Close by the marge of Leman's lake,Upon a thymy plot,In blissful rev'rie, half awake,Earth's follies all forgot,I conjured up a faery isleWhere sorrow enter'd not,Withouten shade of sin or guile—A lovely Eden spot.With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade,And leaves of tender green,All trembling in the light and shade,As sunbeams glanced between:The mossy turf, bespangled gayWith fragrant flowery sheen—Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May—The fairest ever seen.Near where a crystal river ranInto the rich, warm light,A domèd palace fair beganTo rise in marble white.'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet,With mirrors dazzling bright—With antique vase and statuette,A palace of delight.And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress,With circlet on her hair,Appear'd in all her loveliness,Like angel standing there.She struck the cithern in her hand,And sang with 'witching airHer own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?"To music wild and rare.It died away—the palace changed,Dream-like, into a bower!Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged,Secure from hunter's power.Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground,With daisy, starry flower,While crimson flower-bells cluster'd roundThe rose-twined faery bower.Therein "Undine," lovely sprite!Sat gazing on sunrise,And sang of "morning, clear and bright"—The tears came in her eyes:She look'd upon the lovely isle,And now up to the skies,Then in a silv'ry misty veilShe vanish'd from mine eyes.A music, as of forest treesBent 'neath the storm-blast's sway,Rose swelling—dying in the breeze,A strange, wild lullaby.The islet with its flowery turfThen waxèd dim and gray;I look'd—no islet gemm'd the surf—The dream had fled away.
Close by the marge of Leman's lake,Upon a thymy plot,In blissful rev'rie, half awake,Earth's follies all forgot,I conjured up a faery isleWhere sorrow enter'd not,Withouten shade of sin or guile—A lovely Eden spot.
With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade,And leaves of tender green,All trembling in the light and shade,As sunbeams glanced between:The mossy turf, bespangled gayWith fragrant flowery sheen—Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May—The fairest ever seen.
Near where a crystal river ranInto the rich, warm light,A domèd palace fair beganTo rise in marble white.'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet,With mirrors dazzling bright—With antique vase and statuette,A palace of delight.
And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress,With circlet on her hair,Appear'd in all her loveliness,Like angel standing there.She struck the cithern in her hand,And sang with 'witching airHer own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?"To music wild and rare.
It died away—the palace changed,Dream-like, into a bower!Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged,Secure from hunter's power.Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground,With daisy, starry flower,While crimson flower-bells cluster'd roundThe rose-twined faery bower.
Therein "Undine," lovely sprite!Sat gazing on sunrise,And sang of "morning, clear and bright"—The tears came in her eyes:She look'd upon the lovely isle,And now up to the skies,Then in a silv'ry misty veilShe vanish'd from mine eyes.
A music, as of forest treesBent 'neath the storm-blast's sway,Rose swelling—dying in the breeze,A strange, wild lullaby.The islet with its flowery turfThen waxèd dim and gray;I look'd—no islet gemm'd the surf—The dream had fled away.
Fair as a star of light,Like diamond gleaming bright,Through darkness of the night,Is my love to me.As bell of lily white,In streamlet mirror'd bright,All quiv'ring with delight,Is my love to me—My love to me.A flowing magic thrillWhich floodeth heart and willWith gushes musical,Is my love to me.Bright as the trancèd dream,Which flitteth in a gleam,Before morn's golden beam,Is my love to me—My love to me.Like living crystal well,In cool and shady dell,Unto the parch'd gazelle,Is my love to me.And dearer than things fair,However rich and rare,In earth, or sea, or air,Is my love to me—My love to me.
Fair as a star of light,Like diamond gleaming bright,Through darkness of the night,Is my love to me.As bell of lily white,In streamlet mirror'd bright,All quiv'ring with delight,Is my love to me—My love to me.
A flowing magic thrillWhich floodeth heart and willWith gushes musical,Is my love to me.Bright as the trancèd dream,Which flitteth in a gleam,Before morn's golden beam,Is my love to me—My love to me.
Like living crystal well,In cool and shady dell,Unto the parch'd gazelle,Is my love to me.And dearer than things fair,However rich and rare,In earth, or sea, or air,Is my love to me—My love to me.
There is music in the storm, love,When the tempest rages high;It whispers in the summer breezeA soft, sweet lullaby.There is music in the night,When the joyous nightingale,Clear warbling, filleth with his songThe hillside and the vale.Then sing, sing, sing,For music breathes in everything.There is music by the shore, love,When foaming billows dash;It echoes in the thunder peal,When vivid lightnings flash.There is music by the shore,In the stilly noon of night,When the murmurs of the ocean fadeIn the clear moonlight.There is music in the soul, love,When it hears the gushing swell,Which, like a dream intensely soft,Peals from the lily-bell.There is music—music deepIn the soul that looks on high,When myriad sparkling stars sing outTheir pure sphere harmony.There is music in the glance, love,Which speaketh from the heart,Of a sympathy in soulsThat never more would part.There is music in the noteOf the cooing turtle-dove;There is music in the voiceOf dear ones whom we love.There is music everywhere, love,To the pure of spirit given;And sweetest music heard on earthBut whispers that of heaven.Oh, all is music there—'Tis the language of the sky—Sweet hallelujahs there resoundEternal harmony.Then sing, sing, sing,For music breathes in everything.
There is music in the storm, love,When the tempest rages high;It whispers in the summer breezeA soft, sweet lullaby.There is music in the night,When the joyous nightingale,Clear warbling, filleth with his songThe hillside and the vale.Then sing, sing, sing,For music breathes in everything.
There is music by the shore, love,When foaming billows dash;It echoes in the thunder peal,When vivid lightnings flash.There is music by the shore,In the stilly noon of night,When the murmurs of the ocean fadeIn the clear moonlight.
There is music in the soul, love,When it hears the gushing swell,Which, like a dream intensely soft,Peals from the lily-bell.There is music—music deepIn the soul that looks on high,When myriad sparkling stars sing outTheir pure sphere harmony.
There is music in the glance, love,Which speaketh from the heart,Of a sympathy in soulsThat never more would part.There is music in the noteOf the cooing turtle-dove;There is music in the voiceOf dear ones whom we love.
There is music everywhere, love,To the pure of spirit given;And sweetest music heard on earthBut whispers that of heaven.Oh, all is music there—'Tis the language of the sky—Sweet hallelujahs there resoundEternal harmony.Then sing, sing, sing,For music breathes in everything.
Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of theScotsmannewspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In 1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the periodicals.
Is our Helen very fair?If you only knew herYou would doubt it not, howe'erStranger eyes may view her.We who see her day by dayThrough our household moving,Whether she be fair or nayCannot see for loving.O'er our gentle Helen's faceNo rich hues are bright'ning,And no smiles of feignèd graceFrom her lips are light'ning;She hath quiet, smiling eyes,Fair hair simply braided,All as mild as evening skiesEre sunlight hath faded.Our kind, thoughtful Helen lovesOur approving praises,But her eye that never rovesShrinks from other gazes.She, so late within her homeBut a child caressing,Now a woman hath become,Ministering, blessing.All her duty, all her bliss,In her home she findeth,Nor too narrow deemeth this—Lowly things she mindeth;Yet when deeper cares distress,She is our adviser;Reason's rules she needeth less,For her heart is wiser.For the sorrows of the poorHer kind spirit bleedeth,And, because so good and pure,For the erring pleadeth.Is our Helen very fair?If you only knew herYou would doubt it not, howe'erStranger eyes may view her.
Is our Helen very fair?If you only knew herYou would doubt it not, howe'erStranger eyes may view her.We who see her day by dayThrough our household moving,Whether she be fair or nayCannot see for loving.
O'er our gentle Helen's faceNo rich hues are bright'ning,And no smiles of feignèd graceFrom her lips are light'ning;She hath quiet, smiling eyes,Fair hair simply braided,All as mild as evening skiesEre sunlight hath faded.
Our kind, thoughtful Helen lovesOur approving praises,But her eye that never rovesShrinks from other gazes.She, so late within her homeBut a child caressing,Now a woman hath become,Ministering, blessing.
All her duty, all her bliss,In her home she findeth,Nor too narrow deemeth this—Lowly things she mindeth;Yet when deeper cares distress,She is our adviser;Reason's rules she needeth less,For her heart is wiser.
For the sorrows of the poorHer kind spirit bleedeth,And, because so good and pure,For the erring pleadeth.Is our Helen very fair?If you only knew herYou would doubt it not, howe'erStranger eyes may view her.
In that home was joy and sorrowWhere an infant first drew breath,While an aged sire was drawingNear unto the gate of death.His feeble pulse was failing,And his eye was growing dim;He was standing on the thresholdWhen they brought the babe to him.While to murmur forth a blessingOn the little one he tried,In his trembling arms he raised it,Press'd it to his lips and died.An awful darkness restethOn the path they both begin,Who thus met upon the threshold,Going out and coming in.Going out unto the triumph,Coming in unto the fight—Coming in unto the darkness,Going out unto the light;Although the shadow deepen'dIn the moment of eclipse,When he pass'd through the dread portalWith the blessing on his lips.And to him who bravely conquers,As he conquer'd in the strife,Life is but the way of dying—Death is but the gate of life;Yet awful darkness restethOn the path we all begin,Where we meet upon the threshold,Going out and coming in.
In that home was joy and sorrowWhere an infant first drew breath,While an aged sire was drawingNear unto the gate of death.His feeble pulse was failing,And his eye was growing dim;He was standing on the thresholdWhen they brought the babe to him.
While to murmur forth a blessingOn the little one he tried,In his trembling arms he raised it,Press'd it to his lips and died.An awful darkness restethOn the path they both begin,Who thus met upon the threshold,Going out and coming in.
Going out unto the triumph,Coming in unto the fight—Coming in unto the darkness,Going out unto the light;Although the shadow deepen'dIn the moment of eclipse,When he pass'd through the dread portalWith the blessing on his lips.
And to him who bravely conquers,As he conquer'd in the strife,Life is but the way of dying—Death is but the gate of life;Yet awful darkness restethOn the path we all begin,Where we meet upon the threshold,Going out and coming in.
We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd,We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd;When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie,We promised to wait for each ither a wee.My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed,An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed,He charged me a husband and father to be,While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine,Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine,Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me,"Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care,But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear,She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong,'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now,Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow,A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see,They tell me how lang she has waited on me.Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil,Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile;She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee,She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.
We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd,We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd;When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie,We promised to wait for each ither a wee.
My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed,An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed,He charged me a husband and father to be,While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.
I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine,Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine,Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me,"Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."
An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care,But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear,She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong,'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.
Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now,Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow,A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see,They tell me how lang she has waited on me.
Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil,Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile;She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee,She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.
I will sing a song of summer,Of bright summer as it dwells,Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine,In lone haunts and grassy dells.Lo! the hill encircled valleyIs like an emerald cup,To its inmost depths all glowing,With sunlight brimming up.Here I 'd dream away the day time,And let happy thoughts have birth,And forget there 's aught but glory,Aught but beauty on the earth.Not a speck of cloud is floatingIn the deep blue overhead,'Neath the trees the daisied verdureLike a broider'd couch is spread.The rustling leaves are dancingWith the light wind's music stirr'd,And in gushes through the stillnessComes the song of woodland bird.Here I 'd dream away the day-time,And let gentlest thoughts have birth,And forget there 's aught but gladness,Aught but peace upon the earth.
I will sing a song of summer,Of bright summer as it dwells,Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine,In lone haunts and grassy dells.Lo! the hill encircled valleyIs like an emerald cup,To its inmost depths all glowing,With sunlight brimming up.Here I 'd dream away the day time,And let happy thoughts have birth,And forget there 's aught but glory,Aught but beauty on the earth.
Not a speck of cloud is floatingIn the deep blue overhead,'Neath the trees the daisied verdureLike a broider'd couch is spread.The rustling leaves are dancingWith the light wind's music stirr'd,And in gushes through the stillnessComes the song of woodland bird.Here I 'd dream away the day-time,And let gentlest thoughts have birth,And forget there 's aught but gladness,Aught but peace upon the earth.
The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father, who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended reputation.
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves,And the tempest around me is swelling;The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves,And the waves from their rocky dwelling;But my trim-built barkO'er the waters darkBounds lightly along,And the mermaid lists to my echoing song.Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to laveIn the briny spray of the wild sea wave!I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep,And the storm-bird above me is screaming;While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleepThe lightning is fearfully gleaming;But onward I dash,For the fitful flashIllumes me along,And the thunders chorus my echoing song.Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to braveThe dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shotLays the war-dogs bleeding around me;But ne'er do I yield on the tentless fieldTill the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me;Then I, a true childOf the ocean wild,With a tuneful tongueBear away with my prize and my conquering song.Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave—I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home—The home of the hurrying billow;But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam,But in peace lay me down on its pillow:The petrel will screamMy requiem hymn,And the thunders prolongThe deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song,As I sink to repose in my rock-bound graveThat is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves,And the tempest around me is swelling;The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves,And the waves from their rocky dwelling;But my trim-built barkO'er the waters darkBounds lightly along,And the mermaid lists to my echoing song.Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to laveIn the briny spray of the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep,And the storm-bird above me is screaming;While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleepThe lightning is fearfully gleaming;But onward I dash,For the fitful flashIllumes me along,And the thunders chorus my echoing song.Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to braveThe dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shotLays the war-dogs bleeding around me;But ne'er do I yield on the tentless fieldTill the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me;Then I, a true childOf the ocean wild,With a tuneful tongueBear away with my prize and my conquering song.Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave—I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home—The home of the hurrying billow;But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam,But in peace lay me down on its pillow:The petrel will screamMy requiem hymn,And the thunders prolongThe deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song,As I sink to repose in my rock-bound graveThat is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.
Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea,The home of the rover, the bold and free;Land hath its charms, but those be mine,To row my boat through the sparkling brine—To lave in the pearls that kiss the prowOf the bounding thing as we onward go—To nerve the arm and bend the oar,Bearing away from the vacant shore.Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea—'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine:Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.Gloomily creeping the mists appearIn denser shade on the mountains drear;And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep,By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep;Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest,To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast;But all is still, save the lisping wavesWashing the shells in the distant caves.Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea—'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me—'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove!Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar,And I love the splash of the bending oar,Playing amid the phosphoric fire,Seen as the eddying sparks retire.'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roamThrough its sleeping calm or its lashing foam.The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more;Then away let us row from the vacant shore.Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea—'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free:Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.
Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea,The home of the rover, the bold and free;Land hath its charms, but those be mine,To row my boat through the sparkling brine—To lave in the pearls that kiss the prowOf the bounding thing as we onward go—To nerve the arm and bend the oar,Bearing away from the vacant shore.Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea—'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine:Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.
Gloomily creeping the mists appearIn denser shade on the mountains drear;And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep,By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep;Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest,To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast;But all is still, save the lisping wavesWashing the shells in the distant caves.Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea—'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me—'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove!Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.
Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar,And I love the splash of the bending oar,Playing amid the phosphoric fire,Seen as the eddying sparks retire.'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roamThrough its sleeping calm or its lashing foam.The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more;Then away let us row from the vacant shore.Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea—'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free:Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.
When we meet again, Lisette,Let the sun be sunk to restBeneath the glowing waveletsOf the widely spreading west;Let half the world be hush'dIn the drowsiness of sleep,And howlets scream the musicOf the revels that they keep.Let the gentle lady-moon,With her coldly drooping beams,Be dancing in the rippleOf the ever-laughing streams,Where the little elves disportIn the stilly noon of night,And lave their limbs of etherIn the mellow flood of light.When we meet again, Lisette,Let it be in yonder pile,Beneath the massy frettingOf its darkly-shaded aisle,Where, through the crumbling archesThe quaint old carvings loom,And saint and seraph keep their watchO'er many an ancient tomb.
When we meet again, Lisette,Let the sun be sunk to restBeneath the glowing waveletsOf the widely spreading west;Let half the world be hush'dIn the drowsiness of sleep,And howlets scream the musicOf the revels that they keep.
Let the gentle lady-moon,With her coldly drooping beams,Be dancing in the rippleOf the ever-laughing streams,Where the little elves disportIn the stilly noon of night,And lave their limbs of etherIn the mellow flood of light.
When we meet again, Lisette,Let it be in yonder pile,Beneath the massy frettingOf its darkly-shaded aisle,Where, through the crumbling archesThe quaint old carvings loom,And saint and seraph keep their watchO'er many an ancient tomb.
Alexander Stephen Wilson was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish of Rayne, Aberdeenshire. His father, who rented a farm, having been killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought up from infancy under the care of his maternal grandfather. In his boyhood he attended school during winter, and in summer was employed as a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a land-surveyor, with whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals. At the close of his apprenticeship, he established a debating club among the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, entitledThe Rural Echo, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own compositions, both in prose and poetry, and commanded a wide circulation. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly turned his attention to that department of study. He has likewise been ardent in the pursuit of physical science. An ingenious treatise from his pen on the nature of light, published in 1855, attracted no inconsiderable notice, and is strongly indicative of original power. He has latterly resided in Perth, holding the appointment of assistant civil engineer.
The gloom of dark despondencyAt times will cloud the breast;Hope's eagle eye may shaded be,'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd;But while we nurse an honest aimWe shall not break nor bend,For when things are at the worstThey must mend.The gentle heart by hardship crush'dWill sing amid its tears,And though its voice awhile be hush'd,'Tis tuned for coming years;A light from out the future shinesWith hope's tear-drops to blend,And when things are at the worstThey must mend.Amid life's danger and despairStill let our deeds be true,For nought but what is right and fairCan heal our hopeless view.The beautiful will soothe us, likeThe sunshine of a friend,And when things are at the worstThey must mend.Oh, never leave life's morning dream,'Tis whisper'd down from heaven,But trace its maze, though sorrow seemThe sole reward that 's given;The joy is there, or not on earth,Which with our souls may blend,And when things are at the worstThey must mend.
The gloom of dark despondencyAt times will cloud the breast;Hope's eagle eye may shaded be,'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd;But while we nurse an honest aimWe shall not break nor bend,For when things are at the worstThey must mend.
The gentle heart by hardship crush'dWill sing amid its tears,And though its voice awhile be hush'd,'Tis tuned for coming years;A light from out the future shinesWith hope's tear-drops to blend,And when things are at the worstThey must mend.
Amid life's danger and despairStill let our deeds be true,For nought but what is right and fairCan heal our hopeless view.The beautiful will soothe us, likeThe sunshine of a friend,And when things are at the worstThey must mend.
Oh, never leave life's morning dream,'Tis whisper'd down from heaven,But trace its maze, though sorrow seemThe sole reward that 's given;The joy is there, or not on earth,Which with our souls may blend,And when things are at the worstThey must mend.
Life's pleasure seems sadness and care,When dark is the bosom that feels,Yet mingled wi' shades o' despairIs the ray which our sorrow reveals;Though darkly at times flows the stream,It rows till its waters are clear—And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dreamLike the wee blink that shines in a tear.Afar in the wilderness bloomsThe flower that spreads beauty around,And Nature smiles sweet on our tombsAnd softens with balm every wound.Oh, call not our life sad nor vain,Wi' its joys that can ever endear,There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain,Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.Sweet smiles the last hope in our woeAnd fair is the lone desert isle;Young Flora peeps gay from the snow;And dearest in grief is a smile;The dew-drop is bright with a star;Age glows when young memories appear;But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by farIs the wee blink that shines in a tear.
Life's pleasure seems sadness and care,When dark is the bosom that feels,Yet mingled wi' shades o' despairIs the ray which our sorrow reveals;Though darkly at times flows the stream,It rows till its waters are clear—And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dreamLike the wee blink that shines in a tear.
Afar in the wilderness bloomsThe flower that spreads beauty around,And Nature smiles sweet on our tombsAnd softens with balm every wound.Oh, call not our life sad nor vain,Wi' its joys that can ever endear,There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain,Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.
Sweet smiles the last hope in our woeAnd fair is the lone desert isle;Young Flora peeps gay from the snow;And dearest in grief is a smile;The dew-drop is bright with a star;Age glows when young memories appear;But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by farIs the wee blink that shines in a tear.
Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved,When my wild heart was careless and free,But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved,Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me.Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves,Like songs of the dear olden time;Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves,Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breastOf the home and the friends that were mine,In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest,Nor deem'd it should ever repine.I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been,And the spell brings the dear olden timeWhen I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green,Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see,I treasure a life all my own,And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee,For like thine half its beauty hath flown.I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again,And snatch back the dear olden time,When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain,Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved,When my wild heart was careless and free,But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved,Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me.Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves,Like songs of the dear olden time;Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves,Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breastOf the home and the friends that were mine,In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest,Nor deem'd it should ever repine.I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been,And the spell brings the dear olden timeWhen I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green,Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see,I treasure a life all my own,And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee,For like thine half its beauty hath flown.I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again,And snatch back the dear olden time,When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain,Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
A poet of singular merit, under circumstances in the highest degree unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in Glasgow and Greenock constituted his entire scholastic education; but an intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications of verses, with the titles, "City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces," and "The Lyrics of Life." A little poeticalbrochure, entitled, "The Wanderer of the West," is his latest production.
Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the Glasgow Athenæum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with theBulletin, a daily journal published in Glasgow.
Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!Oh, beautiful and bright!Thy voice is music of the heart—Thy looks are rarest light!What time the silver dawn of dreamsLights up the dark of sleep,As yon pale moon lights up the heavenWith beauty clear and deep,I see thee in the ebbing stars,I hear quaint voices swell,And dim and phantom winds that comeAnd whisper, Isabelle.Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!Oh, beautiful and bright!Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart,Like rich star-crowded night.As moonbeams silver on the waveOf some night-sadden'd river,So on my lonesome life thy loveWould lie in light for ever.Yet wander on—oh, wander on,Cold river, to the sea,And, weary life,thyocean gain—Undream'd eternity.In vain the cruel curse of earthHath torn our lives apart;The man-made barriers of goldWeigh down the humble heart.Oh, hadst thou been a village maid—A simple wayside flower—With nought to boast, save honest worth,And beauty all thy dower!Such might have been—suchshouldhave been,But other lot befell;I am the lowly son of toil,And thou proud Isabelle.It ever seems to me that loveShould level all degrees;Pure honour, and a stainless heartAre Nature's heraldries.No scutcheon needs a noble soul(Alas! how thinks the age?);He is not poor who freedom hathFor his broad heritage.Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil;Vain dreams of youth, farewell;The future hath its duty's prize—The past, its Isabelle.
Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!Oh, beautiful and bright!Thy voice is music of the heart—Thy looks are rarest light!What time the silver dawn of dreamsLights up the dark of sleep,As yon pale moon lights up the heavenWith beauty clear and deep,I see thee in the ebbing stars,I hear quaint voices swell,And dim and phantom winds that comeAnd whisper, Isabelle.
Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!Oh, beautiful and bright!Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart,Like rich star-crowded night.As moonbeams silver on the waveOf some night-sadden'd river,So on my lonesome life thy loveWould lie in light for ever.Yet wander on—oh, wander on,Cold river, to the sea,And, weary life,thyocean gain—Undream'd eternity.
In vain the cruel curse of earthHath torn our lives apart;The man-made barriers of goldWeigh down the humble heart.Oh, hadst thou been a village maid—A simple wayside flower—With nought to boast, save honest worth,And beauty all thy dower!Such might have been—suchshouldhave been,But other lot befell;I am the lowly son of toil,And thou proud Isabelle.
It ever seems to me that loveShould level all degrees;Pure honour, and a stainless heartAre Nature's heraldries.No scutcheon needs a noble soul(Alas! how thinks the age?);He is not poor who freedom hathFor his broad heritage.Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil;Vain dreams of youth, farewell;The future hath its duty's prize—The past, its Isabelle.
Built on Time's uneven sand,Hope's fair fabric soon is shatter'd;Bowers adorn'd by Fancy's handTorn in wandering leaves are scatter'd.Perish'd, perish'd, lost and perish'd,Old affections fondly cherish'd.All our blossoms wither soon,While we dream the flower will strengthen,And across life's summer noonDeath's dark shadow seems to lengthen.In that mighty shadow perish'dAll we liv'd for, all we cherish'd.Dear ones loved are lost in night;O'er the world we wander lonely,And the heart of all youth's lightHolds one fading sunbeam only.Old affections vainly cherish'd,All except the memory perish'd.
Built on Time's uneven sand,Hope's fair fabric soon is shatter'd;Bowers adorn'd by Fancy's handTorn in wandering leaves are scatter'd.Perish'd, perish'd, lost and perish'd,Old affections fondly cherish'd.
All our blossoms wither soon,While we dream the flower will strengthen,And across life's summer noonDeath's dark shadow seems to lengthen.In that mighty shadow perish'dAll we liv'd for, all we cherish'd.
Dear ones loved are lost in night;O'er the world we wander lonely,And the heart of all youth's lightHolds one fading sunbeam only.Old affections vainly cherish'd,All except the memory perish'd.
Look up, old friend! why hang thy head?The world is all before us.Earth's wealth of flowers is at our feet,Heaven's wealth of worlds is o'er us.Spring leans to us across the seaWith affluent caressing,And autumn yet shall crown our toilWith many a fruitful blessing.Then why should we despair in spring,Who braved out wintry weather?Let monarchs rule, but we shall singAnd journey on together.You mourn that we are born so poor—I would not change our treasureFor all the thorn-concealing flowersThat strew the path of pleasure.God only searches for the soul,Nor heeds the outward building;Believe me, friend, a noble heartRequires no aid of gilding.Then never let us pine in spring,We 've braved out wintry weather,We yet may touch a sweeter stringWhen toiling on together.What though our blood be tinged with mud,My lord's is simply purer;'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor makeHis seat in heaven surer.But should the noble deign to speak,We 'll hail him as a brother,And trace respective pedigreesTo Eve, our common mother.Then why should we despair in spring,Who braved out wintry weather?Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing,And journey on together.
Look up, old friend! why hang thy head?The world is all before us.Earth's wealth of flowers is at our feet,Heaven's wealth of worlds is o'er us.Spring leans to us across the seaWith affluent caressing,And autumn yet shall crown our toilWith many a fruitful blessing.Then why should we despair in spring,Who braved out wintry weather?Let monarchs rule, but we shall singAnd journey on together.
You mourn that we are born so poor—I would not change our treasureFor all the thorn-concealing flowersThat strew the path of pleasure.God only searches for the soul,Nor heeds the outward building;Believe me, friend, a noble heartRequires no aid of gilding.Then never let us pine in spring,We 've braved out wintry weather,We yet may touch a sweeter stringWhen toiling on together.
What though our blood be tinged with mud,My lord's is simply purer;'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor makeHis seat in heaven surer.But should the noble deign to speak,We 'll hail him as a brother,And trace respective pedigreesTo Eve, our common mother.Then why should we despair in spring,Who braved out wintry weather?Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing,And journey on together.
A youth of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Riddell, was the youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell.[12]He was born at Flexhouse, near Hawick, Roxburghshire, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained till 1850, when, procuring a bursary from the governors of Heriot's Hospital, he entered the University of Edinburgh. During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and occasionally enfeebled his mental, energies. After a period of suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead, on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year.
Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in his eighth year some vigorous poetry. With a highly retentive memory he retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and Greek classics, he added a correct acquaintancewith many of the modern languages. He found consolation on his deathbed, by perusing the Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with Christian resignation.
No more by thy margin, dark Carron,Shall Wallace in solitude, wander,When tranquil the moon shines afar onThy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur.For lost are to meThy beauties for ever,Since fallen in theeLie the faithful and free,To waken, ah, never!And I, thus defeated, must sufferMy country's reproach; yet, forsaken,A home to me nature may offerAmong her green forests of braken.But home who can findFor heart-rending sorrow?The wound who can bindWhen thus pierced is the mindBy fate's ruthless arrow?'Tis death that alone ever frees usOf woes too profound to be spoken,And nought but the grave ever easesThe pangs of a heart that is broken.Then, oh! that my bloodIn Carron's dark waterHad mix'd with the floodOf the warriors' shed'Mid torrents of slaughter.For woe to the day when despondingI read in thine aspect the storyOf those that were slain when defendingTheir homes and their mountains of glory.And curst be the guileOf treacherous knaveryThat throws o'er our isleIn its tyranny vileThe mantle of slavery.
No more by thy margin, dark Carron,Shall Wallace in solitude, wander,When tranquil the moon shines afar onThy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur.For lost are to meThy beauties for ever,Since fallen in theeLie the faithful and free,To waken, ah, never!
And I, thus defeated, must sufferMy country's reproach; yet, forsaken,A home to me nature may offerAmong her green forests of braken.But home who can findFor heart-rending sorrow?The wound who can bindWhen thus pierced is the mindBy fate's ruthless arrow?
'Tis death that alone ever frees usOf woes too profound to be spoken,And nought but the grave ever easesThe pangs of a heart that is broken.Then, oh! that my bloodIn Carron's dark waterHad mix'd with the floodOf the warriors' shed'Mid torrents of slaughter.
For woe to the day when despondingI read in thine aspect the storyOf those that were slain when defendingTheir homes and their mountains of glory.And curst be the guileOf treacherous knaveryThat throws o'er our isleIn its tyranny vileThe mantle of slavery.
Oh! what is in this flaunting townThat pleasure can impart,When native hills and native glensAre imaged on the heart,And fancy hears the ceaseless roarOf cataracts sublime,Where I have paused and ponder'd o'erThe awful works of time?What, what is all the city din?What all the bustling crowdThat throngs these ways from morn to nightArray'd in trappings proud?While fancy's eye still sees the scenesAround my mountain home,Oh! what 's to me yon turret high.And what yon splendid dome?Ah! what except a mockery vainOf nature free as fair,That dazzles rather than delightsThe eye that meets its glare?Then bear me to the heathy hillsWhere I so loved to stray,There let me rove with footsteps freeAnd sing the rural lay.
Oh! what is in this flaunting townThat pleasure can impart,When native hills and native glensAre imaged on the heart,And fancy hears the ceaseless roarOf cataracts sublime,Where I have paused and ponder'd o'erThe awful works of time?
What, what is all the city din?What all the bustling crowdThat throngs these ways from morn to nightArray'd in trappings proud?While fancy's eye still sees the scenesAround my mountain home,Oh! what 's to me yon turret high.And what yon splendid dome?
Ah! what except a mockery vainOf nature free as fair,That dazzles rather than delightsThe eye that meets its glare?Then bear me to the heathy hillsWhere I so loved to stray,There let me rove with footsteps freeAnd sing the rural lay.
The author of "Rustic Lays," an interesting volume of lyric poetry, Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Torwoodlee, whose husband her father served, she was taught dress-making. She subsequently accepted the situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of Mid-Lothian. An inmate of their humble cottage, she has for some years been employed as a dress-maker. Her "Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855, in an elegant little volume. Of its contents she thus remarks in the preface: "Many of these pieces were composed by the authoress on the banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies of the woodland, has often charmed her into forgetfulness of the rough realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's cottage, at the hours of thegloamin', when, after the bustle of the day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and assumed the form in which they now appear."