Chapter 12

A poet of singular merit, under circumstances in the highest degree unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in Glasgow and Greenock constituted his entire scholastic education; but an intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications of verses, with the titles, "City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces," and "The Lyrics of Life." A little poetical _brochure_, entitled, "The Wanderer of the West," is his latest production.

Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the Glasgow Athenaeum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with the _Bulletin_, a daily journal published in Glasgow.

ISABELLE.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art! Oh, beautiful and bright! Thy voice is music of the heart-- Thy looks are rarest light! What time the silver dawn of dreams Lights up the dark of sleep, As yon pale moon lights up the heaven With beauty clear and deep, I see thee in the ebbing stars, I hear quaint voices swell, And dim and phantom winds that come And whisper, Isabelle.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art! Oh, beautiful and bright! Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart, Like rich star-crowded night. As moonbeams silver on the wave Of some night-sadden'd river, So on my lonesome life thy love Would lie in light for ever. Yet wander on--oh, wander on, Cold river, to the sea, And, weary life, _thy_ ocean gain-- Undream'd eternity.

In vain the cruel curse of earth Hath torn our lives apart; The man-made barriers of gold Weigh down the humble heart. Oh, hadst thou been a village maid-- A simple wayside flower-- With nought to boast, save honest worth, And beauty all thy dower! Such might have been--such _should_ have been, But other lot befell; I am the lowly son of toil, And thou proud Isabelle.

It ever seems to me that love Should level all degrees; Pure honour, and a stainless heart Are Nature's heraldries. No scutcheon needs a noble soul (Alas! how thinks the age?); He is not poor who freedom hath For his broad heritage. Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil; Vain dreams of youth, farewell; The future hath its duty's prize-- The past, its Isabelle.

HOUSEHOLD GODS.

Built on Time's uneven sand, Hope's fair fabric soon is shatter'd; Bowers adorn'd by Fancy's hand Torn in wandering leaves are scatter'd. Perish'd, perish'd, lost and perish'd, Old affections fondly cherish'd.

All our blossoms wither soon, While we dream the flower will strengthen, And across life's summer noon Death's dark shadow seems to lengthen. In that mighty shadow perish'd All we liv'd for, all we cherish'd.

Dear ones loved are lost in night; O'er the world we wander lonely, And the heart of all youth's light Holds one fading sunbeam only. Old affections vainly cherish'd, All except the memory perish'd.

POOR COMPANIONS.

Look up, old friend! why hang thy head? The world is all before us. Earth's wealth of flowers is at our feet, Heaven's wealth of worlds is o'er us. Spring leans to us across the sea With affluent caressing, And autumn yet shall crown our toil With many a fruitful blessing. Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather? Let monarchs rule, but we shall sing And journey on together.

You mourn that we are born so poor-- I would not change our treasure For all the thorn-concealing flowers That strew the path of pleasure. God only searches for the soul, Nor heeds the outward building; Believe me, friend, a noble heart Requires no aid of gilding. Then never let us pine in spring, We 've braved out wintry weather, We yet may touch a sweeter string When toiling on together.

What though our blood be tinged with mud, My lord's is simply purer; 'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor make His seat in heaven surer. But should the noble deign to speak, We 'll hail him as a brother, And trace respective pedigrees To Eve, our common mother. Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather? Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing, And journey on together.

WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL.

A youth of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Riddell, was the youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell.[12] He was born at Flexhouse, near Hawick, Roxburghshire, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained till 1850, when, procuring a bursary from the governors of Heriot's Hospital, he entered the University of Edinburgh. During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and occasionally enfeebled his mental, energies. After a period of suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead, on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year.

Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in his eighth year some vigorous poetry. With a highly retentive memory he retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and Greek classics, he added a correct acquaintance with many of the modern languages. He found consolation on his deathbed, by perusing the Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with Christian resignation.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See "Minstrel," vol. iv. p. 1.

LAMENT OF WALLACE.[13]

No more by thy margin, dark Carron, Shall Wallace in solitude, wander, When tranquil the moon shines afar on Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur. For lost are to me Thy beauties for ever, Since fallen in thee Lie the faithful and free, To waken, ah, never!

And I, thus defeated, must suffer My country's reproach; yet, forsaken, A home to me nature may offer Among her green forests of braken. But home who can find For heart-rending sorrow? The wound who can bind When thus pierced is the mind By fate's ruthless arrow?

'Tis death that alone ever frees us Of woes too profound to be spoken, And nought but the grave ever eases The pangs of a heart that is broken. Then, oh! that my blood In Carron's dark water Had mix'd with the flood Of the warriors' shed 'Mid torrents of slaughter.

For woe to the day when desponding I read in thine aspect the story Of those that were slain when defending Their homes and their mountains of glory. And curst be the guile Of treacherous knavery That throws o'er our isle In its tyranny vile The mantle of slavery.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Composed in the author's fourteenth year.

OH! WHAT IS IN THIS FLAUNTING TOWN?[14]

Oh! what is in this flaunting town That pleasure can impart, When native hills and native glens Are imaged on the heart, And fancy hears the ceaseless roar Of cataracts sublime, Where I have paused and ponder'd o'er The awful works of time?

What, what is all the city din? What all the bustling crowd That throngs these ways from morn to night Array'd in trappings proud? While fancy's eye still sees the scenes Around my mountain home, Oh! what 's to me yon turret high. And what yon splendid dome?

Ah! what except a mockery vain Of nature free as fair, That dazzles rather than delights The eye that meets its glare? Then bear me to the heathy hills Where I so loved to stray, There let me rove with footsteps free And sing the rural lay.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Composed at the age of fifteen.

MARGARET CRAWFORD.

The author of "Rustic Lays," an interesting volume of lyric poetry, Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Torwoodlee, whose husband her father served, she was taught dress-making. She subsequently accepted the situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of Mid-Lothian. An inmate of their humble cottage, she has for some years been employed as a dress-maker. Her "Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855, in an elegant little volume. Of its contents she thus remarks in the preface: "Many of these pieces were composed by the authoress on the banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies of the woodland, has often charmed her into forgetfulness of the rough realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's cottage, at the hours of the _gloamin'_, when, after the bustle of the day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and assumed the form in which they now appear."

MY NATIVE LAND.

My native land! my native land! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand, In ancient Caledonia! How dear to me those gurgling rills That wander free amang the hills! How sweet to me the sang that fills The groves o' Caledonia!

They tell me o' a distant isle Where summer suns for ever smile; But frae my heart they 'll never wile My love for Caledonia! And what are a' their flowery plains, If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains? Nae foot o' slavery ever stains My native Caledonia!

Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his rays O'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes, Oh, let me spend my latest days In ancient Caledonia! My native land! my native land! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand-- True sons of Caledonia!

THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.

Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness-- Far from my dear native country I roam; Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladness That shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home.

Far from the home of my childhood I wander, Far from the friends I may never meet more; Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder-- Visions that memory alone can restore.

Friends of my youth I shall love you for ever-- Closer and firmer ye twine round my heart; Though now the wide sea our lot may dissever, Affection and friendship can never depart.

Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness-- Dear to my heart thou shalt ever remain! Oh, when shall I gaze on those bright scenes of gladness? When shall I visit my country again?

THE STREAM OF LIFE.

Down by a crystal stream Musing I stray'd, As 'neath the summer beam Lightly it play'd, Winding by field and fen, Mountain and meadow, then Stealing through wood and glen, Soft'ning the shade.

Thus, then, methought, is life; Onward it flows-- Now mingling peace with strife, Toil with repose-- Now sparkling joyously Under the glare of day, Drinking each sunny ray, Purely it flows.

Now gliding peacefully, Calm and serene, Smoothly it takes its way, Softly I ween Murmur its waters past-- Oh, will that stillness last? See, rocks are nearing fast, Changing the scene.

Wildly it dashes now, Loudly it roars, Over the craggy brow Fiercely it pours. All in commotion lost, Wave over wave is toss'd; Spray, white as winter's frost, Up from it soars.

Yet where the conflict 's worst Brightest it gleams; Rays long in silence nursed Shoot forth in streams: Beauties before unknown Out from its breast are thrown; Light, like a golden zone, Brilliantly beams.

Thus in the Christian's breast Pure faith may lie, Hid in the day of rest Deep from the eye; But when life's shadows lower Faith lights the darkest hour, Driving, by heavenly power, Gloom from the sky.

DAY-DREAMS OF OTHER YEARS.

There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years, And time long, long departed, like the present still appears; And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours, When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers.

O those days of dreamy sweetness! O those visions of delight! Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright; They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace, Telling tales of bygone blessings, bidding present sorrows cease.

Long-lost friends are gath'ring round me, smiling faces, gentle forms, All unconscious of earth's struggles, all unmindful of its storms-- Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth, When friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth.

Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still-- Mirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill; Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land-- Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band!

Now deeply traced with sorrow is the once unclouded brow, And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now; We are tasting life in earnest--all its vain illusions gone-- And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one.

Some are sleeping with their kindred--summer blossoms o'er them wave; Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave; While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore, And that happy, loving company shall meet--ah! never more.

But afar in mem'ry's garden, like a consecrated spot, The heart's first hopes are hidden, and can never be forgot; And the light that cheer'd us onward, in our airy early days-- Oft we linger in the distance to look back upon its rays.

Old Time, with hand relentless, may shed ruins o'er the earth, May strew our path with sorrow, make a desert of our hearth-- Change may blight our fairest blossoms, shroud our clearest light in gloom; But the flow'ry fields of early years shall never lose their bloom.

AFFECTION'S FAITH.

Away on the breast of the ocean, Far away o'er the billowy brine, 'Mid the strife of the boiling commotion, Where the storm and the tempest combine, Roams my heart, of its wand'ring ne'er weary; While Hope, with her heavenly smile, Cheers the bosom that else would be dreary, And points me to blessings the while.

Of the far-hidden future still dreaming, On the wild wings of fancy I fly, And the star of affection, bright beaming, Is piercing the gloom of our sky; And my home is away o'er the ocean, Afar o'er the wide swelling sea, Where a heart, in its purest devotion, Is breathing fond blessings on me.

GEORGE DONALD, JUN.

George Donald the younger was born on the 1st of March 1826, at Thornliebank, near Glasgow. His father, George Donald the elder, is noticed in an earlier part of the present volume. Sent to labour in a calico print-work in his tenth year, his education was chiefly obtained at evening schools, and afterwards by self-application during the intervals of toil. In his seventeenth year he became apprenticed to a pattern-designer, and having fulfilled his indenture, he has since prosecuted this occupation. From his youth a writer of verses, he has contributed poetical compositions to the Glasgow _Examiner_ and _Citizen_ newspapers.

OUR AIN GREEN SHAW.

They tell me o' a land whar the sky is ever clear, Whar rivers row ower gowden sands, and flower unfading blaw, But, oh! nae joys o' nature to me are half sae dear As the flow'rets springing wild in our ain green shaw.

They speak o' gilded palaces, o' lords and leddies fair, And scenes that charm the weary heart in cities far awa'; But nane o' a' their gaudy shows and pleasures can compare Wi' the happiness that dwells in our ain green shaw.

Oh weel I lo'e when summer comes wi' sunny days an' glee, And brings to gladden ilka heart her rural pleasures a', When on the thorn the mavis sings and gowans deck the lea,-- Oh, then nae spot 's sae bonnie as our ain green shaw.

While Heaven supplies each simple want and leaves me still my cot, I'll bear through life a cheerfu' heart whatever may befa', Nor envy ither's joys, but aye be happy wi' my lot When wand'ring in the e'enin' through our ain green shaw.

ELIZA.

In her chamber, vigil keeping, Fair Eliza sitteth weeping, Weeping for her lover slain: Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden, Once a joyous-hearted maiden Till her William cross'd the main.

Fatal day that saw them parted! For it left her lonely-hearted-- Her so full of joy before-- Brought to her the thought of sadness, Clouding her young spirit's gladness, That she ne'er might see him more!

Sad Eliza, no blest morrow Will dispel thy secret sorrow, Bring thine own true love again. Mournful is thy William's story: On the field of martial glory, Fighting bravely, he was slain!

Now the silent stars above her Seem to tell her of her lover, For each night, with pensive gaze On the blue vault shining o'er her, Sits Eliza, while before her Fleet the scenes of other days.

Thus her lonely vigil keeping, Fair Eliza sitteth weeping, Weeping for her lover slain: Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden, Once a joyous-hearted maiden Till her William cross'd the main.

JOHN JEFFREY.

The author of "Lays of the Revolutions," John Jeffrey, was born on the 29th March 1822, at the manse of Girthon, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright. His maternal granduncle was the celebrated Dr Thomas Brown of Edinburgh. From his father, who was parish minister of Girthon, and a man of accomplished learning, he received an education sufficient to qualify him for entering, in 1836, the University of Edinburgh. In 1844 he became a licentiate of the Free Church, and after declining several calls, accepted, in 1846, the charge of the Free Church congregation at Douglas, Lanarkshire. Mr Jeffrey was early devoted to poetical studies. In his eighteenth year he printed, for private circulation, a small volume of poems, entitled "Hymns of a Neophyte." In 1849 appeared his "Lays of the Revolutions," a work which, vindicating in powerful verse the cause of oppressed European nationalities, was received with much favour by the public. To several of the leading periodicals Mr Jeffrey has contributed spirited articles in support of liberal politics. A pamphlet from his pen, on the decay of traditional influence in Parliament, entitled "The Fall of the Great Factions," has obtained considerable circulation. More recently he has devoted himself to the study of the modern languages, and to inquiries in ethnological science.

WAR-CRY OF THE ROMAN INSURRECTIONISTS.

Rise, Romans, rise at last, Craft's kingdom now is past; Brook no delay! Lombard blades long ago, Swifter than whirlwinds blow, Swept from Milan the foe: Why should we stay?

Rise, then, for fatherland; In rock-like phalanx stand, Cowards no more. Rise in colossal might, Rise till the storm of fight Wrap us in lurid light Where cannons roar!

In this great dawn of time, In this great death of crime, Quit us like men; By our deeds, by our words, By our songs, by our swords-- Use all against the hordes, Sabre or pen!

More than fame, duty calls, Trumpet-tongued from the walls Girding great Rome; Battle for truth and faith, Battle lest hostile scathe Crush us, or fetters swathe Free hearth and home!

Hark! how God's thunders roll, Booming from pole to pole Of the wide world! "Old lies are crush'd for aye, Now truths assume their sway, Bright shines the flag of day O'er night unfurl'd!"

Tower, then, the barricades! Flash forth the lightning blades! Romans, awake! Storm as the tempests burst, Down with the brood accursed! Sparks long in silence nursed Etna-like break; And that volcano's thirst Seas cannot slake!

PATRICK SCOTT.

The author of several meritorious poetical works, Patrick Scott was born at Macao in China, but is eminently of Scottish descent. His father, Helenus Scott, M.D., a cadet of the ducal house of Buccleuch, was a distinguished member of the Medical Board of Bombay, of which he was some time president. Receiving an elementary education at the Charterhouse, London, the subject of this notice entered, in his sixteenth year, the East India College at Haileybury. At the age of eighteen he proceeded to India, to occupy a civil appointment at Bombay. In 1845, after eleven years' service, he returned to Britain in impaired health, and he has since resided chiefly in London.

Mr Scott first appeared as an author in 1851, by the publication of "Lelio, and other Poems," a volume which was received with warm encomiums by the press. In 1853, he published "Love in the Moon: a Poem," which was followed in the same year by "Thomas a Becket, and other Poems." His latest poetical publication appeared in 1854, under the title of "A Poet's Children."

THE EXILE.

With drooping heart he turn'd away To seek a distant clime, Where friends were kind, and life was gay, In early boyhood's time. And still with years and seas between, To one fond hope he clung-- To see once more, as he had seen, The home he loved when young.

His youthful brow was touch'd with thought, And life had lost its morn, When glad again the wanderer sought The soil where he was born. Alas! that long expected shore Denied the wonted joy, And the man felt not, as of yore Had felt the happier boy.

For formal friends scarce grasp'd his hand-- The friends he knew of old; What cared he for a sunny land, If human hearts were cold? Again he cast his alter'd lot 'Mid alien tribes to roam; And fail'd to find another spot So foreign as his home.