Imatges de pàgina
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Alexander Maclagan.

Maclagan was born at Perth, Scotland, April 3d, 1811. He attended school in Edinburgh, and at twelve years of age was apprenticed to a plumber. In 1829 he contributed pieces to the Literary Journal, and his poetical talents were recognized by John Wilson, James Hogg, and Lord Jeffrey. Volumes of poems from his pen appeared in 1841, 1854, and 1863; and in 1871 he was enabled to publish, in an illustrated quarto, "Balmoral; Songs of the Highlands, and other Poems."

"DINNA YE HEAR IT?”

'Mid the thunder of battle, the groans of the dying, The wail of weak women, the shouts of brave men, A poor Highland maiden sat sobbing and sighing,

As she longed for the peace of her dear native glen, But there came a glad voice to the ear of her heart,

The foes of auld Scotland forever will fear it: "We are saved! we are saved!" cried the brave Highland maid, [it ?" "Tis the Highlanders' slogan! Oh dinna ye hear Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? High o'er the battle's din, dinna ye hear it? High o'er the battle's din, hail it and cheer it! 'Tis the Highlanders' slogan! Oh, dinna ye hear it?

A moment the tempest of battle was hushed,
But no tidings of help did that moment reveal;
Again to their shot-shattered ramparts they rushed;
Again roared the cannon, again flashed the steel!

Bartholomew Simmons.

Simmons (circa 1811-1850) was born in Kilworth, County Cork, Ireland. He obtained a situation in the Excise Office in London, which he held till his death. He contributed, between 1838 and 1848, some spirited poems to Blackwood's Magazine, the editor of which says, "Simmous on the theme of Napoleon excels all our great poets. Byron's lines on that subject are bad; Scott's, poor; Wordsworth's, weak. Lockhart and Simmons may be bracketed as equal; theirs are good, rich, strong."

SONG OF A RETURNED EXILE.

I.

Sweet Corrin how softly the evening light goes,
Fading far o'er thy summit from ruby to rose,
As if loth to deprive the deep woodlands below
Of the love and the glory they drink in its glow:
O home-looking Hill! how beloved dost thou rise
Once more to my sight through the shadowy skies!
Shielding still, in thy sheltering grandeur unfurled,
The landscape to me that so long was the world.
Fair evening-blessed evening! one moment delay
Till the tears of the pilgrim are dried in thy ray-
Till he feels that through years of long absence not

one

Of his friends-the lone rock and gray ruin, is gone.

1 The picturesque mountain of Corrin is the termination of a long range of hills which encloses the valley of the Blackwater and the Funcheon in the County of Cork, Ireland.

II.

Not one-as I wind the sheer fastnesses through,
The valley of boyhood is bright in my view!
Once again my glad spirit its fetterless flight
May wing through a sphere of unclouded delight,
O'er one maze of bright orchard, green meadow, and
slope-

From whose tints I once pictured the pinions of hope;

Still the hamlet gleams white-still the church yews
are weeping,
[ing;
Where the sleep of the peaceful my fathers are sleep-
The vane tells, as usual, its fib from the mill,
But the wheel tumbles loudly and merrily still,
And the tower of the Roches stands lonely as ever,
With its grim shadow rusting the gold of the river.

III.

My own pleasant River, bloom-skirted, behold,
Now sleeping in shade, now refulgently rolled,
Where long through the landscape it tranquilly
flows,

Scarcely breaking, Glen-coorah, thy glorious repose!
By the Park's lovely pathways it lingers and shines,
Where the cushat's low call, and the murmur of
pines,

And the lips of the lily seem wooing its stay 'Mid their odorous dells;-but 'tis off and away, Rushing out through the clustering oaks, in whose shade,

Like a bird in the branches, an arbor I made, Where the blue eye of Eve often closed o'er the book,

While I read of stout Sinbad, or voyaged with Cook.

IV.

Wild haunt of the Harper! I stand by thy spring, Whose waters of silver still sparkle and fling Their wealth at my feet, and I catch the deep glow,

As in long-vanished hours, of the lilacs that blow By the low cottage-porch-and the same crescent

moon

That then ploughed, like a pinnace, the purple of June,

Is white on Glen-duff, and all blooms as unchanged As if years had not passed since thy greenwood I ranged--

As if ONE were not fled, who imparted a soul
Of divinest enchantment and grace to the whole,
Whose being was bright as that fair moon above,
And all deep and all pure as thy waters her love.

V.

Thou long-vanished Angel! whose faithfulness threw
O'er my gloomy existence one glorified hue!
Dost thou still, as of yore, when the evening grows
dim,

And the blackbird by Douglass is hushing its hymn,
Remember the bower by the Funcheon's blue side,
Where the whispers were soft as the kiss of the tide?
Dost thou still think, with pity and peace on thy
brow,

Of him who, toil-harassed and time-shaken now, While the last light of day, like his hopes, has departed,

On the turf thou hast hallowed sinks down wearyhearted,

And calls on thy name, and the night-breeze that sighs [that replies? Through the boughs that once blessed thee is all

VI.

But thy summit, far Corrin, is fading in gray, And the moonlight grows mellow on lonely Cloughlea;

And the laugh of the young, as they loiter about, Through the elm-shaded alleys rings joyously out: Happy souls! they have yet the dark chalice to taste, And like others to wander life's desolate waste-To hold wassail with sin, or keep vigil with woe; But the same fount of yearning wherever they go, Welling up in their heart-depths to turn at the last (As the stag when the barb in his bosom is fast) To their lair in the hills on their childhood that rose, And find the sole blessing I seek for-REPOSE.

1840.

FROM "STANZAS ON THOMAS HOOD." Take back into thy bosom, Earth,

This joyous, May-eyed morrow, The gentlest child that ever Mirth

Gave to be reared by Sorrow! 'Tis hard-while rays half green, half gold, Through vernal bowers are burning, And streams their diamond mirrors hold To Summer's face returning,— To say we're thankful that his sleep Shall never more be lighter, In whose sweet-tongued companionship Stream, bower, aud beam grew brighter!

Dear worshipper of Dian's face In solitary places!

Shalt thou no more steal as of yore

To meet her white embraces?

Is there no purple in the rose

Henceforward to thy senses?

For thee have dawn and daylight's close
Lost their sweet influences?
No! by the mental sight untamed

Thou took'st to Death's dark portal,-
The joy of the wide universe
Is now to thee immortal!

FROM "THE MOTHER OF THE KINGS."

In the London Keepsake for 1837, Lady Emeline Stuart Wortley describes a visit to Madame Letitia, mother of Napoleon, then in her eighty-fourth year. She was on her bed, and her room was hung around with large, full-length portraits of the members of her illustrious family.

Strange looked that lady old, reclined
Upon her lonely bed

In that vast chamber, echoing not

To page or maiden's tread;

And stranger still the gorgeous forms,

In portrait, that glanced round

From the high walls, with cold bright looks
More eloquent than sound.

They were her children :-never yet,
Since, with the primal beam,
Fair painting brought on rainbow wings
Its own immortal dream,

Did one fond mother give such race
Beneath its smile to glow

As they who now, back on her brow,
Their pictured glories throw.

Her daughters there-the beautiful!
Looked down in dazzling sheen:
One lovelier than the Queen of Love-
One crowned an earthly queen!
Her sons-the proud-the Paladins!
With diadem and plume,
Each leaning on his sceptred arm,

Made empire of that room!

But right before her couch's foot,

One mightiest picture blazedOne form august, to which her eyes Incessantly were raised;

A monarch's too!-and monarch-like, The artist's hand had bound him With jewelled belt, imperial sword, And ermined purple round him.

One well might deem, from the white flags

That o'er him flashed and rolled,
Where the puissant lily laughed

And waved its bannered gold,
And from the Lombard's iron crown
Beneath his hand which lay,

That Charlemagne had burst death's reign
And leaped again to-day!

How gleamed that awful countenance,
Magnificently stern!

In its dark smile and smiting look,
What destiny we learn!-
The laurel simply wreathes that brow,
While nations watch its nod,

As though he scoffed all pomp below
The thunder-bolt of God.

Such was the scene-the noontide hour-
Which, after many a year,
Had swept above the memory

Of his meteor-like career-
Saw the mother of the mightiest-
Napoleon's mother-lie

With the living dead around her,
With the past before her eye!

Mrs. Jane Cross Simpson.

Mrs. Simpson was born in Glasgow in 1811; a daughter of James Bell, advocate, and a sister of Henry Glassford Bell, the lawyer-poet. She published in 1838 a volume of poems, entitled "April Hours ;" and is the author of the well-known hymn, "Go when the morning shineth," claimed for various authors, but contributed by her to the Edinburgh Literary Journal of February 26th, 1831, where it is signed "Gertrude.”

GO WHEN THE MORNING SHINETH.

Go when the morning shineth,
Go when the noon is bright,

Go when the eve declineth,
Go in the hush of night;
Go with pure mind and feeling,
Fling earthly thought away,
And in thy chamber kneeling,
Do thou in secret pray.

Remember all who love thee,

All who are loved by thee; Pray too for those who hate thee, If any such there be.

Then for thyself, in meekness,

A blessing humbly claim; And link with each petition The great Redeemer's name.

Or if 'tis e'er denied thee

In solitude to pray, Should holy thoughts come o'er thee When friends are round thy way,Even then the silent breathing

Of thy spirit raised above, May reach His throne of glory, Who is mercy, truth, and love.

Oh! not a joy or blessing

With this can we compare,

The power that He hath given us
To pour our hearts in prayer!
Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness,
Before His footstool fall,
And remember, in thy gladness,
His grace who gave thee all.

Alfred Billings Street.

AMERICAN.

Street was born in Poughkeepsie, N. Y., in 1811. He studied law, but in 1839 removed to Albany, and accepted the place of State Librarian. His first volume of poems appeared in 1842. He is a close and accurate observer of natural scenery. A landscape-painter might, with little aid from the imagination, find in his descriptions material for many a picture. His strength lies in details, however, rather than in bold generalizations that flash a scene upon the mind's eye by a few well-chosen phrases. His poems will be read with pleasure by students of natural scenery and sylvan effects. His longest work, "Frontenac" (1849), is a narrative poem, being a tale of the Iroquois. His other works are: "The Burning of Schenectady, and other Poems;” “"Drawings and Tintings" (1844); "Fugitive Poems" (1846); "Woods and Waters" (1869); "Forest Pictures in the Adirondacs" (1864); "Poems" (1866).

THE NOOK IN THE FOREST.

A nook within the forest: overhead

The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower, Breaking white cloud, blue sky, and sunshine bright Into pure ivory and sapphire spots,

And flecks of gold; a soft, cool emerald tint Colors the air, as though the delicate leaves Emitted self-born light. What splendid walls, And what a gorgeous roof, carved by the hand

Of glorious Nature! Here the spruce thrusts in
Its bristling plume, tipped with its pale-green points;
The hemlock shows its borders freshly fringed;
The smoothly scalloped beech-leaf, and the birch,
Cut into ragged edges, interlace :

While here and there, through clefts, the laurel hangs
Its gorgeous chalices half-brimmed with dew,
As though to hoard it for the haunting elves
The moonlight calls to this their festal hall.
A thick, rich grassy carpet clothes the earth
Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays
Its fluted wreath beaded beneath with drops
Of richest brown; the wild-rose spreads its breast
Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging fir
Has dropped its dark, long cone.

Such nooks as this are common in the woods:
And all these sights and sounds the commonest
In Nature when she wears her summer prime.
Yet by them pass not lightly: to the wise
They tell the beauty and the harmony

Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made;
That this familiar earth and sky are full
Of his ineffable power and majesty ;—
That in the humble objects, seen too oft
To be regarded, is such wondrous grace,
The art of man is vain to imitate;-

That the low flower our careless foot treads down
Is a rich shrine of incense delicate,

And radiant beauty; and that God hath formed
All, from the mountain wreathing round its brow
The black cars of the thunder, to the grain
Of silver sand the bubbling spring casts up, -
With deepest forethought and severest care.
And thus these noteless, lowly things are types
Of his perfection and divinity.

A FOREST WALK.

A lovely sky, a cloudless sun,

A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers,
O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won
To the cool forest's shadowy bowers;
One of the paths all round that wind,

Traced by the browsing herds, I choose,
And sights and sounds of human kind
In nature's lone recesses lose:
The beech displays its marbled bark,

The spruce its green tent stretches wide,
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark,
The maple's scalloped dome beside:
All weave on high a verdant roof,
That keeps the very sun aloof,

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