The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iv Part 17

I whisper'd, "My Mary!"--she spoke not: I caught Her hand, press'd her pale cheek--'twas icy and cold; Then sunk on her bosom--its throbbings were o'er-- Nor knew how I quitted my hold.

THE WRECKED MARINER.

Stay, proud bird of the sh.o.r.e!

Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff, Where waits our shatter'd skiff-- One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.

Fan with thy plumage bright Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine; And, gently to divine The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.

Again swoop out to sea, With lone and lingering wail--then lay thy head, As thou thyself wert dead, Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.

Now let her bid false Hope For ever hide her beam, nor trust again The peace-bereaving strain-- Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.

Oh! bid not her repine, And deem my loss too bitter to be borne, Yet all of pa.s.sion scorn But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.

Thou art away, sweet wind!

Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing, And o'er her bosom fling The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!

JOSEPH GRANT.

Joseph Grant, a short-lived poet and prose writer, was born on the farm of Affrusk, parish of Banchory-Ternan, Kincardineshire, on the 26th of May 1805. He was instructed in the ordinary branches at the parish school, and employed as a youth in desultory labour about his father's farm. From boyhood he cherished a pa.s.sionate love for reading, and was no less ardent in his admiration of the picturesque and beautiful in nature. So early as his fourteenth year he composed verses of some merit. In 1828, he published "Juvenile Lays," a collection of poems and songs; and in 1830, "Kincardineshire Traditions"--a small volume of ballads--both of which obtained a favourable reception. Desirous of emanating from the retirement of his native parish, he accepted, in 1831, the situation of a.s.sistant to a shop-keeper in Stonehaven, and soon afterwards proceeded to Dundee, where he was employed in the office of the _Dundee Guardian_ newspaper, and subsequently as clerk to a respectable writer.

Grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_. In 1834, he published a second small volume of "Poems and Songs;" and subsequently, in the same year, committed to the press a prose work, ent.i.tled "Tales of the Glens," which he did not, however, survive to publish. After an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary complaint, he died on the 14th April 1835, in his thirtieth year. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Strachan, Kincardineshire, where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected to his memory. The "Tales of the Glens" were published shortly after his decease, under the editorial care of the late Mr James M'Cosh, of Dundee, editor of the _Northern Warder_ newspaper; and, in 1836, an edition of his collected works was published at Edinburgh, with a biographical preface by the poet Nicol.

Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian sentiments, Grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of becoming an ornament to literature. Cut down in the bloom of youth, his elegy has been recorded by the Brechin poet, Alexander Laing--

"A kinder, warmer heart than his Was ne'er to minstrel given; And kinder, holier sympathies Ne'er sought their native heaven."

THE BLACKBIRD'S HYMN IS SWEET.

The blackbird's hymn is sweet At fall of gloaming, When slow, o'er grove and hill, Night's shades are coming; But there is a sound that far More deeply moves us-- The low sweet voice of her Who truly loves us.

Fair is the evening star Rising in glory, O'er the dark hill's brow, Where mists are h.o.a.ry; But the star whose rays The heart falls nearest, Is the love-speaking eye Of our heart's dearest.

Oh, lonely, lonely is The human bosom, That ne'er has nursed the sweets Of young Love's blossom!

The loveliest breast is like A starless morning, When clouds frown dark and cold, And storms are forming.

LOVE'S ADIEU.

The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza, Blinks over the dark green sea, An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap, Richt dim and drowsilie.

An' the music o' the mornin'

Is murmurin' alang the air; Yet still my dowie heart lingers To catch one sweet throb mair.

We've been as blest, Eliza, As children o' earth can be, Though my fondest wish has been knit by The bonds of povertie; An' through life's misty sojourn, That still may be our fa', But hearts that are link'd for ever Ha'e strength to bear it a'.

The cot by the mutterin' burnie, Its wee bit garden an' field, May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' Heaven Than lichts o' the lordliest bield; There 's many a young brow braided Wi' jewels o' far-off isles, But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs, While we see nought but smiles.

But adieu, my ain Eliza!

Where'er my wanderin's be, Undyin' remembrance will make thee The star o' my destinie; An' well I ken, thou loved one, That aye, till I return, Thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom, Like a gem in a gowden urn.

DUGALD MOORE.

A poet of remarkable ingenuity and power, Dugald Moore was born in Stockwell Street, Glasgow, in 1805. His father, who was a private soldier in one of the Highland regiments, died early in life, leaving his mother in circ.u.mstances of poverty. From his mother's private tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. When a child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of the establishment of Messrs James Lumsden and Son, booksellers, Queen Street. He very early began to write verses, and some of his compositions having attracted the notice of Mr Lumsden, senior, that benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution of his literary tastes. Through Mr Lumsden's personal exertions in procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a volume of poems ent.i.tled "The African, a Tale, and other Poems." Of this work a second edition was required in the following year, when he likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the t.i.tle "Scenes from the Flood; the Tenth Plague, and other Poems." "The Bridal Night, and other Poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared from his pen in 1831. The profits of these publications enabled him to commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city.

His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became the rendezvous of men of letters, and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of their custom.

In 1833, Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical Tales, ill.u.s.trative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The Hour of Retribution, and other Poems;" and in 1839, "The Devoted One, and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a ma.s.sive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore is ent.i.tled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets.

Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. He has chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest ill.u.s.tration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times.

RISE, MY LOVE.

Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded, Wanders o'er the dark blue sea; Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded, Hynda comes to set thee free!

Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow, On the long and dreaming deep; A bower will greet us ere to-morrow, Where our eyes may cease to weep.

Oh! some little isle of gladness, Smiling in the waters clear, Where the dreary tone of sadness Never smote the lonely ear-- Soon will greet us, and deliver Souls so true, to freedom's plan; Death may sunder us, but never Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can.

Then our lute's exulting numbers, Unrestrain'd will wander on, While the night has seal'd in slumbers, Fair creation, all her own.

And we'll wed, while music stealeth Through the starry fields above, While each bounding spirit feeleth All the luxury of love.

Then we'll scorn oppression's minions, All the despot's bolts and powers; While Time wreathes his heavy pinions With love's brightest pa.s.sion-flowers.

Rise, then! let us fly together, Now the moon laughs on the sea; East or west, I care not whither, When with love and liberty!

JULIA.