Part 4

They pass; they are too lofty And remote, They cannot see the spaces Where I float. The last hope dies within me, With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking, I can see The new moon's crescent sailing Pallidly: And one star coldly shining Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in nature But my moan, The shriek of the wild petrel All alone, And roar of waves exulting To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages, Tempest trod; Strength fails me; coldness gathers On this clod; From the deep and troubled waters I cry to _Thee_, my God!

THE RETURN HOME.

The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds, And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds; The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky, And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,-- And faintly stealing, Booming, pealing, Chime from the city the echoing bells; And louder, clearer, Softer, nearer, Ringing sweet welcome the melody swells; And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain, In fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again, Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn, And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn; And 'mid the wild wood, Dear to childhood, Gather'd the berries that grew by the way; But all our gladness Died in sadness, Fading like dreams in the dawning of day;-- But we 're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

We loved thee before, but we 'll cherish thee now With a deeper emotion than words can avow; Wherever in absence our feet might delay, We had never a joy like the joy of to-day; And home returning, Fondly yearning, Faces of welcome seem crowding the shore-- England! England! Beautiful England! Peace be around thee, and joy evermore! And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

THE MEN OF THE NORTH.

Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud; Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast; The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm, In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm: Fair though they be, There 's an isle in the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free! Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth-- The lords of the world are the Men of the North!

Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies, There 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes; Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do-- Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!" Winter and storm only nerve us the more, And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door: Strong shall we be In our isle of the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free! Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth, We 'll stand in our courage--the Men of the North!

Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine, In the face of the slave and the coward may shine; Roses may blossom where Freedom decays, And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays. Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil, Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil: Proud let us be Of our isle of the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free! Men with true hearts--let our fame echo forth-- Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!

THE LOVER'S DREAM OF THE WIND.

I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp Untouch'd by mortal hand, And I the voiceless, sweet west wind, A roamer through the land. I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings, And lo! my common air, Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee, And turn'd to music rare.

I dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom, And I the gale of spring, That sought the odours of thy breath, And bore them on my wing. No poorer thou, but richer I-- So rich, that far at sea, The grateful mariners were glad, And bless'd both thee and me.

I dream'd thou wert the evening star, And I a lake at rest, That saw thine image all the night Reflected on my breast. Too far!--too far!--come dwell on Earth! Be Harp and Rose of May;-- I need thy music in my heart, Thy fragrance on my way.

ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.

Archibald Crawford, a writer of prose and poetry of considerable merit, was born at Ayr in 1785. In his ninth year, left an orphan, he was placed under the care of a brother-in-law, a baker in London. With no greater advantages than the somewhat limited school education then given to the sons of burgesses of small provincial towns, his ardent love of literature and powerful memory enabled him to become conversant with the works of the more distinguished British authors, as well as the best translations of the classics. At the expiry of eight years he returned to Ayr, and soon after entered the employment of Charles Hay, Esq., of Edinburgh, in whose service he continued during a course of years. In honour of a daughter of this gentleman, who had shewn him much kindness during a severe attack of fever, he composed his song of "Bonnie Mary Hay," which, subsequently set to music by R. A. Smith, has become extremely popular. He was afterwards in the employment of General Hay of Rannes, with whom he remained several years. At the close of that period he was offered by his employer an ensigncy in the service of the Honourable East India Company, which, however, he respectfully declined. In 1810 he opened a grocery establishment in his native town; but, with less aptitude for business than literature, he lost the greater part of the capital he had embarked in trade. He afterwards exchanged this business for that of auctioneer and general merchant.

The literary inclinations of his youth had been assiduously followed up, and his employers, sympathising with his tastes, gave him every opportunity, by the use of their libraries, of indulging his favourite studies. With the exception of some fugitive pieces, he did not however seek distinction as an author till 1819, when a satirical poem, entitled "St James's in an uproar," appeared anonymously from his pen. This composition intended to support the extreme political opinions then in vogue, exposed to ridicule some leading persons in the district, and was attended with the temporary apprehension and menaced prosecution of the printer. To the columns of the _Ayr and Wigtonshire Courier_ he now began to contribute a series of sketches, founded on traditions in the West of Scotland; and these, in 1824, he collected into a volume, with the title, "Tales of a Grandmother," which was published by subscription. In the following year the tales, with some additions, were published, in two duodecimo volumes, by Constable and Co.; but the subsequent insolvency of the publishing firm deprived the author of the profits of the sale. Crawford, along with two literary coadjutors, next started a weekly serial at Ayr, entitled _The Correspondent_, but the publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. A similar periodical, under the designation of _The Gaberlunzie_, appeared under his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. He latterly contributed articles in prose and verse to the _Ayr Advertiser_, a weekly newspaper published in that town. His death took place at Ayr on the 6th January 1843, in his 58th year. Much esteemed for his hearty, social nature, with a ready and pungent wit, and much dramatic power as a relater of legendary narrative, he was possessed of strong intellectual capacities, and considerable taste as a poet. His second son, Mr William Crawford, has attained distinction as an artist.

BONNIE MARY HAY.

Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet, For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet; The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek; O! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet.

Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' me, When the sun 's in the west, to the hawthorn-tree; To the hawthorn-tree, in the bonnie berry-den, And I 'll tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then?

Bonnie Mary Hay, it 's haliday to me, When thou art couthie, kind, and free; There 's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky, My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh.

Bonnie Mary Hay, thou maunna say me nay, But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae; But come to the bower, and I 'll tell you a' what 's true, How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but you.

SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME BUT THEE!

Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains, Are famous in story--the birth-place of song; Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest, Well may thy pilgrims long for their home. Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore, The grave of my fathers! the land of the free! Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace; Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!

Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave; Scotland, to thee I 'll twine, with all thy varied clime, For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave. Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore, The grave of my fathers! the land of the free! Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace; Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!

GEORGE DONALD.

George Donald was born at Glasgow on the 19th January 1800. His parents being in circumstances of indigence, he was sent to labour in a factory so early as his eighth year. A limited attendance at school he supplemented by devoting his intervals of toil to self-instruction. He began to contribute verses to the public journals in his eighteenth year, and soon after composed a series of poems, entitled "Lays of the Covenanters," which appeared in one of the Glasgow newspapers. Of extreme political opinions, he upheld his peculiar views in a series of satirical compositions both in prose and verse, which, by leading dissolute persons to seek his society, proved the commencement of a most unfortunate career. Habits of irregularity were contracted; he ceased to engage in the duties of his calling: and leaving his wife and family of young children without any means of support, he became a reckless wanderer. He afterwards emigrated to the United States, but at the expiry of sixteen months re-appeared in Glasgow. He now became steady; and joining the Total Abstinence Society, advocated the cause of sobriety in a number of temperance songs. Renouncing his pledge, he soon returned to his former habits. He proceeded to Ireland, where he supported himself as a public reciter of popular Scottish ballads. He contributed to the _Banner of Ulster_ a narrative of his experiences in America; and published at Belfast, in a separate volume, his "Lays of the Covenanters," two abridged editions of which were subsequently printed and circulated in Glasgow. Returning to his native city, he was fortunate in receiving the kindly patronage of Dr John Smith of the _Examiner_ newspaper, who paid him a stipulated salary as a contributor. After a period of illness, his death took place at the village of Thornliebank, near Glasgow, on the 7th December 1851. In "The Songs for the Nursery," an interesting little work published by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow in 1846, ten pieces are from his pen. A poem which he composed in his latter years entitled "The Progress of Society, in five books," is still in MS. Amidst all his failings Donald maintained a sense of religion. Evincing a sincere regret for the errors of his life, he died in Christian hope.

THE SPRING TIME O' LIFE.

AIR--_"O wat ye wha I met yestreen?"_

The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths, And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers, While furthy autumn plenty breathes, And blessings in abundance showers. E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw, Brings meikle still the heart to cheer, But there's a season worth them a', And that's the spring-time o' the year.

In spring the farmer ploughs the field That yet will wave wi' yellow corn, In spring the birdie bigs its bield In foggy bank or budding thorn; The burn and brae, the hill and dell, A song of hope are heard to sing, And summer, autumn, winter, tell, Wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring.

Now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life, When seed is sown wi' care and toil, And hopes are high, and fears are rife, Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil. I 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear, By precept and example baith, And may the hand that guides us here Preserve it frae the spoiler's skaith!

But soon the time may come when you Shall miss a mother's tender care, A sinfu' world to wander through, Wi' a' its stormy strife to share; Then mind my words, whare'er ye gang, Let fortune smile or thrawart be, Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang-- If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.

THE SCARLET ROSE-BUSH.

AIR--_"There grows a bonnie brier bush."_

Come see my scarlet rose-bush My father gied to me, That's growing in our window-sill Sae fresh and bonnilie; I wadna gie my rose-bush For a' the flowers I see, Nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd, Sae dear it is to me.

I set it in the best o' mould Ta'en frae the moudie's hill, And covered a' the yird wi' moss I gather'd on the hill; I saw the blue-bell blooming, And the gowan wat wi' dew, But my heart was on my rose-bush set, I left them where they grew.

I water 't ilka morning Wi' meikle pride and care, And no a wither'd leaf I leave Upon its branches fair; Twa sprouts are rising frae the root, And four are on the stem, Three rosebuds and six roses blawn-- 'Tis just a perfect gem!

Come, see my bonnie, blooming bush My father gied to me, Wi' roses to the very top, And branches like a tree. It grows upon our window-sill, I watch it tentilie; O! I wadna gie my dear rose-bush For a' the flowers I see.

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.

Henry Glassford Bell is the son of James Bell, Esq., advocate. His mother was the daughter of the Rev. John Hamilton, minister of Cathcart. He was born at Glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in Edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he passed advocate in 1832. Prior to his commencing the study of law, he much devoted himself to literary pursuits. In 1828 he published, in "Constable's Miscellany," a "Life of Mary, Queen of Scots," in two volumes, of which work several editions have since appeared. About the same time he established the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, which he conducted for several years with much acceptance to the public. His other publications are, "My Old Portfolio," a volume of miscellaneous prose and verse, and "Summer and Winter Hours," a volume of lyric poems and songs. Both these works are out of print. Mr Bell has contributed to the principal periodicals, and associated with the leading literary men of his time. Since 1839 he has resided in Glasgow, holding the appointment of a Sheriff-substitute of Lanarkshire.

MY LIFE IS ONE LONG THOUGHT OF THEE.

Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone, Remember days of bliss gone by? Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone, E'er for our distant streamlets sigh? Beneath thy own glad sun and sky, Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me? She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply, "My life is one long thought of thee."

Sweet girl! I would not have it so; My destiny must not be thine, For wildly as the wild waves flow, Will pass this fleeting life of mine. "And let thy fate be weal or woe, My thoughts," she smiling said, "are free; And well the watchful angels know My life is one long thought of thee."

Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayers Be with me in my hour of need, When round me throng the cold world's cares, And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed! "Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed? For full of joy thy years shall be; And mine shall share the blissful meed, For life is one long thought of thee."

WHY IS MY SPIRIT SAD?

Why is my spirit sad? Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year, With something that it used to hold more dear Than aught that now remains; Because the past, like a receding sail, Flits into dimness, and the lonely gale O'er vacant waters reigns!

Why is my spirit sad? Because no more within my soul there dwell Thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dell With innocent delight; Because I am aweary of the strife That with hot fever taints the springs of life, Making the day seem night!

Why is my spirit sad? Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead, Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread-- The paths of young romance; Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies, Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes-- The Eden of their glance.

Why is my spirit sad? Have not the beautiful been ta'en away-- Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay-- Wither'd in root and stem? I see that others, in whose looks are lit The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet, But not--but not like them!

I would not be less sad; My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now; The present is around me; Would that the future were both come and gone, And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone, Crush'd feelings could not wound me!

GEORDIE YOUNG.

I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother, I 'll no walk by the manse; I aye meet wi' the minister, Wha looks at me askance.

What ails ye at the minister?-- A douce and sober lad; I trow it is na every day That siclike can be had.

I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair, Nor yet his pawkie face; I dinna like a preacher, mother, But in a preaching place.

Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee-- Ye needna look sae scared-- For wha kens but at Holylee Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?

I canna bide the Laird, mother, He says sic things to me; Ae half he says wi' wily words, And ae half wi' his e'e.

Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing! It 's a' that Geordie Young; The Laird has no an e'e like him, Nor the minister a tongue!

He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae, For nane but him ye care; But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn, That aye gangs cauld and bare.

The faithfu' heart will aye, mother, Put trust in ane above, And how can folks gang bare, mother, Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?

Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn, And walk ye slow and sly; My certie! weel ye ken the gate That Geordie Young comes by!

His plighted troth is mine, mother, And lang afore the spring I 'll loose my silken snood, mother, And wear the gowden ring.

MY FAIRY ELLEN.

Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me where Thou lovest most to be softly gleaming? Is it on some rich bank of flowers Where 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming? Or is it on yonder silver lake Where the fish in green and gold are sparkling? Or is it among those ancient trees Where the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling? Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile, The best of my beams are for ever dwelling In the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue, And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.

Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me how Thou lovest to spend a serene May morning, When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough, And violets wild each glade adorning? Is it in kissing the glittering stream, O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling? Is it in sipping the nectar that lies In the bells of the flowers--an innocent tippling? Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd, His voice with a musical melody swelling, All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I play That dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.

White little lily! pray tell me when Thy happiest moments the fates allow thee? Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men, And all the boys and butterflies know thee; Is it at dawn or at sunset hour That pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing? One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks, Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling? Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd, My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling, To live in the sight, and to die on the breast Of the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.

Oh! would that I were the moon myself, Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing; Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stem Slily around that dear neck wreathing! Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes, Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses, My heart and my soul, and my body to boot, For merely the smallest of all her kisses! And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth! I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling, Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus both In exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!

A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.

They 're stepping off, the friends I knew, They 're going one by one; They 're taking wives to tame their lives, Their jovial days are done; I can't get one old crony now To join me in a spree; They've all grown grave, domestic men, They look askance on me.

I hate to see them sober'd down, The merry boys and true, I hate to hear them sneering now At pictures fancy drew; I care not for their married cheer, Their puddings and their soups, And middle-aged relations round, In formidable groups.

And though their wife perchance may have A comely sort of face, And at the table's upper end Conduct herself with grace, I hate the prim reserve that reigns, The caution and the state, I hate to see my friend grow vain Of furniture and plate.

Oh, give me back the days again, When we have wander'd free, And stole the dew from every flower, The fruit from every tree; The friends I loved they will not come, They've all deserted me; They sit at home and toast their toes, Look stupid and sip tea.

Alas! alas! for years gone by, And for the friends I've lost; When no warm feeling of the heart Was chill'd by early frost. If these be Hymen's vaunted joys, I'd have him shun my door, Unless he quench his torch, and live Henceforth a bachelor.

WILLIAM BENNET.