The humblest; yet thy morning song ascends
Nearest to heaven,-sweet emblem of his song,1
Who sung thee wakening by the daisy's side!
With earliest spring, while yet the wheaten blade Scarce shoots above the new-fallen shower of snow, The skylark's note, in short excursion, warbles: Yes! even amid the day-obscuring fall,
Or rounds the lid, still adding coil to coil,
Then joins the osier hinge; the work complete
Surveying, oft he turns, and much admires,
Complacent with himself; then hies away
With plundering intent. Ah, little think
The harmless family of love, how near
The robber treads! he stoops, and parts the grass,
And looks with eager eye upon his prey.
I've marked his wing winnowing the feathery flakes Quick round and round the parents fluttering In widely-circling horizontal flight.
But, when the season genial smiles, he towers
In loftier poise, with sweeter, fuller pipe,
Cheering the ploughman at his furrow end,—
The while he clears the share, or, listening, leans
Upon his paddle-staff, and, with raised hand,
Shadows his half-shut eyes, striving to scan
The songster melting in the flood of light.
On tree or bush no lark was ever seen:
The daisied lea he loves, where tufts of grass
Luxuriant crown the ridge; there, with his mate,
He founds their lowly house, of withered bents,
And coarsest speargrass; next, the inner work
With finer and still finer fibres lays,
Rounding it curious with his speckled breast.
How strange this untaught art! it is the gift,
The gift innate of Him, without whose will
Not even a sparrow falleth to the ground.
Now high, now low, and utter shrill the plaint
Of deep distress.-But soon forgot their woe!
Not so with man; year after year he mourns,
Year after year the mother weeps her son,
Torn from her struggling arms by ruffian grasp,
By robbery legalized.
Down which a little stream had furrowed deep,
"Tween meeting birchen boughs, a shelvy channel,
And brawling mingled with the western tide;
Far up that stream, almost beyond the roar
Of storm-bulged breakers, foaming o'er the rocks
With furious dash, a lowly dwelling lurked,
Surrounded by a circlet of the stream.
Before the wattled door, a greensward plat,
With daisies gay, pastured a playful lamb;
A pebbly path, deep-worn, led up the hill,
Winding among the trees, by wheel untouched,
And now the assiduous dam her red-specked Save when the winter fuel was brought home,—
From day to day increases, till complete
The wonted number, blythe, beneath her breast,
She cherishes from morn to eve,-from eve
To morn shields from the dew, that globuled lies
Upon her mottled plumes: then with the dawn
Upsprings her mate, and wakes her with his song.
His song full well she knows, even when the sun,
High in his morning course, is hailed at once
By all the lofty warblers of the sky:
But most his downward-veering song she loves;
Slow the descent at first, then, by degrees,
Quick, and more quick, till suddenly the note
Ceases; and, like an arrow-fledge, he darts,
And, softly lighting, perches by her side.
But now no time for hovering welkin-high,
Or downward-gliding strain; the young have
chipped,
Have burst the brittle cage, and gaping bills
Claim all the labour of the parent pair.
Ah, labour vain! the herd-boy long has marked
His future prize; the ascent, and glad return,
Too oft he viewed; at last, with prying eyes,
He found the spot, and joyful thought he held
The full-ripe young already in his hand,
Or bore them lightly to his broom-roofed bield:
Even now he sits, amid the rushy mead,
Half-hid, and warps the skep with willow rind,
One of the poor man's yearly festivals.
On every side it was a sheltered spot,
So high and suddenly the woody steeps
Arose. One only way, downward the stream,
Just o'er the hollow, 'tween the meeting boughs,
The distant wave was seen, with, now and then,
The glimpse of passing sail; but, when the breeze
Crested the distant wave, this little nook
Was all so calm, that, on the limberest spray,
The sweet bird chanted motionless, the leaves
At times scarce fluttering. Here dwelt a pair,
Poor, humble, and content; one son alone,
Their William, happy lived at home to bless
Their downward years; he, simple youth,
With boyish fondness, fancied he would love
A seaman's life, and with the fishers sailed,
To try their ways, far 'mong the western isles,
Far as Saint Kilda's rock-walled shore abrupt,
O'er which he saw ten thousand pinions wheel
Confused, dimming the sky. These dreary shores
Gladly he left; he had a homeward heart:
No more his wishes wander to the waves.
But still he loves to cast a backward look,
And tell of all he saw, of all he learned;
Of pillared Staffa, lone Iona's isle,
Where Scotland's kings are laid; of Lewis, Skye,
And of the mainland mountain-circled lochs;
And he would sing the rowers' timing chant,
And chorus wild. Once on a summer's eve,
When low the sun behind the Highland hills
Was almost set, he sung that song, to cheer
The aged folks; upon the inverted quern
The father sat; the mother's spindle hung
Forgot, and backward twirled the half-spun THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD.
Listening with partial well-pleased look, she gazed
Upon her son, and inly blessed the Lord
That he was safe returned. Sudden a noise
Bursts rushing through the trees; a glance of steel
Dazzles the eye, and fierce the savage band
Glare all around, then single out their prey.
In vain the mother clasps her darling boy,
In vain the sire offers their little all:
William is bound; they follow to the shore,
Implore, and weep, and pray; knee-deep they
stand,
And view in mute despair the boat recede.
Twice has the sun commenced his annual round, Since first thy footsteps totter'd o'er the ground, Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine
By faltering out the name to fathers dear.
O! Nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than Beauty's magic smile:
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm,
gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.
Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise,-would I might live,
Till added years his memory firmness give!
For, O! it would a joy in death impart,
To think I still survived within his heart;
To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years,
A retrospective look, bedimm'd with tears;
And tell, regretful, how I look'd and spoke;
What walks I loved; where grew my favourite oak;
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
How gently use the accent of command;
What love I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child;
How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn,
To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn;
To teach religion, unallied to strife,
And trace to him, the way, the truth, the life.
But, far and farther still my view I bend,-
And now I see a child thy steps attend;-
To yonder churchyard-wall thou tak'st thy way,
While round thee, pleased, thou see'st the infant
play;
Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes,
Pointing, thou tell'st him, There thy grandsire
lies!
How calm that little lake! no breath of wind
Sighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it seems,
Held in the concave of the inverted sky,-
In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing
Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails
Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood!
Fearless of harm, they row their easy way;
The water-lily, 'neath the plumy prows,
Yet, even amid that scene of peace, the noise
Dips, re-appearing in their dimpled track.
Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes.
Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs,
Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in;
Quick he descries the prey; and faster swims,
And eager barks; the harmless flock, dismay'd,
Hasten to gain the thickest grove of reeds,
To lure the foe, and lead him from their young;
All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait
Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm
But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore.
Arrests their flight; they, fluttering, bleeding fall,
And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.
Yon motely, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of woe; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he labour'd long,
By penury compell'd; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw,
Heart-broken quite, his children's looks of want
Veil'd in a clouded smile: alas! he heard
The elder lispingly attempt to still
The younger's plaint,-languid he raised his head,
Into the arms of Death, the poor man's friend!
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the
sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mix'd mould.
The turf is spread; uncover'd is each head,-
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Woe's me! those tear-dimm'd eyes, that sobbing
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home. No more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke
Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,-
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of woe profound. Haste to the widow'd arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his
voice,
And melt a heart that clse will break with grief.
TO A REDBREAST THAT FLEW IN
AT MY WINDOW.
From snowy plains and icy sprays,
From moonless nights and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes at once, and soothes my woe;
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,-ah, still prolong the dream!
Still with thy song those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt nibbling share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Uncheck'd, shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
and other young titled gentlemen were in-
mates of her mansion, writes to us in the
highest terms of the beauty and accomplish-
ments of "the Lady Stewart-for she was a
lady per se." Professor Thomas Brown, the
eminent successor of her distinguished husband,
addressed the beautiful lines to her entitled
"The Nondescript." Mrs. S. also inspired the
pastoral song of "Afton Water" by Burns.
Both of the subjoined songs were first pub-
in Johnson's Musical Museum.
second was adapted to an air by John Barret,
an old English composer, called "Ianthe the
Lovely." The same air was also selected by
Gay for one of his songs in The Beggar's Opera.
The first four lines of the last stanza were
written by Robert Burns, as he said to Thom-
son "to complete it;" the music requiring
double verses.
MRS. DUGALD STEWART, the second wife of the celebrated professor of moral philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, was born in the year 1765. Her maiden name was Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She became the wife of Dugald Stewart-a benevolent, upright, and liberal man of undoubted talent-one of the most polished writers of his day, and as fascinating a teacher as ever occupied a university chair-lished July 26, 1790. Having survived her distinguished husband ten years, she died at Warriston House, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, July 28, 1838. Mrs. Stewart was a sister of the celebrated Countess Purgstall, the subject of Capt. Basil Hall's Schloss Hainfeld. Hew Ainslie, the venerable Scottish poet, who lived under her roof while Lord Palmerston
RETURNING SPRING, WITH GLADSOME RAY.
Returning spring, with gladsome ray, Adorns the earth and smooths the deep: All nature smiles, serene and gay,
It smiles, and yet, alas! I weep.
But why, why flows the sudden tear,
Since Heaven such precious boons has lent, The lives of those who life endear,
And, though scarce competence, content?
Sure, when no other bliss was mine
Than that which still kind Heaven bestows, Yet then could peace and hope combine To promise joy and give repose.
Then have I wander'd o'er the plain,
And blessed each flower that met my view; Thought Fancy's power would ever reign, And Nature's charms be ever new.
I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt
That happy bosom knew no ill—
That those who scorn'd me, time would melt,
And those I loved be faultless still.
Enchanting dreams! kind was your art
That bliss bestow'd without alloy;
Or if soft sadness claim'd a part,
'Twas sadness sweeter still than joy.
Oh! whence the change that now alarms,
Fills this sad heart and tearful eye,
And conquers the once powerful charms
Of youth, of hope, of novelty?
'Tis sad Experience, fatal power!
That clouds the once illumined sky, That darkens life's meridian hour,
And bids each fairy vision fly.
She paints the scene-how different far
From that which youthful fancy drew!
Shows joy and freedom oft at war,
Our woes increased, our comforts few.
And when, perhaps, on some loved friend
Our treasured fondness we bestow,
Oh! can she not, with ruthless hand,
Change even that friend into a foe?
See in her train cold Foresight move,
Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn;
And Prudence every fear approve,
And Pity harden into scorn!
The glowing tints of Fancy fade,
Life's distant prospects charm no more;
Alas! are all my hopes betray'd?
Can nought my happiness restore?
Relentless power! at length be just,
Thy better skill alone impart;
Give Caution, but withhold Distrust,
And guard, but harden not, my heart!
THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.1
The tears I shed must ever fall!
I weep not for an absent swain, For time may happier hours recall, And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead.
Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er, And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.
Though boundless oceans roll between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.
But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails; No hope her dreary prospect cheers, No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy; The flattering veil is rent aside,
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view, And turns the past to agony.
1 Scott made use of two stanzas of this song, which has been called "The Song of Genius," as a motto for a chapter of The Talisman, with the addition of the following lines-his own composition:
"But worse than absence, worse than death,
She wept her lover's sullied fame,
And, fired with all the pride of birth,
She wept a soldier's injured name."
places of literary or romantic interest. In 1789 he added to his other commodities a prospectus of a volume of poems, trusting, as he said,
"If the pedlar should fail to be favoured with sale, Then I hope you'll encourage the poet."
The book was published in July of the year following, and the author again made his rounds to deliver copies to the few subscribers he had obtained, and to sell to those who were not. Unsuccessful both as pedlar and poet, he returned to the loom at Paisley. His aspirations for poetical distinction were not how
ALEXANDER WILSON, the first to claim and | Scotland, digressing from his route to visit win the proud title of the American Ornithologist, was born July 6, 1766, at Paisley, a place that has been so prolific of poets. His father carried on a small distillery, and early destined his son for a minister of the gospel, but his wife's death when Alexander was ten years of age, and his re-marriage not long after, probably prevented the carrying out of the plan. The boy, whose mind was by his father's careful superintendence imbued with a love of nature and a passion for books, attributed in after life all his success to these facts: "The publication of my Ornithology, though it has swallowed up all the little I had saved, has procured me the honour of many friends, emi-ever subdued. Hearing of a proposed discussion nent in this country, and the esteem of the public at large; for which I have to thank the goodness of a kind father, whose attention to my education in early life, as well as the books then put into my hands, first gave my mind a bias towards relishing the paths of literature and the charms and magnificence of nature. These, it is true, particularly the latter, haveling expenses to Edinburgh. Arriving there made me a wanderer in life: but they have also enabled me to support an honest and respectable situation in the world, and have been the sources of almost all my enjoyments." Thus wrote the grateful poet in a letter dated February, 1811.
Alexander was brought up to the trade of a weaver, but afterwards preferred that of a pedlar, as an occupation much more appropriate for a "mortal with legs." Three years of his life were employed in this manner, during which period he visited various portions of
at an Edinburgh debating society, composed of the city literati, as to "whether have the exertions of Allan Ramsay or Robert Fergusson done more honour to Scottish poetry?" he borrowed the poems of the latter poet, and, by doubling his labours with the obnoxious shuttle, procured the means of defraying his travel
in season for the debate in the Forum, he repeated a poem which he had prepared entitled "The Laurel Disputed." The audience did not agree with him in his preference of Fergusson, but the merits of the performance gained him many friends-among others, Dr. Anderson, for whose periodical of the Bee he became a contributor.
In 1792 he issued anonymously his best poem, "Watty and Meg," one hundred thousand copies being sold in a few weeks. The author was much gratified with its great suc
|