Part 10

The lamp hath ceased to burn, Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame; Let dust to dust return, Whence it came, whence it came.

To thy chamber, sister dear; There to God, there to God, Bend humble and sincere, 'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.

Prayer heals the broken heart-- He is kind, He is kind; Each bruised and bleeding part He will bind, He will bind.

Weep not for her that 's gone-- Time will fly, time will fly-- Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one 'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!

ROBERT LEIGHTON.

Robert Leighton, author of "Rhymes and Poems by Robin," a duodecimo volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts, being composed in his sixteenth year.

MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.

There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are, There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far; But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock, While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht, Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht, Yet frae mornin' till e'en--aye as steady 's a rock-- I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through, And when at the end I begin it anew; There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock, To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.

There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame, There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame, Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock, And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.

As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed, And better, say some, for they hinna to read; The lads and the lasses around me a' flock, And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.

The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan', "Hoo 's the markets," says he, "are they risen or fa'en? Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?" But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.

To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire, Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre, She 'll gie me a hand o' the cradle to rock, And for that she 's aye gude to my muckle meal pock.

Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet hae to gang, And o' followin' them noo I canna be lang, Yet while I am here I will lauch and I 'll joke, For I 'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock.

JAMES HENDERSON.

A poet of much elegance and power, James Henderson was born on the 2d November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, in the village of Denny and county of Stirling. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature in its ever varying aspects, he found relaxation from business in the composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume, entitled "Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much commended by the periodical and newspaper press. Having proceeded to India in 1849, he became a commission agent in Calcutta. He visited Britain in 1852, but returned to India the same year. Having permanently returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow as an East India merchant.

THE WANDERER'S DEATHBED.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime And his happy hours were pass'd, On the distant shore of a foreign clime The wanderer breathed his last. And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave, By the brooklet's glassy brim; And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer, And the dirge of its evening hymn.

He left the land of his childhood fair, With hope in his glowing breast, With visions bright as the summer's light, And dreams by his fancy blest. But death look'd down with a chilling frown As he stood on that distant shore, And he leant his head on the stranger's bed, Till the last sad pang was o'er.

Strange faces, fill'd with a soulless look, O'er the wanderer's deathbed hung; And the words were cold as the wintry wold, That fell from each heedless tongue. Nor mournful sigh, nor tearful eye The solace of pity gave, While the moments pass'd till he breathed his last, To sleep in the silent grave.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime And his happy hours were pass'd, On the distant shore of a foreign clime The wanderer breathed his last. And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave, By the brooklet's glassy brim; And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer, And the dirge of its evening hymn.

THE SONG OF TIME.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, And the nations pass away, Like visions bright of the dreamy night, That die with the dawning day. The lordly tower, and the battled wall, The hall, and the holy fane, In ruin lie while I wander by, Nor rise from their wreck again.

I light the rays of the orient blaze, The glow of the radiant noon; I wing my flight with the sapphire night, And glide with the gentle moon. O'er earth I roam, and the bright expanse Where the proud bark bounds away; And I join the stars in their choral dance Round the golden orb of day.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, And the nations pass away, Like visions bright of the dreamy night, That die with the dawning day. The sceptre sinks in the regal hall, And still'd is the monarch's tread, The mighty stoop as the meanest droop, And sleep with the nameless dead.

THE HIGHLAND HILLS.

The Highland hills! there are songs of mirth, And joy, and love on the gladsome earth; For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled In the forest glade and the woodland wild. Then come with me from the haunts of men To the glassy lake in the mountain glen, Where sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills That chainless leap from the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the sparkling rays Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze, When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow, While the fountains leap and the rivers flow, Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls Bid echo wake in the rocky halls, Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the noonday smiles On the slumbering lakes and their fairy isles, We 'll clamber high where the heather waves By the warrior's cairn and the foemen's graves; And I 'll sing to thee, in "the bright day's prime," Of the days of old and of ancient time, And thy heart, unknown to the care that chills, Shall gladly joy in the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! in the twilight dim To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb, And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far, Till the beacon blaze of the evening star, And the lamp of night, with its virgin beams, Look down on the deep and the shining streams, Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills With joy and love in the Highland hills.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Sublime is Scotia's mountain land, And beautiful and wild; By tyranny's unhallow'd hand Unsullied, undefiled. The free and fearless are her sons, The good and brave her sires; And, oh! her every spirit glows With freedom's festal fires!

When dark oppression far and wide Its gory deluge spread, While nations, ere they pass'd away, For hope and vengeance bled, She from her rocky bulwarks high The banner'd eagle hurl'd, And trampled on triumphant Rome, The empress of the world.

She gave the Danish wolf a grave Deep in her darkest glens, And chased the vaunting Norman hound Back to his lowland dens; And though the craven Saxon strove Her regal lord to be, Her hills were homes to nurse the brave, The fetterless, and free.

Peace to the spirits of the dead, The noble, and the brave; Peace to the mighty who have bled Our Fatherland to save! We revel in the pure delight Of deeds achieved by them, To crown their worth and valour bright With glory's diadem.

JAMES MACLARDY.

The writer of several good songs, James Maclardy was born in Glasgow on the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was a journeyman shoemaker in humble circumstances. With the scanty rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world. For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being dependent for subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his father's profession, he became more fortunate, and now took delight in improving himself in learning, and especially in perusing the works of the poets. After practising his craft in various localities, he has latterly settled in Glasgow, where he holds a situation of respectable emolument.

THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE.

The sunny days are come, my love, The gowan 's on the lea, And fragrant flow'rs wi' hiney'd lips, Invite the early bee; The scented winds are whisp'ring by, The lav'rock 's on the wing, The lintie on the dewy spray Gars glen and woodland ring.

The sunny days are come, my love, The primrose decks the brae, The vi'let in its rainbow robe Bends to the noontide ray; The cuckoo in her trackless bower Has waken'd from her dream; The shadows o' the new-born leaves Are waving in the stream.

The sunny days are come, my love, The swallow skims the lake, As o'er its glassy bosom clear The insect cloudlets shake. The heart of nature throbs with joy At love and beauty's sway; The meanest creeping thing of earth Shares in her ecstasy.

Then come wi' me my bonny Bell, And rove Gleniffer o'er, And ye shall lend a brighter tint To sunshine and to flower; And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won A blessing or a wae-- Awake a summer in my breast, Or bid hope's flowers decay.

For spring may spread her mantle green, O'er mountain, dell, and lea, And summer burst in every hue Wi' smiles and melody, To me the sun were beamless, love, And scentless ilka flower, Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun, Its music and its bower.

OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.

Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud That sleeps in the smile o' dawn; An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells That spangle the blossom'd lawn: An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart, That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea; But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was gay as the summer time, When the earth is bricht an' gled, An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw, In their sparkling pearl-draps cled: An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea; But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower That waves by the moss-grown stane, An' her lips were rich as the rowans red That hang in forest lane; An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht, That struck ane dumb to see; But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale That fans the temples o' toil, An' the sweets o' a thousand summers cam' On her breath an' sunny smile: An' spotless she gaed on the tainted earth, O' a mortal blemish free, While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss Was reaming to the brim, When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower Cam' a grisly carl fu' grim, Wha dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips Wi' a wild, unearthly glee; Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirm'd, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was young, an' the grim auld carl Held her fast in his cauld embrace, An' suck'd the red frae her hiney'd mou', An' the blush frae her peachy face: He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat, An' quench'd the fires o' her e'e; But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower, For my love was nae for me.

Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart, An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame; Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht, Wi' the cauld warld for my hame. Yet my minstrelsy 's but a lanely lay, My wealth my aumous fee; Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carl, For this warld is nae for me.

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

The author of "Harebell Chimes," a volume of interesting verses, Andrew James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His father was a scion of the noble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848 the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it continues to be prosperously carried on.

Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of "Harebell Chimes," published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order; it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume entitled "Genivieve, and other Poems," was printed by Mr Symington for circulation among his friends.

DAY DREAM.

Close by the marge of Leman's lake, Upon a thymy plot, In blissful rev'rie, half awake, Earth's follies all forgot, I conjured up a faery isle Where sorrow enter'd not, Withouten shade of sin or guile-- A lovely Eden spot.

With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade, And leaves of tender green, All trembling in the light and shade, As sunbeams glanced between: The mossy turf, bespangled gay With fragrant flowery sheen-- Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May-- The fairest ever seen.

Near where a crystal river ran Into the rich, warm light, A domed palace fair began To rise in marble white. 'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet, With mirrors dazzling bright-- With antique vase and statuette, A palace of delight.

And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress, With circlet on her hair, Appear'd in all her loveliness, Like angel standing there. She struck the cithern in her hand, And sang with 'witching air Her own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?" To music wild and rare.

It died away--the palace changed, Dream-like, into a bower! Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged, Secure from hunter's power. Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground, With daisy, starry flower, While crimson flower-bells cluster'd round The rose-twined faery bower.

Therein "Undine," lovely sprite! Sat gazing on sunrise, And sang of "morning, clear and bright"-- The tears came in her eyes: She look'd upon the lovely isle, And now up to the skies, Then in a silv'ry misty veil She vanish'd from mine eyes.

A music, as of forest trees Bent 'neath the storm-blast's sway, Rose swelling--dying in the breeze, A strange, wild lullaby. The islet with its flowery turf Then waxed dim and gray; I look'd--no islet gemm'd the surf-- The dream had fled away.

FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT.

Fair as a star of light, Like diamond gleaming bright, Through darkness of the night, Is my love to me. As bell of lily white, In streamlet mirror'd bright, All quiv'ring with delight, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

A flowing magic thrill Which floodeth heart and will With gushes musical, Is my love to me. Bright as the tranced dream, Which flitteth in a gleam, Before morn's golden beam, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

Like living crystal well, In cool and shady dell, Unto the parch'd gazelle, Is my love to me. And dearer than things fair, However rich and rare, In earth, or sea, or air, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

NATURE MUSICAL.

There is music in the storm, love, When the tempest rages high; It whispers in the summer breeze A soft, sweet lullaby. There is music in the night, When the joyous nightingale, Clear warbling, filleth with his song The hillside and the vale. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.

There is music by the shore, love, When foaming billows dash; It echoes in the thunder peal, When vivid lightnings flash. There is music by the shore, In the stilly noon of night, When the murmurs of the ocean fade In the clear moonlight.

There is music in the soul, love, When it hears the gushing swell, Which, like a dream intensely soft, Peals from the lily-bell. There is music--music deep In the soul that looks on high, When myriad sparkling stars sing out Their pure sphere harmony.

There is music in the glance, love, Which speaketh from the heart, Of a sympathy in souls That never more would part. There is music in the note Of the cooing turtle-dove; There is music in the voice Of dear ones whom we love.

There is music everywhere, love, To the pure of spirit given; And sweetest music heard on earth But whispers that of heaven. Oh, all is music there-- 'Tis the language of the sky-- Sweet hallelujahs there resound Eternal harmony. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.

ISABELLA CRAIG.

Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of the _Scotsman_ newspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In 1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the periodicals.

OUR HELEN.

Is our Helen very fair? If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her. We who see her day by day Through our household moving, Whether she be fair or nay Cannot see for loving.

O'er our gentle Helen's face No rich hues are bright'ning, And no smiles of feigned grace From her lips are light'ning; She hath quiet, smiling eyes, Fair hair simply braided, All as mild as evening skies Ere sunlight hath faded.

Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves Our approving praises, But her eye that never roves Shrinks from other gazes. She, so late within her home But a child caressing, Now a woman hath become, Ministering, blessing.

All her duty, all her bliss, In her home she findeth, Nor too narrow deemeth this-- Lowly things she mindeth; Yet when deeper cares distress, She is our adviser; Reason's rules she needeth less, For her heart is wiser.

For the sorrows of the poor Her kind spirit bleedeth, And, because so good and pure, For the erring pleadeth. Is our Helen very fair? If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her.

GOING OUT AND COMING IN.

In that home was joy and sorrow Where an infant first drew breath, While an aged sire was drawing Near unto the gate of death. His feeble pulse was failing, And his eye was growing dim; He was standing on the threshold When they brought the babe to him.

While to murmur forth a blessing On the little one he tried, In his trembling arms he raised it, Press'd it to his lips and died. An awful darkness resteth On the path they both begin, Who thus met upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.

Going out unto the triumph, Coming in unto the fight-- Coming in unto the darkness, Going out unto the light; Although the shadow deepen'd In the moment of eclipse, When he pass'd through the dread portal With the blessing on his lips.

And to him who bravely conquers, As he conquer'd in the strife, Life is but the way of dying-- Death is but the gate of life; Yet awful darkness resteth On the path we all begin, Where we meet upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.

MY MARY AN' ME.

We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd, We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd; When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie, We promised to wait for each ither a wee.

My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed, An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed, He charged me a husband and father to be, While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.

I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine, Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine, Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me, "Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."

An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care, But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear, She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong, 'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.

Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now, Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow, A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see, They tell me how lang she has waited on me.

Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil, Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile; She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee, She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.

A SONG OF SUMMER.

I will sing a song of summer, Of bright summer as it dwells, Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine, In lone haunts and grassy dells. Lo! the hill encircled valley Is like an emerald cup, To its inmost depths all glowing, With sunlight brimming up. Here I 'd dream away the day time, And let happy thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but glory, Aught but beauty on the earth.

Not a speck of cloud is floating In the deep blue overhead, 'Neath the trees the daisied verdure Like a broider'd couch is spread. The rustling leaves are dancing With the light wind's music stirr'd, And in gushes through the stillness Comes the song of woodland bird. Here I 'd dream away the day-time, And let gentlest thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but gladness, Aught but peace upon the earth.

ROBERT DUTHIE.