Oft at the close of evening prayer, the toll, The solemn funeral-toll, pausing, proclaims The service of the tomb: the homeward crowds Divide on either hand; the pomp draws near; The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, "I am the resurrection and the life." Ah me! these youthful bearers robed in white, They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend Is gone, dead in her prime of years:-'Twas she, The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give, With angel tongue pleaded to those who could; With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye, That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd For longer life, with heart resign'd to die,Rejoiced to die; for happy visions bless'd Her voyage's last days, and hovering round, But all her loveliness is not yet flown: Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake, The pall withdrawn, Death's altar, thick emboss'd With melancholy ornaments-(the name, James Grahame.-Born 1765, Died 1811. 1162.-A SCOTTISH COUNTRY Now, 'mid the general glow of opening blooms, Coy maidens blush consent, nor slight the gift From neighbouring fair brought home, till now refused. Swains, seize the sunny hours to make your hay, For woman's smiles are fickle as the sky: Bespeak the priest, bespeak the minstrel too, Ere May, to wedlock hostile, stop the banns. Th' appointed day arrives, a blithesome day Of festive jollity; yet not devoid Of soft regret to her about to leave Soon as the bands are knit, a jocund sound reel With various steps uncouth, some new, some old, Some all the dancer's own, with Highland flings Not void of grace, the lads and lasses strive To dance each other down; and oft when quite Forespent, the fingers merrily crack'd, the bound, The rallying shout well-timed, and sudden change To sprightlier tune, revive the flagging foot, And make it feel as if it tripp'd in air. When all are tired, and all his stock of reels The minstrel o'er and o'er again has run, May be The Bonny Broom of Cowdenknowes Or Patie's Mill, or Bush aboon Traquair, Inspire a tranquil gladness through the breast; Or that most mournful strain, the sad lament For Flodden-field, drives mirth from every face, And makes the firmest heart strive hard to curb The rising tear; till, with unpausing bow, some Of nights when Gow's old arm (nor old the tale), Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round, Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe. Alas! no more shall we behold that look But light now failing, glimmering candles In ready chandeliers of moulded clay Fresh groups come hastening in; but of them all, The miller bears the gree, as rafter high He leaps, and, lighting, shakes a dusty cloud all round. In harmless merriment, protracted long, The hours glide by. At last, the stocking thrown, And duly every gossip rite perform'd, ways; While drouthy carles, waiting for the moon, Sit down again, and quaff till daylight dawn. James Grahame.-Born 1765, Died 1811. 1163.-THE IMPRESSED SAILOR BOY. Low in a glen, Down which a little stream had furrow'd deep, 'Tween meeting birchen boughs, a shelvy channel, And brawling mingled with the western tide; With furious dash, a lowly dwelling lurk'd, was brought Save when the winter fuel 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 Poor, humble, and content; one son alone, Far as St. Kilda's rock-wall'd shore abrupt, shores Gladly he left-he had a homeward heart : 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 thread; Listening with partial, well-pleased look, she gazed Upon her son, and inly bless'd the Lord, That he was safe return'd. Sudden a noise Bursts rushing through the trees; a glance of steel Dazzles the eye, and fierce the savage band And view in mute despair the boat recede. James Grahame.-Born 1765, Died 1811. 1164.-TO MY SON. 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 ear, By faltering out the name to fathers dear. More precious far than periods thrice refined! How gently I would lead him by the hand; 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, What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat ? Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands, And thou dost bear within thine awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet; Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead noon, Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. In the drear silence of the polar span Dost thou repose? or in the solitude Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. H. Kirke White.-Born 1785, Died 1806. 1167.-THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud-the night was dark; The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease; Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er, For ever and for evermore, The Star-the Star of Bethlehem! H. Kirke White.-Born 1785, Died 1806. Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet H. Kirke White.-Born 1785, Died 1806. 1169. THE CHRISTIAD. Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme, With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem The lyre which I in early days have strung; And now my spirits faint, and I have hung The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, On the dark cypress; and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no more. And must the harp of Judah sleep again? One little space prolong my mournful day; I am a youthful traveller in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. H. Kirke White.-Born 1785, Died 1806. 1168.-A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. Are met once more before thy throne, And wilt thou bend a listening ear Thou wilt for thou dost love to hear And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign, For thou didst bless the infant train, O let thy grace perform its part, 1170. THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S I woo thee from the watch-tower high, Of lonely mariner. The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, The distant main is moaning low; Come, let us sit and weave a song A melancholy song! Sweet is the scented gale of morn, That marks thy mournful reign. I've pass'd here many a lonely year, And never human voice have heard; I've pass'd here many a lonely year A solitary man. And I have linger'd in the shade, From sultry noon's hot beam; and I Have knelt before my wicker door, To sing my evening song. And I have hail'd the gray morn high But never could I tane my reed, At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet As when upon the ocean shore I hail'd thy star-beam mild. The day-spring brings not joy to me, And then I talk, and often think Aerial voices answer me; And oh! I am not then alone- And when the blustering winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat, And pleasant are my dreams. And Fancy gives me back my wife: And Fancy gives me back my child; She gives me back my little home, And all its placid joys. Then hateful is the morning hour The same dull sounds again. H. Kirke White.-Born 1785, Died 1806. 1171. FROM CLIFTON GROVE. Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke; No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head, The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd bed. Still'd is the village hum-the woodland sounds Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, And general silence reigns, save when below, The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow; And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate: Or, when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, And tells the oft-told tales that never tire: Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh! |