The clustering hawthorn, fondling o'er the rose,
Shading the modest violet in its turn;
While the bright champion all her beauty shows,
Above the sparkling bosom of the burn.
MY NATIVE GLEN. 199
Unnumber'd flowers bestrewn by nature's hand,
In fair luxuriance bud and bloom around;
While fancy reigns, and smiles upon the land,
Above, and round this consecrated ground.
My native glen ! from you, when far away,
My dreams will still inhale your fresh perfume,
Where through the woodruff's fragrancy I stray,
Or linger round the yellow banks of broom.
At morn, when all around is hush'd in sleep,
Ere the early sun dispels the morning dews,
I leave the haunts of men in silence deep,
Within your dark and leafy dells to muse;
Or wander o'er the bushy mountain's brow,
Around the amphitheatre of woods;
Sombering the landscape in the vale below,
Where brawling comes the voice of rushing floods
Unseen, while yet the wreathing mists impend,
Curling above the lonesome green wood's reign;
While far below the foaming streams descend,
Leaping from rock to lin, to reach the plain.
Tis sweet in such a lovely wilderness,
Ere sleeping flowers their dewy breasts unfold
To the morning's sun, the tufted lawn to press,
And hear the matin song ring through the wold.
200 VERNAL FLOWERS.
In scenes like these, remote from human bield,
Oh could I pass the vale of life alone,
In peace with th' calm, a rural life might yield,
And hail yon moss-crown'd cavern as my own.
Fond recollections! glens, and woods, and all
Ye kindred ties that long and firm have been
Twining around this heart, when I recall
Your dear remembrance, like a morning's dream.
On some far distant day, when seas between
Us lie; Time's signet, while the warm tears glow,
Shall ne'er efface you, nor this smiling scene,
Where all my hopes concentrate, ebb, and flow.
Mellow thy notes, sweet bird! the dingle rings
Thy warblings louder, wouldst thou wert at rest,
And roosting on the spray: Each note thou sings,
Thrills sadness through this throbbing fever'd breast.
VERNAL FLOWERS.
THE yellow Aconite from winter's urn,
With many an early spring-flower in her train,
Starring the landscape, welcome spring's return,
Awakening vegetation o'er the plain :
THE WIND-FLOWER. 201
From glen to grove, each small bird's voice again
Rings music on the breeze now the pleas'd eye
Can watch the vernal flower through its short reign,
Whether its virgin bud conceaTd may lie
'Mong wither'd leaves, or 'neath the budding thorn.
Or dips its crimson cups in the pure stream,
Watering its new-born blossoms, while the morn
Smiles down the primrosed valley; every gleam
Of sunshine wakens up new flowers to blow,
So late enshrined in beds of virgin snow.
THE WIND-FLOWER.
I watch'd the Wind-Flower, as she, leaf by leaf,
Unfolded to the breath of April's air ;
Her pale and vermil petals, streak'd like grief
On the young face of beauty, when despair
Or premature decay has seiz'd upon
Her angel frame, and droop'd her in her prime.
The flower expanded as the sunbeams shone
Around the smiling glade. No fairer clime
Than this needs ere be sigh'd for, where the ground
Is studded o'er with Wind-Flo wer; fleeting blooms!
To-morrow ye are gone, and no more found,
Till spring again the wood and lawn perfumes.
Fair emblem of my Laura's hectic bloom,
Loved and adored, then entered in the tomb.
202 WRITTEN AT SEA.
WRITTEN AT SEA.
IT is pleasant to gaze on the deep blue sky,
When the fair moonbeams on the waters lie,
And the night breeze swells our sail;
When all is sea, the eye can explore,
As the bark steers for my native shore,
With a light and steady gale.
How lovely then on the calm green sea,
To mark the fish on our starboard and lea,
In countless shoals around,
Like a molten lake of paler gold
All sparkling bright, whose bars infold
Our bark as on fairy ground.
As our prow glides through, we wondering gaze
On the far spread phosphorescent blaze,
While from each curling wave,
Bright bars of gold spring up, then glide
In liquid fire down the living tide,
The glancing brine to lave.
We near'd the shore, when the dawning morn
Illumin'd the waves, and the spell was gone ;
But never from this breast
Shall a sight so glorious and sublime,
Ere be effaced, in whatever clime
My pilgrim'd footsteps rest.
THE COLD SPRING. 203
WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE COLD SPRING, 1827.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless. THOMSON.
'Tis April! yet the snow-storm hovers round,
To blight and scare thee in thy growth sweet flower,
The flakes fall fast around thee, while the ground
Crisps to my tread all yield to winter's power
But thee, and the young snow-drop; left at will
To bloom or perish in the wilds ye love,
By the hoar-drooping hawthorn 'neath the hill,
First in pale Flora's train by yonder grove.
What poet with a scene so drear, forlorn,
Would mantle spring, in smiling robes of green!
For see her shivering in the chills of morn,
Where panzied tufts, and primrose beds have been
And should be blooming now, where snow-clad bowers
Shrine April in the wilderness around,
Of fair and spotless purity, where flowers
Shrink from the clear cold air within the ground,
And nestle their young buds in the wither'd leaves,
Strewn by Pomona when she fled these dells:
Yet see, braving the blast, whose bosom heaves,
Fronting the storm, whose embryo beauty swells,
204 THE COLD SPRING.
And bursts its cerement; alternate spread
Thy yellow petals smiling to the morn,
Bright gaudy golden cup! the lark o'erhead
Will greet thee, soon as soft winds lax the storm.
Bloom on, sweet flowers; you're shelter'd in the grove,
While all around the devious woodland shore,
Where Kelvin murmurs onward as I rove,
Is shingled with the rime-frost spreading hoar.
As muffled in my cloak I climb the hill,
And lean upon yon rock the vale below,
Where winter lords, around sleeps peaceful still,
'Mong leafless underwoods, and wreaths of snow.
How bleak appears the wide extending plain,
To where yon dark pines throw their gloom around :
No speck of green gladdens the dreary scene,
No wild bird warbles forth a joyous sound.
The cold east wind blows bleak o'er hill and lawn,
Blighting the opening bud, while in his train,
Disease, with flurrying pace, from eve till dawn,
Stalks ghastly o'er the pestilence-tainted plain.
Your rigours cannot last ; the rudest gush,
Of passion rankling in the human breast,
Lords but its day, then settles down to blush,
At its own futile weakness, though oppress'd
TO THALIARCHUS. 205
And sear'd in April's bosom, soon will May
Relieve her elder sister, now forlorn,
Rain her warm tears, and thaw the frosts away
From her wan flowerless forehead. May ! thy mom
Is usher'd in by all, with odorous breaths,
Cradled in April's lap so poets sing,
Who strew thy path in smiles, and flowery wreaths :
For once, distrust the tidings which they bring.
HORACE, LIB. I. ODE IX. TO THALIARCHUS.
Vides, ut alta, stet nive candidum
Soracte.
BLEAK Soracte meets my sight,
Clothed in a robe of virgin white;
The olives in the vale below,
Groan beneath a load of snow,
While bound in strongest bands of frost,
The currents of the streams are lost,
One solid sheet of ice spreads o'er,
Fair Tyber's banks from shore to shore.
Dispel the cold, the friendly blaze,
To warm and cheer your poet, raise;
With wood the blazing ingle crown,
Till every object shine around.
206 TO THALIARCHUS.
From Sabine cask thy nectar pour,
To beguile the weary hour,
Cause the sparkling goblets shine,
With four years old Falernian wine.
The cares of life, the pangs of love,
Leave them to the gods above,
Who calm the storm, and still the breeze,
Contending with the stormy seas,
W T hen the dark cypress groves are still,
And the old beeches 'neath the hill.
What cares sit on to-morrow's brow,
Leave off to seek the sequel now;
What length of days to thee are given,
Contented wait the will of heaven.
Fond youth, disdain not love's advances,
When proffer'd thee, nor yet the dances,
Till crabbed age above thee hover,
And thy hey-days of youth are over.
Now Campus Martius, and the streets
Of ancient Rome (where each whisper meets
The ear, when evening shadows lower),
Are sought again at the appointed hour;
And the coy maid's light-hearted smile,
Her feign'd retreats too soon beguile.
On her arms the bracelets feebly linger,
And the ring on her gently resisting finger.
TO THE ROSE. 207
ANACREON. ODE V.
TO THE ROSE.
To odov ro ruv
COME let us mingle with the purpling vine,
The rose of love, the gay-leaf 'd blushing rose;
Roses around our temples let us twine,
While laughing merrily, we quaff the wine,
Rich in rose odours till our bosom glows.
O rose, with damask bosom! fairest flower!
Delightful to the gods! of teeming spring,
Thou art the cherish'd nursling! every bower,
Balm'd by thy breath, ten thousand odours bring.
Round his fair flowing locks, see Venus' child,
Wreathes roses, whilst the mazy dance is led,
Through the bright rosary by the urchin wild,
And comely graces heaven is in their tread.
Crown me, great Bacchus, that my willing lyre,
May hymn aloud thy praises! cover'd o'er
With rosy chaplets, all my soul's desire,
Shall centre round thy altars, while I pour
Glad songs to thee! and with the blooming maid,
Of the deep bosom, tread the dance's maze;
Through rose-bowers fondly tendril'd by the shade
Of mantling vines, we'll spend our summer days.
208 RETROSPECTIVE.
RETROSPECTIVE.
WHEN early scenes and other years,
Dim in the distant vale appears,
Fond thoughts will rush across the mind,
Which memory cannot leave behind;
These cling like ivy round the oak,
Aye fresh and green, though storms have broke
His pride, and branch'd the goodly tree,
A meditative sight to see.
All hail to thee ! my native stream,
Parent of many a pleasant dream,
Where first I rudely strung my lyre,
And sung thy praise, with fond desire.
Within the rustling alder grove,
When day was spent, I loved to rove,
And trace the mellow moonlight scene,
Around thy daizy-skirted green.
Or range thy woodland banks along,
Where all around, the wakeful song
Of nature's choristers hath trill'd,
Till Vesperus their task had still'd,
And twilight's milder tints again
Were crimson'd o'er the peaceful scene;
Where save the hum of water's fall,
Borne on the breeze, 'twas silence all.
Yes, scenes like these are ever fair,
And fresh upon the mind, though the air
SMILE O'ER THEM ALL. 209
We breath'd (when childhood's moody wiles
Were dimpling round our cheeks in smiles)
Hath lost that summer sunny glow,
That balm'd the valley's breast below,
And tinged each flower with richer dies,
That opened to the clear blue skies.
Yet fond remembrance paints anew
The scenes whence infancy first drew
These rude impressions, and matured
Their semblance into life, and pour'd
The living pictures as they rose,
Swelling with animation's throes,
On the heart's beating chords; where placed,
They grew, and ne'er could be effaced.
SMILE O'ER THEM ALL.
IF to grieve be a folly, then smile if you can;
To indulge melancholy, unsettles the man;
Though the ills of the world like mists hover round thee,
When sorrows are fresh, or ingratitudes wound thee,
Smile o'er them all.
Smile if thou can, though thy eye's glaz'd and hollow,
Warm sunshine the raging tornado may follow;
Smile though thy blooming bride enters the tomb,
On the day thou would'st hail her the wife of thy home:
Smile o'er them all!
210 ARABELLA.
Smile though the world wide, all should deride thee;
Thy bosom's thy own, then rebel should it chide thee ;
Smile, though despair strew the path-way before thee,
Where ruin unfurls his pale banner o'er thee :
Smile o'er them all !
Thy smile may recall lingering hope in her flight,
When thy griefs court repose, ere she settles in night;
Kneel down at her shrine, if thy smiles she return, [spurn,
No more mourns the lorn heart, even thee should she
Smile o'er them all!
Thus the Muse bade me sing, saying hope is asleep,
But soon will she waken, no more must thou weep;
I see a fair sunny scene brightening around,
Sorrow's clouds are dispelling, hope's all-cheering sound
Whispers, smile o'er them all!
ARABELLA.
Extinctam, omnes crudeli funere, Arabellam,
Flebant.
SAD the mourners pace before,
Memento Mori's, fraught with woe;
Young Arabella blooms no more,
The pride of Gayfield-row.
Yon minute mourning-bell tolls loud;
Its warning, thrilling knell, I know,
Strikes terror through the gazing crowd,
W T ho mark death's pageant passing slow.
ARABELLA. 211
Her weeping mother sees the bier,
Borne slowly through the inquiring throng;
These wailings and that heart-wrung tear,
Will rankle in her bosom long.
Her gray-hair'd father bears the pall,
He sees not ought of all the crowd;
For hopes fair prospects each and all,
Rest with his daughter in her shroud.
Her youthful lover swells the train;
What father, mother, all may feel,
Are keenly felt by him, the pain
Of blighted love, who dares conceal !
The grave receives this opening flower,
By all who knew her, lov'd, caress'd;
Cropp'd down by thine unerring power,
Consumption, scourge to the human breast.
The pall's remov'd, the gilded plate
On the dark coffin tells thy name,
Dead Arabella! age, and date,
Now greets the tell-tale eye of fame.
We thought thee older than thou seem'd,
When Heaven reclaim'd thee as its own :
41 JEtatis Seventeen!" we deem'd
Thy teens were o'er, thy girlhood gone.
212 ARABELLA.
Thy maiden mind was premature,
Thy beauty, name it not 'tis gone,
Thy worth, thy modesty so pure,
We saw, and felt them, not alone.
The sexton as he clamp'd the sod,
On thy bone-mingled bed of earth,
Dream'd not of Pluto's drear abode,
Nor parents' wail, nor beauty's worth,
But carelessly some ditty sang,
As with his spade he smoothed the dust ;
Perhaps, love never lent his pang
To this rude misanthropist.
At pleasure now the tempest roars,
And swirls around the cheerless lair;
While the rain-god in torrents pours,
His watery bosom bare.
Sun, wind, or rain, she heeds them not,
To heaven the maiden's soul has fled,
While the mortal part, by man forgot,
Lies mingling with its kindred dead.
Such is the tale, my brother worm !
Rung in thine ear, from hour to hour,
And keenly felt; still no reform,
Till death's mandates above thee lower.
SWEET ! COME AWAY MY DARLING. 213
SWEET! COME AWAY MY DARLING.
SWEET ! come away my darling,
And range Rowallan glens with me;
Where balmy through the wild wood,
Young zephyr's breath o'er flower and tree
Tells summer in her childhood
Lies blooming all before thee;
And strews around the spangled lea,
Full many a dainty garland.
Sweet! come away my darling,
Rowallan woods through summer's reign,
Ne'er smiled upon a blossom,
So peerless as the Lady Jane;
Yon water-lily's bosom,
Like thine's, pure without a stain,
As her snowy-cups repose them,
On the lake's breast, my darling.
Young Fairlie and his darling,
They wander'd down the greenwood's dell,
Where fluttering round his fond heart,
Love panted all its fears to tell;
But hope may ward each willing art,
And every cloud dispel,
That intervening strives to part
Young Fairlie and his darling.
The above was suggested, after reading the following sentence
in the history and descent of the house of Rowallan : " Tradition
still points out the spot where Fairlie was married to the heiress
214 APRIL is IN MY MARY'S FACE.
of Ko wall an. The ceremony was performed by a curate in the
fields, about a quarter of a mile from the house of Rowallan, at a
tree, still called the marriage tree, which stands on the top of a
steep bank, above that part of the stream, called * Janet's Kirn.'"
APRIL IS IN MY MARY'S FACE.
Air. In TEKILI."
APRIL is in my Mary's face,
And wantons round to be caress'd,
While July in her eyes hath place,
Strewing young rose-buds o'er her breast.
See, glittering from the dew-clad spray,
Aurora brightens up the day,
And tells the blooming maiden May,
To garland all the wild for thee.
The hawthorn, now, the spreading sloe,
Shower fragrance down the vocal glen;
Where early summer glances thro',
The greenwood mazes once again;
I love to wander where the sound
Of falling waters aye rebound,
This fairy-haunted glen around,
If Mary tracks the world with me.
When autumn's breath has brown'd the groves,
The eyebright, and the asphodel,
Will linger where Pomona roves,
Till winter steals across the dell;
FAIR MARY ANNE. 215
Then, Mary, will the bleak snow-storm,
Our once fair meads and glens deform;
And trackless wilds where'er we roam,
Enshrines each dear-loved scene from thee.
FAIRY MARY ANNE.
Air." OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE."
ruby-faced twilight danced over the hill,
To wake up the fairies, and weary birds still,
On the gay banks of Clutha, to meet Mary Anne,
I wander'd one evening, ere winter began.
When the breeze rustled o'er
The wan leaves on the tree,
And strew'd all the shore,
And the sheaf-cover'd lea;
While stars twinkled bright in the firmament blue,
Reflecting their glare on the rose-drooping dew.
My bosom throbb'd quick, o'er the banks as I trod,
For I deem'd not the winds on the hill were abroad,
Till storm-chaffed clouds the pale moon overcast,
And her face was obscured in the wings of the blast.
And the stars they were gone,
As the storm gather'd round,
Yet I still wander'd on
Through the darkness profound;
For Love was my guide to the jessamine bower,
Where she promised to meet me at twilight's soft hour.
216 THE TRYSTING HOUR.
The winds died away, and the lovely moon shone
Through the bower where I plighted to make her my own ;
And the fond maiden wept ere I won her consent,
The tears of affection, they flow'd and they went
Like flowers, when the dews
Of the night trickle there,
Till sunbeams diffuse
Them to perfume the air:
Now the pride of my cabin, ere summer began,
Could this heart tell its raptures, was " Fair Mary Anne!"
THE TRYSTING HOUR.
THE night-wind's Eolian breezes,
Chase melody over the grove,
The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,
Float rosy the woodlands above :
Then tarry no longer my true love,
The stars hang their lamps in the sky,
'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,
When each bloom has a tear in its eye.
So stilly the evening is closing,
Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,
Eolian whispers reposing,
Breathe softly, I hear my love call:
Yes ! the light fairy step of my true love,
The night breeze is wafting to me;
Over heath-bell and violet blue, love,
Perfuming the shadowy lea.
SMILE OF HOPE. PAULONA OF MOSCOW. 217
THE SMILE OF HOPE.
ROUND the fond heart plays the smile of hope,
When youth and love unite;
Like vernal breeze o'er new-blown flowers,
Which court the morning's light,
When bees hum round each cup and bell,
Meeting the raptur'd sight.
But hope can flutter round love, then die;
Even changeful April's breath
May chill and blight the fair young flower
She cradled on the heath,
Where the ranging bee in vain will try
To sip new sweets from death.
I've seen the tremor on beauty's cheeks,
Raise the lustre in her eye
The flash wax pale that full eye dim
The light smile play, then die,
And ebb on the heart; till hope recall'd
It Upward on a sigh.
PAULONA OF MOSCOW.
WHEN we met at the altar,
Our nuptial vows to bind,
What joy rung through the hall,
As our willing hands were join'd;
218 PAULONA OF MOSCOW.
And my hero bless'd the happy day,
When love's propitious star
Restor'd him to Paulona's arms,
From the red fields of war,
And bade me hope that sorrow
No more would cloud our mind.
Ah! fleeting were the hopes, that long
In secret we caress' d,
Till the larum peal'd forebodings,
Thrilling wild through every breast:
To arms! the trumpet sounded,
And my warrior sigh'd adieu!
Then hasten'd with my kinsmen
For the combat, while I flew
To the isles within the Kremlin,
Where my woes were hush'd to rest.
Hath a footstep so unhallow'd
Ere profaned Saint Michael's shrine !
Did a heart so steep'd in sorrows,
Ever court thy aid as mine,
While prostrate where thy ashes rest,
patron Saint! I clung,
Calling aloud upon thee, while the yell
Of rapine round me rung,
When thy silver tomb, and jewel'd pall
1 kiss'd, O saint divine!
Yes, where the frowning shadows
Of our Tsars were flitting around,
PAULONA OF MOSCOW. 219
The infidel despoil'd thy fane,
And dragg'd me from the ground,
Pale, shrieking to their chief,
While his protection I implored,
And begg'd on bended knee,
To my lorn mother to be restored,
Who mourn'd her lost Paulona,
Weeping till she was found.
The dark and troubled waters
Of the Moskva girdle round
Towers, battlements, and all within
The Kremlin's hallo w'd ground:
Ivan-Velikii's lofty spire,
In gold and green surveys,
Thy princely dwellings, Moscow!
Through the universal blaze,
Where the crimson moon frown'd o'er the wreck
Of ruin strew'd around.
O pity ! in that trying hour
I call'd you, but ye fled;
Oblivion draw thy veil around
The friendless orphan's head;
My Warrior, Father, Mother, long
Will recall Paulona's woes:
She stretch'd her wan-worn lovely form
On the spreading Avaste of snows,
Then closing her dark eyes, slept
With the surrounding dead.
220 THE LONESOME DELL.
The foregoing Ballad was suggested upon reading the affecting
story of Paulona, in Lebaume's Campaign in Russia.
" The Kremlin," says Dr. Robert Lyall in his interesting his-
tory of Russia, " if taken as a whole, with its venerable white
walls, numerous battlements, variously coloured towers and
steeples, present to the sight, one of the most singular, beautiful,
and magnificent spectacles T ever beheld : it occupies a command-
ing situation on the banks of the Moskva river.
Immediately under the Cathedral of St. Michael, are the Royal
Sepulchres. These are arranged in regular order under the nave,
and in the trepedza of the church, defended with iron balustrades ;
while the tomb of St. Michael, the Patron Saint of Russia, is of
beaten silver, and the pall is richly adorned with pearls and pre-
cious stones."
THE LONESOME DELL.
'Tis a dreary dell, when December's snows
Are swirling here ; and the rude wind blows,
In fitful gusty yellings round :
It is dreary still, when the woods are green,
And mantled all in summer's sheen,
Where gule and rampion sprent the ground.
'Tis a lonesome dell though the voice of love
Should whisper its vow in the deep green grove,
Where the brakes 'neath the witch-elm wave ;
Nae wholesome plant is e'er seen to bloom,
Where the murder'd maiden found a tomb,]
Near the bank where the Kelvin's waters lave.
THE LONESOME DELL.
221
Tis a lonesome dell for the peasants tell,
While the pear tree branch 'd o'er the fountain well,
There the struggling maiden shriek'd her last;
And his cheek grows pale, as he whispers the tale
To the stranger wandering through the vale,
Where Kelvin waters are murmuring past.
During some passing conversation held with an old peasant,
by the Pear- Tree- Well at north Woodside, upon the Kelvin, he
thus addressed the visitor: " In yonder old house (pointing east-
ward), some thirty-eight years ago, lived Catharine Clark with her
mother. One Saturday, late in autumn, a young man, under-
stood to be her sweetheart, called her out in the gloaming. Within
two hours thereafter, he again visited her mother's cottage; the
anxious mother seeing him enter alone, and also observing some
spots of blood upon his hands and dress, cried out in the utmost
trepidation, ' Where is my daughter?' The lad made some excuse
to account for Catharine's absence, tending to lull, though not to
satisfy a mother's fears; and killing a sheep were the immediate
causes of her groundless fears. It was strange, that he was not
immediately seized, and more so, that he was allowed to return
home, to one of the low bleachfield houses down upon the river
opposite Kelvin-side where he then lodged : early next morning,
a search was instituted until the girl was found. She had been
murdered in the hollow behind the Pear- Tree- Well, and a huge
slab of granite laid over the shallow crypt wherein she lay. The
Evil One must have assisted the murderer in his unhallowed task,"