr-l)loom gives its sweets to Oh lion an righ, oh hon an righ, the wind, Young Donald frae his love's away. There our broad pennon (lies, and the keen steeds are prancing, For Scotland's crown, and Charlie's right, 'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons The flre-cross o'er our hills did flee. glancing, And loyal swords were glancin' bright, Then raise your wild slogan-ciy—on to the forayl And Scotia's bluid was warm and free. Sous of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen; And though nae gleam of hope I see, Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, My prayer is for a brighter day: Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again! Oh hon an rigli, oh hon an righ, Young Donald frae liis love's awav.

OLD SCOTLAND.

The breeze blows fresh, my gallant mates. I WILL THINK OF THEE YET. Our vessel cleaves her way, I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be. Down ocean's depths, o'er heaven's heights, In the land of the stranger, deserte

When treachery's behind ? I will think of thee yet though misfortune fall chill The foaming deep our couch will be, O'er my path, as yon st^rm-cloud that low'rs on storm our vesper bell, The the lea, The low'ring heaven our canopy. And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still. My native land, farewell! While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me. Away, away across the main. Yes! grief and despair may encompass me round, We'll seek some happier clime, 'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found; Where daring is not deemed a stain, But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts Nor loyalty a crime. turn to you. Our hearts are wrung, our minds are toss'd, And the wild mountain land which my infancy Wild as the ocean's swell; knew. A kingdom and a birthright lost! Old Scotland, fare thee well! I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget The love that grew warm as all others grew cold, 'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set. Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold; YOUNG DONALD. But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom, Shall my love like a flower in the wilderness bloom An eiry night, a cheerless day, And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been, A lanely hame at gloamin' hour, A light to mv soul when no other is seen.