cal literature may yet look for rich and varied contributions. In this class may also be included MR D. M. MOIR (the Delta of Blackwood's Magazine), author of the Legend of Genevieve and other Poems, 1825, and Domestic Verses, 1843, besides a vast number of contributions to the periodical literature of the day. Mr Moir is a poet of amiable and refined feeling, who has only been prevented by causes which redound to his honour, from taking that more conspicuous place in our literature to which his talents are entitled.
Of the other class, the most noted are, MR N. T. CARRINGTON, MAJOR CALDER CAMPBELL, MR ALARIC A. WATTS, MR WILLIAM KENNEDY, MR THOMAS AIRD, MR CHARLES SWAIN, and MR T. K. HERVEY. The late MR JOHN MALCOLM may be added to this series. From a scarcely less extensive list of female poetesses, may be selected the names of ELIZA COOK, LADY EMMELINE Wortley, MRS HENRY COLERIDGE, and MRS BROOKE.
[From Sterling's Poems.] Faithful maiden, gentle heart! Thus our thoughts of grief depart; Vanishes the place of death; Sounds no more thy painful breath; O'er the unbloody stream of Meuse Melt the silent evening dews, And along the banks of Loire Rides no more the armed destroyer. But thy native waters flow Through a land unnamed below, And thy woods their verdure wave In the vale beyond the grave, Where the deep-dyed western sky Looks on all with tranquil eye, And on distant dateless hills Each high peak with radiance fills. There amid the oak-tree shadow, And o'er all the beech-crowned meadow, Those for whom the earth must mourn, In their peaceful joy sojourn. Joined with Fame's selected few, Those whom Rumour never knew, But no less to Conscience true: Each grave prophet soul sublime, Pyramids of elder Time; Bards with hidden fire possessed, Flashing from a wo-worn breast; Builders of man's better lot, Whom their hour acknowledged not, Now with strength appeased and pure, Feel whate'er they loved is sure. These and such as these the train, Sanctified by former pain, 'Mid those softest yellow rays Sphered afar from mortal praise; Peasant, matron, monarch, child, Saint undaunted, hero mild,
Sage whom pride has ne'er beguiled: And with them the Champion-maid Dwells in that serenest glade; Danger, toil, and grief no more Touch her life's unearthly shore; Gentle sounds that will not cease, Breathe but peace, and ever peace; While above the immortal trees Michael and his host she sees Clad in diamond panoplies; And more near, in tenderer light, Honoured Catherine, Margaret bright, Agnes, whom her loosened hair Robes like woven amber air- Sisters of her childhood come To her last eternal home.
The Men of Old. [From Milnes's Poems.]
I know not that the men of old Were better than men now,
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, Of more ingenuous brow:
I heed not those who pine for force A ghost of time to raise,
As if they thus could check the course Of these appointed days.
Still is it true, and over true,
That I delight to close This book of life self-wise and new, And let my thoughts repose On all that humble happiness
The world has since foregone- The daylight of contentedness That on those faces shone!
With rights, though not too closely scanned, Enjoyed, as far as known-
With will, by no reverse unmanned- With pulse of even tone-
They from to-day and from to-night Expected nothing more,
Than yesterday and yesternight Had proffered them before.
To them was life a simple art Of duties to be done,
A game where each man took his part, A race where all must run;
A battle whose great scheme and scope They little cared to know, Content, as men at arms, to cope Each with his fronting foe.
Man now his virtue's diadem
Puts on, and proudly wears
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts unawares:
Blending their souls' sublimest needs With tasks of every day,
They went about their gravest deeds, As noble boys at play.
A man's best things are nearest him, Lie close about his feet,
It is the distant and the dim
That we are sick to greet:
For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire
Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire.
But, brothers, who up reason's hill Advance with hopeful cheer- O! loiter not, those heights are chill, As chill as they are clear;
And still restrain your haughty gaze, The loftier that ye go, Remembering distance leaves a haze On all that lies below.
The Long-ago.
[From the same.]
On that deep-retiring shore Frequent pearls of beauty lie, Where the passion-waves of yore Fiercely beat and mounted high: Sorrows that are sorrows still
Lose the bitter taste of wo; Nothing's altogether ill
In the griefs of Long-ago.
Tombs where lonely love repines, Ghastly tenements of tears, Wear the look of happy shrines
Through the golden mist of years: Death, to those who trust in good, Vindicates his hardest blow; Oh! we would not, if we could, Wake the sleep of Long-ago! Though the doom of swift decay
Shocks the soul where life is strong, Though for frailer hearts the day Lingers sad and overlongStill the weight will find a leaven, Still the spoiler's hand is slow, While the future has its heaven, And the past its Long-ago.
[From the Hope of the World, and other Poems,' by
Pauvre feuille dessechée! où vas-tu?-Arnault. Poor autumn leaf! down floating Upon the blustering gale; Torn from thy bough, Where goest now,
Withered, and shrunk, and pale?
'I go, thou sad inquirer,
As list the winds to blow, Sear, sapless, lost, And tempest-tost,
I go where all things go.
The rude winds bear me onward As suiteth them, not me, O'er dale, o'er hill, Through good, through ill, As destiny bears thee.
What though for me one summer, And threescore for thy breath- I live my span,
Thou thine, poor man! And then adown to death?
And thus we go together; For lofty as thy lot, And lowly mine,
My fate is thine,
To die and be forgot!'
[The Parting of Lovers.]
[From The Salamandrine,' by Charles Mackay.] Now, from his eastern couch, the sun, Erewhile in cloud and vapour hidden,
Rose in his robes of glory dight; And skywards, to salute his light, Upsprang a choir, unbidden, Of joyous larks, that, as they shook
The dewdrops from their russet pinions, Pealed forth a hymn so glad and clear, That darkness might have paused to hear
(Pale sentinel on morn's dominions), And envied her the flood of song Those happy minstrels poured along.
Yes, Peace and Love might build a nest For us amid these vales serene, And Truth should be our constant guest Among these pleasant wild-woods green. My heart should never nurse again
The once fond dreams of young Ambition, And Glory's light should lure in vain,
Lest it should lead to Love's perdition; Another light should round me shine, Beloved, from those eyes of thine!' Ah, Gilbert! happy should I be This hour to die, lest fate reveal That life can never give a joy
Such as the joy that now I feel. Oh! happy! happy! now to die, And go before thee to the sky; Losing, maybe, some charm of life, But yet escaping all its strife; And, watching for thy soul above, There to renew more perfect love, Without the pain and tears of this- Eternal, never palling bliss!'
And more she yet would say, and strives to speak, But warm, fast tears begin to course her cheek, And sobs to choke her; so, reclining still Her head upon his breast, she weeps her fill: And all so lovely in those joyous tears To his impassioned eyes the maid appears; He cannot dry them, nor one word essay To soothe such sorrow from her heart away. At last she lifts her drooping head,
And, with her delicate fingers, dashes The tears away that hang like pearls
Upon her soft eyes' silken lashes: Then hand in hand they take their way
O'er the green meadows gemmed with dew, And up the hill, and through the wood,
And by the streamlet, bright and blue, And sit them down upon a stone With mantling mosses overgrown, That stands beside her cottage door, And oft repeat,
When next they meet,
That time shall never part them more. He's gone! Ah no! he lingers yet, And all her sorrow, who can tell? As gazing on her face he takes
His last and passionate farewell? 'One kiss!' said he, and I depart With thy dear image in my heart: One more to soothe a lover's pain, And think of till I come again!
One more.' Their red lips meet and tremble, And she, unskilful to dissemble, Allows, deep blushing, while he presses, The warmest of his fond caresses.
Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains- Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook, And waterfall; the day is silent else,
And night is strangely mute! the hymnings high- The immortal music, men of ancient times Heard ravished oft, are flown! O ye have lost, Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy Intense; with a rich mystery that awed The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths Divinest tales, that through the enchanted year Found passionate listeners!
The very streams Brightened with visitings of these so sweet Ethereal creatures! They were seen to rise From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew As the pomp passed to land, until the eye Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod, Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose, And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers, Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes Looked on their revels all the luscious night; And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved, Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp Elysian!
And by gifted eyes were seen Wonders in the still air; and beings bright And beautiful, more beautiful than throng Fancy's ecstatic regions, peopled now The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale Of the sweet summer noon. Anon they touched The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades Seemed greener, fairer and the enraptured woods Gave a glad leafy murmur-and the rills Leaped in the ray for joy; and all the birds Threw into the intoxicating air their songs, All soul. The very archings of the grove, Clad in cathedral gloom from age to age, Lightened with living splendours; and the flowers, Tinged with new hues and lovelier, upsprung By millions in the grass, that rustled now To gales of Araby!
In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade;
The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as pleased These potent elves. They steered the giant cloud Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash Came down in death or sport; ay, when the storin Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow wings, The tempest; and, anon, they reined its rage In its fierce mid career. But ye have flown, Beautiful fictions of our fathers!-flown Before the wand of Science, and the hearths Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year, Are passionless and silent!
Langsyne!-how doth the word come back With magic meaning to the heart, As memory roams the sunny track,
From which hope's dreams were loath to part! No joy like by-past joy appears; For what is gone we fret and pine. Were life spun out a thousand years, It could not match Langsyne! Langsyne!-the days of childhood warm, When, tottering by a mother's knee, Each sight and sound had power to charm, And hope was high, and thought was free. Langsynethe merry schoolboy days- How sweetly then life's sun did shine! Oh! for the glorious pranks and plays, The raptures of Langsyne.
Langsyne!-yes, in the sound I hear The rustling of the summer grove; And view those angel features near Which first awoke the heart to love. How sweet it is in pensive mood, At windless midnight to recline, And fill the mental solitude With spectres from Langsyne!
Langsyne!-ah, where are they who shared With us its pleasures bright and blithe? Kindly with some hath fortune fared; And some have bowed beneath the scythe Of death; while others scattered far O'er foreign lands at fate repine,
Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star, To muse on dear Langsyne!
Langsyne!-the heart can never be Again so full of guileless truth; Langsyne!-the eyes no more shall see, Ah no! the rainbow hopes of youth. Langsyne!—with thee resides a spell To raise the spirit, and refine. Farewell!-there can be no farewell To thee, loved, lost Langsyne!
Casa Wappy.
[By the same.]
[Casa Wappy was the self-conferred pet name of an infant son of the poet, snatched away after a very brief illness.]
And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy-
The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy?
Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth; Even by its bliss we mete our death, Casa Wappy!
Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye;
Tears of our anguish may not tell
When thou didst die;
Words may not paint our grief for thee, Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathomed agony,
Thou wert a vision of delight To bless us given; Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven:
So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self than a part Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy!
Thy bright brief day knew no decline, "Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine, Beloved boy!
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay, That found thee prostrate in decay, And e'er a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy!
Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled;
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring bloom,
Down to the appointed house below, The silent tomb.
But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo and the busy bee,' Return-but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy!
'Tis so; but can it be (while flowers Revive again)-
Man's doom, in death that we and ours For aye remain?
Oh! can it be, that o'er the grave The grass renewed, should yearly wave, Yet God forget our child to save?- Casa Wappy!
It cannot be for were it so
Thus man could die,
Life were a mockery, Thought were wo, And Truth a lie;
Heaven were a coinage of the brain,
Religion frenzy, Virtue vain,
And all our hopes to meet again,
Ten Years Ago.
[By Alaric A. Watts.]
That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures! Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur. Other gifts Have followed for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense.-Wordsworth.
Ten years ago, ten years ago,
Life was to us a fairy scene;
And the keen blasts of worldly wo
Had scared not then its pathway green. Youth and its thousand dreams were ours, Feelings we ne'er can know again; Unwithered hopes, unwasted powers, And frames unworn by mortal pain: Such was the bright and genial flow Of life with us-ten years ago!
Time has not blanched a single hair
That clusters round thy forehead now; Nor hath the cankering touch of care Left even one furrow on thy brow. Thine eyes are blue as when we met,
In love's deep truth, in earlier years; Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet,
Though sometimes stained by secret tears; But where, oh! where's the spirit's glow, That shone through all-ten years ago?
I, too, am changed-I scarce know why- Can feel each flagging pulse decay; And youth and health, and visions high, Melt like a wreath of snow away; Time cannot sure have wrought the ill; Though worn in this world's sickening strife, In soul and form, I linger still
In the first summer month of life; Yet journey on my path below, Oh! how unlike-ten years ago!
But look not thus: I would not give
The wreck of hopes that thou must share,
To bid those joyous hours revive
When all around me seemed so fair. We've wandered on in sunny weather,
When winds were low, and flowers in bloom, And hand in hand have kept together,
And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom; Endeared by ties we could not know When life was young-ten years ago!
Has fortune frowned? Her frowns were vain, For hearts like ours she could not chill; Have friends proved false? Their love might wane, But ours grew fonder, firmer still. Twin barks on this world's changing wave, Steadfast in calms, in tempests tried; In concert still our fate we'll brave,
Together cleave life's fitful tide; Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow, Youth's first wild dreams-ten years ago! Have we not knelt beside his bed,
And watched our first-born blossom die? Hoped, till the shade of hope had fled,
Then wept till feeling's fount was dry? Was it not sweet, in that dark hour,
To think, 'mid mutual tears and sighs, Our bud had left its earthly bower,
And burst to bloom in Paradise? What to the thought that soothed that wo Were heartless joys-ten years ago?
Yes, it is sweet, when heaven is bright, To share its sunny beams with thee; But sweeter far, 'mid clouds and blight, To have thee near to weep with me.
Then dry those tears-though something changed From what we were in earlier youth, Time, that hath hopes and friends estranged, Hath left us love in all its truth; Sweet feelings we would not forego
For life's best joys-ten years ago.
My Mother's Grave.
[By Thomas Aird.]
O rise and sit in soft attire, Wait but to know my soul's desire! I'd call thee back to days of strife, To wrap my soul around thy life! Ask thou this heart for monument, And mine shall be a large content.
A crown of brightest stars to thee! How did thy spirit wait for me, And nurse thy waning light, in faith
That I would stand 'twixt thee and death; Then tarry on thy bowing shore, Till I have asked thy sorrows o'er.
I came not-and I cry to save Thy life from out the oblivious grave, One day; that I may well declare, How I have thought of all thy care, And love thee more than I have done; And make thy day with gladness run.
I'd tell thee where my youth hath been; Of perils past-of glories seen: I'd speak of all my youth hath done- And ask of things, to choose and shun; And smile at all thy needless fears, But bow before thy solemn tears.
Come, walk with me, and see fair earth, The ways of men, and join their mirth! Sleep on for mirth is now a jest ; Nor dare I call thee from thy rest; Well hast thou done thy worldly task; Thy mouth hath nought of me to ask!
Men wonder till I pass away- They think not but of useless clay: Alas! for age, this memory! But I have other thoughts of thee; And I would wade thy dusty grave, To kiss the head I cannot save.
O life and power! that I might see Thy visage swelling to be free! Come near, O burst that earthly cloud, And meet my visage lowly bowed. Alas!-in corded stiffness pent, Darkly I guess thy lineament.
I might have lived, and thou on earth, And been to thee like stranger's birth- Thou feeble thing of eld! but gone,
I feel as in the world alone.
The wind that lifts the streaming tree- The skies seem cold, and new to me.
I feel a hand untwist the chain, Of mother's love, with strange cold pain From round my heart: this bosom's bare, And less than wonted life is there. O, well may flow these tears of strife, O'er broken fountains of my life;
Because my life of thee was part, And decked with blood-drops of thy heart: I was the channel of thy love, Where more than half thy soul did move : How strange, yet just o'er me thy claim, Thou aged head! my life and name.
Because I know there is not one To think of me as thou hast done From morn till starlight, year by year: From me thy smile repaid thy tear; And fears for me and no reproof, When once I dared to stand aloof.
My punishment-that I was far When God unloosed thy weary star: My name was in thy faintest breath, And I was in thy dream of death: And well I know what raised thy head, When came the mourner's muffled tread.
Alas! I cannot tell thee now,
I could not come to bind thy brow: And wealth is late, nor aught I've won, Were worth to hear thee call thy son, In that dark hour when bands remove, And none are named but names of love.
Alas for me! that hour is old,
My hands, for this, shall miss their hold: For thee no spring, nor silver rain Unbutton thy dark grave again. No sparrow on the sunny thatch Shall chirp for thee her lonely watch.
Yet, sweet thy rest from mortal strife, And cruel cares that spanned thy life! Turn to thy God-and blame thy son- To give thee more than I have done. Thou God, with joy beyond all years, Fill high the channels of her tears.
Thou carest not now for soft attire, Yet wilt thou hear my last desire; For earth I dare not call thee more; But speak from off thy awful shore- O ask this heart for monument, And mine shall be a large content.
The Death of the Warrior King. [By Charles Swain.]
There are noble heads bowed down and pale, Deep sounds of wo arise,
And tears flow fast around the couch Where a wounded warrior lies;
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