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I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
We part upon the spot, And sick wi' a' I see
With cold and clouded brow, I canna live as I ha'e lived,
Where first it was our lot Or be as I should be.
To breathe love's fondest vow ! But fauld unto your heart, Willie,
The vow both then did tender The heart that still is thine
Within this hallowed shade And kiss ance mair the white, white That vow, we now surrender, cheek,
Heart-bankrupts both are made ! Ye said was red langsyne.
Thy hand is cold as mine,
As lustreless thine eye ; A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
Thy bosom gives no sign A sair stoun' through my heart
That it could ever sigh ! Oh! haud me up, and let me kiss
Well, well! adieu's soon spoken, Thy brow ere we twa pairt.
'Tis but a parting phrase, Anither, and anither yet!
Yet said, I fear, heart-broken How fast my life-strings break!
We'll live our after days! Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirkyaird
Thine eye no tear will shed, Step lichtly for my sake!
Mine is as proudly dry;
But many an aching head The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,
Is ours before we die! That lilts far ower our heid,
From pride we both can borrowWill sing the morn as merrilie
To part we both may dareAbune the clay-cauld deid;
But the heart-break of to-morrow, And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Nor you por I can bear!
THE VOICE OF LOVE.
When shadows o'er the landscape creep, But oh! remember me, Willie,
And twinkling stars pale vigils keep; On land where'er ye bem
When flower-cups all with dew-drops And oh! think on the leal, leal heart
gleam, That ne'er luvit ane but thee !
And moonshine floweth like a stream; And oh! think on the cauld, cauld mools,
Then is the hour That file my yellow hair
That hearts which love no longer dream That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin,
Then is the hour Ye never sall kiss mair!
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! The poems are partly narrative When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the and partly lyrical, and among the
lake, lyrical are thirty songs. Some of And amorous leaves sweet music wake; them are of a kindred spirit with When slumber steals o'er every eye, the lines we have now been quoting; And Dian's self shines drowsily; others of a gay and lively tone; and
Then is the hour the rest of that mixed character of That heartswhich love with rapture sigh
Then is the hour feeling and fancy, when the heart takes pleasure in what may be called
That the voice of love is a spell of power! moonlight moods, when the shadow When surly mastiffs stint their howl, seems itself a softened light, and And swathed in moonshine nods the owl; melancholy melts away into mirth
When cottage-hearths areglimmering low, and mirth soon relapses into melan- And warder cocks forget to crow; choly, We quote one sad—and one Then is the hour happy song-from which you may That hearts feel passion's overflow guess the rest.
Then is the hour
Oh! is it thus we part,
When stilly night seems earth's vast grave,
Then is the hour
Then is the hour
'Tis no easy thing to write a song. attached to them, say Burns. Is it If you doubt it, try. A song is some- not so with that beautiful and blessed thing like a sonnet. There must be song
of his, one pervading Feeling in a song; and so too, for the most part, in a son
" O a' the airts the wind can blaw, net-but often in a sonnet it is rather
I dearly lo'e the west ; a pervading Thought, which of course
For there the bonny lassie leeves, has its own feeling, as an accompa
The lass that I lo'e best !" niment. The one pervading Feel- But we must return, if possible, ing expands itself during a song, to the Book ; and shall quote a few like a wild-flower in the breath and fine things from the third class of dew of morning, which before was poetry, to which we adverted above, but a bud, and we are touched with namely, description of Nature, ima sweet sense of beauty, at the full bued with sentiment. There are a disclosure. As a song should always thousand ways of dealing in descripbe simple—the flower we liken it to tion with Nature, so as to make her is the lily or the violet. The leaves poetical; but sentiment there always of the lily are white, but 'tis not a must be, else you have but prose monotonous whiteness —the leaves - and very poor prose, too, we of the violet, sometimes dim as “the fear-a multiplication of vain lids of Cytherea's eyes”—for Shak- words. You may infuse the senspeare has said so-are, when well timent by a single touch-by a ray and happy, blue as her eyes them- of light no thicker, nor one thouselves while they looked languish- sandth part so thick, as the finest ingly on Adonis. Yet the exquisite needle ever silk-threaded by a lady's colour seems of different shades in finger; or you may dance it in with its rarest richness; and even so as lily a futter of sunbeams; or you may or violet, shiftingly the same, should splash it in as with a gorgeous cloudbe a song, in its simplicity, variously stain stolen from sunset; or you tinged with fine distinctions of the may bathe it in with a shred of the one colour of that pervading Feeling, rainbow. Perhaps the highest power now brighter now dimmer, as open of all possessed by the sons of song, and shut the valves of that mystery is, to breathe it in with the breath, to the heart!
let it slip in with the light, of the It will not do to indite stanza common day ! after stanza, each with a pretty Then some poets there are, who and perhaps natural image of its shew you a scene all of a sudden, by own, or a fanciful; to drop a feeling means of a few magical wordshere and there; or let in suddenly å just as if you opened your eyes at few rays or a larger light;—and cal- their bidding-andin place of a blank, ling that a song, get it set to music, lo! a world. Others, again, as good and placed before a young lady at and as great, create their world, graher harpsichord that she may warble dually, before your eyes, for the deyou into marriage, by a spell to light of your soul that loves to gaze which you have yourself given more on the growing glory; but delight is than half the charm, as you may lost in wonder, and you know that imagine. It is no song. And if the they, too, are warlocks. Some heap divertisement be “ No Song no Sup- image upon image, piles of imagery per," you go hungry to bed. on piles of imagery, as if they were
A song is a composition. But it ransacking and robbing and redis composed, unconsciously as near reavering earth, sea, and sky; yet as may be, as far as there is art; and all things there are consentaneous all that the Maker's heart has to do, with one grand design, which, when is to keep true to the inspiration that consummated, is a whole that seems prompted it to breathe à song, and to typify the universe. Others give true it will keep, if strong be the you but fragments—but such as awadelight. Some songs are of affec. ken imaginations of beauty and of tion-some of passion—and some of power transcendent, like that famous both—and these last, when perfect, Torso. And some show you Nature seem self-existent—as if they had glimmering beneath a veil, which, written themselves—and had after-nunlike, she has religiously taken ; wards had the name of some poet and, oh! call not Nature ideal only, in that holy twilight, for then it is as it is certain that he never can get that she is spiritual, and we who out till he becomes a hippogriff. belong to her feel that we shall live But we really must return to our for ever!
esteemed friend, Motherwell. He Thus — and in other wondrous learned early in life, ways—the great poets are the great « To muse on Nature with a poet's eye ;" painters, and so are they the great musicians. But how they are so, and now when he lets down the lids, some other time may we tell; suffice he sees her still, just as well, perit now to say, that as we listen to haps better than when they were the mighty masters—“sole or re- up; for in that deep, earnest, inward sponsive to each other's voice”- gaze the fluctuating sea of scenery
subsides into a settled calm, where all “ Now 'tis like all instruments,
is harmony as well as beauty-order Now like a lonely lute;
as well as peace. What though the And now 'tis like an angel's song
poet have been fated, through youth That bids the heavens be mute!"
and manhood, to dwell in city smoke? Then, oh! wby will so many my: overhung with trees, and through its
His childhood—his boyhood-were riads of men and women, denied by nature the vision and the faculty heart went the murmur of waters. divine," persist in the delusion that Then it is, we verily believe, that in they are poetizing, while they are
all poets, is filled with images up to but versifying, “ this bright and brea- the brim, Imagination's treasury. thing world " They have not learn. Genius, growing, and grown up to ed even the use of their very eyes. maturity, is still a prodigal
. But he They truly see not so much as the draws on the Bank of Youth. His outward objects of sight. But of bills, whether at a short or long date, all the rare affinities and relation
are never dishonoured; nay, made ships in Nature, visible or audible to payable at sight, they are good as Fine-ear-and-Far-Eye the Poet, not gold. Nor cares that Bank for a a whisper-not a glimpse have they run, made even in a panic, for, beever heard or seen, any more than sides, bars and billets, and wedges had they been born deaf-blind !
and blocks of gold, there are, unapThey paint a landscape, but no- preciable beyond the riches which, thing prates of their whereabouts," against a time of trouble, while they were sitting on a tripod, “ The Sultaun hides in his ancestral with their paper on their knees, draw
tombs," ing-their breath. For, in the front jewels and diamonds sufficient ground, is a castle, against which, if you offer to stir a step, you infal
“ To ransom great kings from captilibly break your head, unless provi.
vity." dentially stopped by that extraordi- Wesometimes think that the power nary vegetable-looking substance, of painting Nature to the life, whether perhaps a tree, growing bolt up- in her real or ideal beauty (both bave right, out of an intermediate stone, life), is seldom evolved to its utmost, that has wedged itself in long after until the mind possessing it is withthere had ceased to be even standing drawn in the body from all rural en. room in that strange theatre of na- vironment. It has not been so with ture. But down from “ the swelling Wordsworth, but it was so with Milinstep of a mountain's foot,” that has ton. The descriptive poetry in Comus protruded itself through a wood, is indeed rich as rich may be, but while the body of the mountain pru- certainly not so great, perhaps not so dently remains in the extreme dis- beautiful, as that in Paradise Lost. tance, descends on you, ere you have It would seem to be so with all of recovered from your unexpected en- us, small as well as great; and were counter with the old Roman cement, we- e-Christopher North—tocompose an unconscionable cataract. There a poem on Loch Skene, two thoustands a deer or goat, or, at least, sand feet or so above the level of some beast with horns,“ strictly the sea, and some miles from a house, anonymous," placed for effect con- we should desire to do so in a metrary to all cause, in a place where tropolitan cellar. Desire springs it seems as uncertain bow he got in from separation. The spirit seeks to
unite itself to the beauty it loves, Heart forth ! as uncaged bird through the grandeur it admires, the sublimi- air, ty it almost fears; and all these being And mingle in the tide o'er the hills and far away, or on the Of blessed things that, lacking care, hills, but cloud-hidden, why it-the
Now full of beauty glide spirit-makes itself wings—or rather Around thee, in their angel hues they grow up of themselves in its Of joy and sinless pride. passion, and nature-wards it flies like a dove or an eagle. People looking at Here, on this green bank that o'er-views us believe us present, but they never
The far retreating glen, were so far mistaken in their lives, for Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse, in the Seamew are we sailing with For lovelier scene shall never break
On all within thy ken; the tide through the moonshine on
On thy dimmed sight again. Loch Etive; or hanging o'er thatgulph of peril on the bosom of Skyroura. Slow stealing from the tangled brake Motherwell has, manifestly, commun
That skirts the distant hill, ed with Nature, not so much among With noiseless hoof two bright fawns mountains, as among gentle slopes
make and swells, hedgerowed fields of For yonder lapsing rill; laughing labour," green silent pas. Meek children of the forest gloom, tures," and the “bosoms, nooks,
Drink on, and fear no ill! and bays" of such rivers as the Cart and the Clyde, crowned with such And buried in the yellow broom castles as Cruikstone and Bothwell, That crowns the neighbouring height, and winding their way, when wea- Couches a loutish shepherd groom, ried of sunshine, through the woods. With all his flocks in sight; There he hears the hymns of the Which dot the green braes gloriously mavis and the throstle—there he With spots of living light. sees the silent worship of the primrose and the violet, and with them It is a sight that filleth me holds Sabbath.
With meditative joy,
Crowd round their guardian boy;
Of bliss lacked all alloy.
I bend me towards the tiny flower,
That underneath this tree Are marvellously good ;
Opens its little breast of sweets Oh, here crazed spirits breathe the balm
In meekest modesty, Of nature's solitude !
And breathes the eloquence of love
In muteness, Lord! to thee.
There is no breath of wind to move The holiness of soul-sung psalm,
The flag-like leaves, that spread Of felt but voiceless prayer !
Their grateful shadow far above With hearts too full to speak their bliss, This turf-supported head ; God's creatures silent are.
All sounds are gone-all murmurings
With living nature wed.
The babbling of the clear well-springs, Of deep unbroken dreaminess,
The whisperings of the trees, They own that Love and Power
And all the cheerful jargonings Which, like the softest sunshine, rests
Of feathered hearts at ease, On every leaf and flower.
That whilome filled the vocal wood,
Have hushed their minstrelsies.
The silentness of night doth brood
And nature, in her holiest mood, And yet bright bead-like eyes declare
Doth all things well attune This hour is ecstasy.
To joy, in the religious dreams
Of green and leafy June.
A SABBATH SUMMER NOON.
Far down the glen in distance gleams And on May-mórn, all the most The hamlet's tapering spire,
innocent “ministers of love” are And glittering in meridial beams, floating in the air, inspiring youthful Its vane is tongued with fire;
bosoms that begin to beat then, for And hark how sweet its silvery bell- the first time, with pulsations that, And hark the rustic choir !
ere the full June moon looks down
on the yellow couch spread aloft by The holy sounds float up the dell the midsummer woods, will have To fill my ravished ear,
ripened into panting passion, desirous And now the glorious anthems swell
in vain of the bliss for which, wbeOf worshippers sincere
ther it be life-in-death or death-inOf hearts bowed in the dust, that shed
life, so many millions of beautiful Faith's penitential tear.
insects, men, women, and butterflies, Dear Lord! thy shadow is forth spread
go careering together up into the On all mine eye can see ;
sunny air of existence, but to drop
down into dust. And filled at the pure fountain-head Of deepest piety,
But this joyous little poem has My heart loves all created things,
nothing to do with dust, but with the And travels home to thee.
“ morn and liquid dew of youth,”
when, though contagious blastAround me while the sunshine Alings
ments be most imminent, the sweetA flood of mocky gold,
est flowers do yet escape them My chastened spirit once more sings
wholly," and live to die with gradual As it was wont of old,
decay of beauty, in almost upperThat lay of gratitude which burst ceived-almost unfelt decay. From young heart uncontrolled.
MAY MORN SONG.
The grass is wet with shining dews,
Their silver bells hang on each tree, Like soft dews in the bell
While opening flower and bursting bud Of tender flowers that bowed their heads, Breathe incense forth unceasingly; And breathed a fresher smell.
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw,
The throstle glads the spreading thorn, So, even now this hour hath sped
And cheerily the blythsome lark In rapturous thought o'er me,
Salutes the rosy face of morn. Feeling myself with nature wed
'Tis early prime ; A holy mystery
And hark! hark! hark ! A part of earth, a part of heaven,
His merry chime A part, great God! of Thee.
Chirrups the lark ;
Chirrup! chirrup! he heralds in That is very soft, very sweet, and The jolly sun with matin hymn. very Scottish-breathing a lowland spirit of Sabbatic repose and rest. Come, "come, my love ! and May-dews Simple, serene, and fervent is the shake piety that shrouds the scene in pen- In pailfuls from each drooping bough, sive beauty, as by some sacred spell; They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom revealed as well as natural religion is
That breaks upon thy young cheek now. there; the love and the awe confess O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood, the Being who saved, as well as Him
Aurora's smiles are streamiog free ; who made us; 'tis the poem of a
With earth it seems brave holyday, Christian.
In heaven it looks high jubilee. Reluctantly we leave so sweet and
And it is right, solemn a strain; but the name of the
For mark, love, mark! following little poem is delightful;.
How bathed in light and the poem itself full of the dew
Cbirrups the lark :
Chirrup! chirrup! he upward flies, of “primy nature.” Sure it is, that
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies. “ All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
They lack all heart who cann ot feel All are but ministers of love,
The voice of heaven within them thrill, And feed his sacred flame."
Io summer morn, when mounting high,
This merry minstrel sings his fill.