Part 13

His heavy grief no bosom shared, No eye would weep his fall; What matter if _his_ life were spared, Who lived unloved by all! And when had ceased his earthly toil Upon that distant shore, His bones were gather'd to the soil-- His heart had died before.

JOHN BATHURST DICKSON.

An able theologian and accomplished writer of verses, John Bathurst Dickson was born on the 25th December 1823, in the town of Kelso, Roxburghshire. His father was a respectable writer or attorney in that place. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, and passed through a theological curriculum at the New College of that city, he became, in 1851, a licentiate of the Free Church. In June 1852, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of the Free High Church, Paisley.

During the period of his attendance at college, Mr Dickson was an extensive contributor to _Tait's Magazine_, and different religious periodicals. In 1855, he published "Theodoxia; or, Glory to God an Evidence for the Truth of Christianity;" and in 1857 appeared from his pen "The Temple Lamp," a periodical publication. He has written verses on a variety of topics. His song, "The American Flag," has been widely published in the United States.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

Float forth, thou flag of the free; Flash far over land and sea, Proud ensign of Liberty-- Hail, hail to thee!

The blue of the heavens is thine, The stars on thy canvas shine; Thy heraldry tells thee divine-- Hail, hail to thee!

Thy white proclaims thee unstain'd, Thy crimson thy love unfeign'd To man, by despots enchain'd-- Hail, hail to thee!

Under thy God-given light Our fathers went forth to fight 'Gainst sceptred wrong for the right-- Hail, hail to thee!

The Lion of England no more 'Gainst thy proud Eagle shall roar: Peace strideth from shore to shore-- Hail, hail to thee!

Float forth, thou flag of the free-- Flash far over land and sea, Till the world shout, Liberty-- Hail, hail to thee!

EVAN M'COLL.

A writer both of English and Gaelic songs, Evan M'Coll was born in 1808, at Kenmore, Lochfineside, Argyllshire. His father, Dugald M'Coll, followed an industrial occupation, but contrived to afford his son a somewhat liberal education. The leisure hours of the youthful poet were ardently devoted to literary culture. In 1837, he became a contributor of Gaelic poetry to a Glasgow periodical, and his compositions began to excite an interest in the Highlands. Two influential Highland gentlemen secured him an appointment in the Customs at Liverpool. He subsequently emigrated to America, and is now resident at Kingston.

Besides many fugitive pieces, Mr M'Coll has published a volume of lyrics, entitled "The Mountain Minstrel," and a volume of Gaelic poetry. A specimen of his Gaelic minstrelsy will be found among the translations at the end of the present volume.

THE HILLS OF THE HEATHER.

Give the swains of Italia 'Mong myrtles to rove, Give the proud, sullen Spaniard His bright orange grove; Give gold-sanded streams To the sons of Chili, But, oh! give the hills Of the heather to me.

The hills where the hunter Oft soundeth his horn, Where sweetest the skylark Awakens the morn; The gray cliff, the blue lake, The stream's dashing glee, Endear the red hills Of the heather to me.

There Health, rosy virgin, For ever doth dwell; There Love fondly whispers To Beauty his tale; There Freedom's own darling! The Gael, lives free, Then, oh! give the hills Of the heather to me.

JAMES D. BURNS.

One of the most interesting sacred poets of the present age, James D. Burns, was born at Edinburgh on the 18th February 1823. A pupil of Heriot's Hospital, he became a student in the University of Edinburgh, where he took the degree of Master of Arts, and completed, with marked distinction, a course of theology. Receiving license as a probationer of the Free Church, he was in 1845 ordained to the ministry at Dunblane. Having resigned his charge from bad health in 1848, he proceeded to Madeira, where he undertook the pastoral superintendence of a Presbyterian congregation. He subsequently travelled in Spain and Italy. In 1854 he published "The Vision of Prophecy, and other Poems," a collection of his poetical compositions, of which the greater number are of a scriptural or sacred character. Mr Burns is now minister of a Presbyterian church at Hampstead, Middlesex.

RISE, LITTLE STAR!

Rise, little star! O'er the dusky hill,-- See the bright course open Thou hast to fulfil.

Climb, little star! Higher still and higher. With a silent swiftness And a pulse of fire.

Stand, little star! On the peak of heaven; But for one brief moment Is the triumph given.

Sink, little star! Yet make heaven bright, Even while thou art sinking, With thy gentle light.

Set, little star! Gladly fade and die, With the blush of morning Coming up the sky.

Each little star Crieth, Life, O man! Should have one clear purpose Shining round its span.

THOUGH LONG THE WANDERER MAY DEPART.

Though long the wanderer may depart, And far his footsteps roam, He clasps the closer to his heart The image of his home. To that loved land, where'er he goes, His tend'rest thoughts are cast, And dearer still through absence grows The memory of the past.

Though nature on another shore Her softest smile may wear, The vales, the hills, he loved before To him are far more fair. The heavens that met his childhood's eye, All clouded though they be, Seem brighter than the sunniest sky Of climes beyond the sea.

So Faith, a stranger on the earth, Still turns its eye above; The child of an immortal birth Seeks more than mortal love. The scenes of earth, though very fair, Want home's endearing spell; And all his heart and hope are where His God and Saviour dwell.

He may behold them dimly here, And see them as not nigh, But all he loves will yet appear Unclouded to his eye. To that fair city, now so far, Rejoicing he will come, A better light than Bethlehem's star Guides every wanderer home.

GEORGE HENDERSON.

George Henderson was born on the 5th May 1800, in the parish of Bunkle and county of Berwick. With a rudimentary education obtained at different schools, he entered, in his nineteenth year, the University of Edinburgh. After the close of his second session, he temporarily abandoned literary pursuits. Resolving to adopt the medical profession, he subsequently resumed attendance at the University. In 1829 he obtained his diploma from the Royal College of Surgeons. He has since engaged in medical practice in the village of Chirnside, Berwickshire.

By the cultivation of polite literature, Mr Henderson has experienced relaxation from the active duties of his profession. In 1856 he published a volume of curious researches, entitled "The Popular Rhymes, &c., of the County of Berwick." He is understood to be preparing for the press a volume of his poetical compositions, to be entitled "Lays and Legends of the Merse."

I CANNA LEAVE MY NATIVE LAND.

I canna leave my native land, I canna sail the sea; The trees around my cottage stand, The gowans deck the lea; The primrose blooms beside the burn, The wild flower on the brae; To leave them a' my heart wad mourn, I canna gang away.

The dew-draps gem the clover leaves, The laverock sings aboon, The blae-berry bush wi' spring revives, And it will blossom soon; I canna leave the bonnie brae Where waves the new-sprung fern, Where oft I 've pass'd the summer's day, And look'd upon the burn.

I canna leave the green-croft well, Its waters cool and clear, For oft its pleasant murmurs dwell Like music in mine ear; The elder bush, the garden bower, Where robin sings sae sweet, The auld gray dike, the bee-house tower, The cosie garden seat.

HORATIUS BONAR, D.D.

One of the most esteemed of living Scottish theological writers, Horatius Bonar, is likewise favourably known as a sacred lyric poet. He is a native of Edinburgh, where his father, the late James Bonar, Esq., a man of eminent piety and accomplished scholarship, held the office of a Solicitor of Excise. His ancestors for several successive generations were ministers of the Church of Scotland. He was educated at the High School and the University of his native city. After engaging for some time in missionary labour at Leith, he was ordained to the ministry at Kelso in November 1837, and has since prosecuted his pastoral duties in that place. His first literary efforts appeared in the shape of religious tracts, now published in a volume under the title of "The Kelso Tracts." He next published the work by which he has become most widely known, "The Night of Weeping," which was followed by other two works of the same series, "The Morning of Joy," and "The Eternal Day." Of his subsequent publications, the more conspicuous are, "Prophetical Landmarks," "The Coming and the Kingdom of the Lord Jesus," "A Stranger Here," "Man; his Religion and his World," "The Story of Grace," "The Blood of the Cross," and "The Desert of Sinai, or Notes of a Tour from Cairo to Beersheba." Dr Bonar was for many years editor of the _Presbyterian Review_; he now edits _The Quarterly Journal of Prophecy_. The following spiritual songs, well adapted for music, are from his volume entitled "Hymns of Faith and Hope."

THE MEETING PLACE.

Where the faded flower shall freshen, Freshen never more to fade; Where the shaded sky shall brighten, Brighten never more to shade: Where the sun-blaze never scorches, Where the star-beams cease to chill; Where no tempest stirs the echoes Of the wood, or wave, or hill: Where the morn shall wake in gladness, And the noon the joy prolong, Where the daylight dies in fragrance, 'Mid the burst of holy song: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest!

Where no shadow shall bewilder, Where life's vain parade is o'er, Where the sleep of sin is broken, And the dreamer dreams no more; Where the bond is never sever'd, Partings, claspings, sob and moan, Midnight waking, twilight weeping, Heavy noontide, all are done: Where the child has found its mother, Where the mother finds the child, Where dear families are gather'd That were scatter'd on the wild: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest!

Where the hidden wound is healed, Where the blighted life re-blooms, Where the smitten heart the freshness Of its buoyant youth resumes; Where the love that here we lavish On the withering leaves of time, Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on In an ever spring-bright clime: Where we find the joy of loving, As we never loved before, Loving on, unchill'd, unhinder'd, Loving once and evermore: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest!

Where a blasted world shall brighten Underneath a bluer sphere, And a softer, gentler sunshine, Shed its healing splendour here; Where earth's barren vales shall blossom, Putting on their robe of green, And a purer, fairer Eden, Be where only wastes have been: Where a king in kingly glory, Such as earth has never known, Shall assume the righteous sceptre, Claim and wear the holy crown: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest!

TRUST NOT THESE SEAS AGAIN.

Trust not these seas again, Though smooth and fair; Trust not these waves again, Shipwreck is there.

Trust not these stars again, Though bright and fair; Trust not these skies again, Tempest is there.

Trust not that breeze again, Gentle and fair; Trust not these clouds again, Lightning is there.

Trust not that isle again, Flower-crown'd and fair; Trust not its rocks again, Earthquake is there.

Trust not these flowers again, Fragrant and fair; Trust not that rose again, Blighting is there.

Trust not that earth again, Verdant and fair; Trust not its fields again, Winter is there.

Trust not these hopes again, Sunny and fair; Trust not that smile again, Peril is there.

Trust not this world again, Smiling and fair; Trust not its sweets again, Wormwood is there;

Trust not its love again, Sparkling and fair; Trust not its joy again, Sorrow is there.

JOHN HALLIDAY.

A song-writer of merit, John Halliday was born on the 18th July 1821, at Hawickshielsgate, near Hawick, Roxburghshire. His father was an agricultural labourer; and, with an ordinary education at school, he was, at an early age, engaged as an assistant shepherd to a tenant farmer in his native district. Inheriting from his mother a taste for the elder Scottish ballad, he devoted his leisure hours to reading such scraps of songs as he could manage to procure. In his thirteenth year he essayed to compose verses, and at the age of twenty became a contributor of poetical stanzas to the provincial journals. Encouraged by a numerous list of subscribers, he published, in 1847, "The Rustic Bard," a duodecimo volume of poems and songs. After being several years resident at Hopekirk, Roxburghshire, he removed in 1854 to Bridge of Allan, where he is well employed as a florist and landscape gardener.

THE AULD KIRK BELL.

In a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow, And the green ferns nod when the wild winds blow, Stands the roofless kirk in the auld kirkyard, Where the gowans earliest gem the swaird; And the gray, gray moss on ilk cauld through stane Shrouds in oblivion the lang, lang gane-- Where the ance warm heart is a cauld, cauld clod, And the beauteous and brave give a green to the sod-- On a time-worn tower, where the dim owls dwell, Tuneless and torn, hangs the auld kirk bell.

On the auld kirk floor is the damp night dew, Where warm words flow'd in a worship true; Is the sugh o' the breeze, and the hum o' the bee As it wings and sings in its taintless glee Through the nettles tall to the thistles red, Where they roughly wave o'er each deep, dark bed; And it plies its task on the wa'-flowers tall, Which bloom in the choir and wave on the wall; Then, soaring away with a sweep and a swell, It covers its combs in the auld kirk bell.

By the crumbling base of the auld kirk tower Is the broad-leaved dock and the bright brae flower; And the adders hiss o'er the lime-bound stones, And playfully writhe round mouldering bones: The bat clingeth close to the binewood's root, Where its gnarled boughs up the belfry shoot, As, hiding the handworks of ruthless time, It garlands in grandeur and green sublime The hoary height, where the rust sae fell Bends, as with a burden, the auld kirk bell.

Oh, red is the rust, and a ruin is come To the auld kirk bell--ance and ever it 's dumb; On the brink of the past 'tis awaiting a doom, For a wauf o' the wind may awaken its tomb, As, bearing its fragments, all dust-like, away, To blend with water, the wood and the clay, Till lost 'mid the changes of manners and men; Then ne'er ane will think, nor ere ane will ken, That a joyfu' jowl and a waefu' knell, As it swung, had been rung by the auld kirk bell.

THE AULD AIK-TREE.

Oh, we hae been amang the bowers that winter didna bare, And we hae daunder'd in the howes where flowers were ever fair, And lain aneath as lofty trees as eye did ever see, Yet ne'er could lo'e them as we lo'e the auld aik-tree.

It 's no because its boughs are busk'd in any byous green, For simmer sairs it little now--it's no what it has been, Sin' ilka wauf o' win' that blaws dings dauds o't on the lea, And bairnies bear their burdens frae the auld aik-tree.

It 's no because the gowans bright grow bonnie by its ruit, For we hae seen them blum as braw in mony a ither bit; Nor yet because the mavis sings his mellow morning glee Sae sweetly frae the branches o' the auld aik-tree.

But there 's a kindly feeling found and foster'd in the heart, Which bears the thought a backward stream to lifetime's early part, And ties us to ilk morning scene o' love and laughing glee We 've seen, and kenn'd, and join'd aneath the auld aik-tree.

For we hae play'd aneath its shade a chuffie-cheekit bairn, Unkennin' o', uncarin' for, cauld care or crosses stern, And ran around it at the ba' when we frae schule wan free; Then wha daur say we sudna lo'e the auld aik-tree?

We 've speel'd upon its foggie stem and dern'd amang its green, To catch the pyet in her nest amidst the grays o' e'en; And watch'd the gooldie bringin' doon to big her hame sae wee Atween the cosie forkings o' the auld aik-tree.

And we hae tint and ta'en a heart when gloamin's shadows threw Out o'er the glen her misty gray in kindly drippin' dew, And felt the tear o' anguish fa' in torrents frae our e'e, When pairting frae that loved ane 'neath the auld aik-tree.

Our hame we left wi' hopefu' heart and mony a warm fareweel, And gowd and gear we gain'd awa; but oh, the freen's sae leal! Where are they? where my childhood's hearth --those hearts sae kind and free,-- When a' is unco groun save the auld aik-tree?

JAMES DODDS.

A man of elegant and varied accomplishments, and one of the most eloquent public-speakers of the age, James Dodds was born in 1815, in the county of Roxburgh. He was at first intended by some influential friends for the Church, and proceeded through part of the College curriculum, but some changes occurring, he ultimately devoted himself to the study of law. Probably his ambition was for the Bar; but overruling circumstances led him, about twelve years ago, to enter on the profession of parliamentary solicitor in London, in which he has met with much success.

From his youth a devoted student, he has, amidst the exigencies of business, sedulously kept up his literary pursuits. He has produced no independent work, but has largely contributed, both in prose and verse, to the periodicals. Among these contributions, a series of poems, chiefly ballads on incidents connected with the times of the Covenant, which appeared in several of the Edinburgh magazines, about thirteen years since, attracted much attention. One of these lays we have transferred to the present work. Mr Dodds has lately prepared a series of lectures on the fifty years' struggle of the Covenanters, which will probably be presented to the public. He has evinced a deep interest in the cause of raising a national monument to Sir William Wallace, and has, under the auspices of the Central Committee, addressed public meetings on the subject in many of the principal towns.

TRIAL AND DEATH OF ROBERT BAILLIE OF JERVIESWOODE.

'Twas when December's dark'ning scowl the face of heaven o'ercast, And vile men high in place were more unpitying than the blast, Before their grim tribunal's front, firm and undaunted stood That patriot chief of high renown, the noble Jervieswoode.

The hand of death is on him press'd--the seal of death is there! Oh, the savage of the wilderness those weak old limbs would spare! Frail, frail his step, and bent his frame, and ye may plainly trace The shadow of death's wing upon his pale and sunken face. These twenty long and dreary months in the dungeon he hath lain, Long days of sickness, weary nights of languishing and pain; For whom no gale hath breathed its balm, no sun hath bless'd the year, No friendly hand to smooth his couch, nor friendly voice to cheer; His lady in their lonely hall doth mournful vigils keep, And where he sat and where he walk'd his children watch and weep.

Yet o'er his weakness and decay an ancient grandeur falls, Like the majesty that lingers round some mould'ring palace walls; The light of calm and noble thoughts is bright within his eye, And, purged of earthly taint, his soul prepares to mount on high. Nor is he left alone--a sister faithful to him clung With woman's heart, with home-born love, with angel look and tongue; There in that Golgotha she sits, so tender, so benign-- Fair as the moon's sweet glimpses through the cloudy tempest shine.

The court is met, the assize are set: the robes of state look brave, Yet the proudest and the lordliest there is but a tyrant's slave-- Blood-hirelings they who earn their pay by foul and treach'rous deeds-- For swift and fell the hound must be whom the hunter richly feeds. What though no act of wrong e'er stain'd the fame of Jervieswoode, Shall it protect him in those times that he is wise and good? So wise--so good--so loved of all, though weak and worn with care, Though death comes fast he is the last whom Antichrist would spare! For his the bold and freeborn mind, the wisdom of a sage, The glow of youth still cherish'd in the sober breast of age; The soul of chivalry is his, and honour pure from stain-- A heart that beats for liberty, and spurns each galling chain, Whether entwined by hands that bear the crozier or the sword; For he would see all nations free in Christ who is their Lord.

And once, with England's patriot band, by tyrant power oppress'd, He had dream'd of free and happy homes in the forests of the west-- To breathe the uncorrupted air, to tread the fresh green sod, And where the broad Savannah rolls in peace to worship God! These are his crimes! the treason this for which he now is tried; But though the forms of law are kept all justice is denied. Woe! that a land so favour'd once should witness such disgrace! Shame! that a land so powerful yet should brook a scene so base!

Unroll your parchments black with lies--shut fast your coward doors-- And brand the aged chief with crimes his generous heart abhors: When truth avails not, well you know how to supply the lack With secret tales and with wild words extorted by the rack! There is an hour for every power--an hour of darkness this! Spur on, ye slaves of Antichrist! or ye the goal may miss!

His strength, increasing with his need, he raises bold and high, And fixes on Mackenzie[15] a clear and searching eye: "How canst thou thus, my lord, 'gainst me such accusations bring, That I have been a man of strife in plots against the king? I hate the way of violence--the anarchist I spurn; Who scatters firebrands little knows where they may fall and burn. In my degree I have been bold to guard the nation's right, And keep alive within these realms the lamp of Gospel light: But in my gloomy dungeon laid, didst thou not visit me, And solemnly avow that I from wicked plots was free? How canst thou, then, unto my charge such grievous actions lay, And all thou hast so solemn said as solemnly unsay?"