The hurricane's all-rending breath,
Hush'd by the voice, was still as death!
The ocean's billowy empire strown
Like a great glassy pavement shone:
Aloft the vap'ry columns rise

In thin white flakes dispers'd o'er all the skies, The azure dome high swelling to the view, While Night's red-trembling fires illume th' unmeasur'd blue.

When lo! where Jove the space adorns,

Girt by his circumvolving fires,
Between the Bull's refulgent horns,

And the gay Pleiads' dancing choirs,
Methought there shot a lucid tide

Effusive billowing o'er the sky,
As a huge ocean, far and wide

O'erflowing all the tracts on high;
Thick, and more thick, the inundation roll'd,
It seem'd descending to our world below,
Myriads of figures fledg'd with wings of gold,
Rank above rank, the circling orders glow:
Myriads of spirits, once who bore

The cumb'ring load of mortal clay,
Now starry crowns in triumph wore,
And look'd like blazing orbs of day:
Of ev'ry creed, of ev'ry tongue,1

Of ev'ry age, from pole to pole,

The first-born church,2 in one harmonious throng,
One gracious Father of the world extol:
From the five zones of our terrestrial ball,

These deck'd him with a wreath that burn'd like fire,

by side,

In one great host ador'd the God of all,

And Him who for the worst offenders died

That moment, in my wond'ring view,
Just issu'd from the mortal frame,
Ascending on th' aereal blue,

(BEATTIE was once his earthly name;)
With a fair angel,3 such as guards the good,
High on the vapour's ridgy breast he stood:
Aloft to meet the radiant pomp they sail'd;
A general shout the soul's arrival hail'd,
Loud as of thunder roll'd through turbid clouds,
Or the hoarse roar of Ocean's rushing floods!
All heav'n's melodious minstrelsy was strung,
While harp and voice attuned, this anthem sung:

Welcome, welcome, earthly guest!
Welcome from thy home of clay!
Welcome to Immanuel's feast!
Welcome to the thrones of day!

Bid adieu to trembling fears,
Mercy blots each guilty stain;
Bid adieu to grief and tears;

Sin and death no more can pain!

golden lyre!

At once, th' august assembly sail'd along

Through the great void, on clouds of radiance borne,

Numbers, unnumber'd as the flow'ry throng,

The stars of night, or glitt'ring dews of morn!
The pomp ascending on th' aereal gales,
O'er all the sky the floating music swells:
Heav'n's arch their peals of "Hallelujah!" rings,
While thus, in choir, they praise the King of kings:

Ethereal thrones! with one accord,
"Now let us join and praise the Lord!"5
Through all his spacious works ador'd,
Jehovah's might be sung!
When Darkness brooded o'er the wild,
Effulgence at his mandate smil'd,
And Beauty, Order's loveliest child,
From dire confusion sprung.

He launch'd upon the voids of space
The hosts of rolling orbs that trace

4"And chiefly, O thou Sp'rit, who dost prefer Before all temples th' upright heart and pure." -Milton.

5 These were almost the last words uttered by an

Acts x. 28-34, 35.

2 Heb. xii. 22-24.

3 Ps. xxxiv. 7.

deen, May 6, 1810, after two days' illness. Eheu! quam tenui pendent mortalia filo!

From age
to age
the destin'd race
Their central suns around:
His arm supports the mighty frame!
He smiles! Creation shouts acclaim!
He frowns! red bolts disruptive flame,
And all her spheres confound!

Ethereal thrones! adore the plan
Whose depths in vain we try to scan,
The work of sov'reign grace for man,
A fallen world to save!

The glories of the cross resound,
The streaming blood, the gaping wound,
In brazen chains the dragon bound,

The triumph o'er the grave!

When, answ'ring to the notes sublime
That spheres along their orbits chime,
The hours began to measure time,

We sung Immanuel's praise!
His name shall with Jehovah's blend,
When time hath reach'd his destin'd end,
And suns and planets all ascend

In one devouring blaze!

Then death, and sin, and hell shall die,
His ransom'd, then, shall mount on high,
Along the wide empyreal sky,

With angel-hosts to rove:

A new creation rise again,
Exempt from darkness, guilt, and pain,
And all existence sing the reign
Of universal love!

Hallelujah! hallelujah! hallelujah!

As thus they chanted to their harps of gold,
And wide thro' echoing space their music roll'd,
Behold a wondrous scene! from either end
The vast-disparting concave seem'd to rend!
A blaze as of ten thousand thousand suns,
From GLORY'S SOURCE in dreadful effluence runs,
Kindling th' immense! In this abyss of light
The host was wrapt-thick darkness veil'd my
sight,

And all the splendid dream, dissolving, mix'd with night.

THE MAVIS OF THE CLAN.1

wandering son

I hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run;

I hail the mother flocks, that, wrapp'd in warm and sheltering fleece,

Defy the landward tempest's roar, defy the seaward breeze.

The streams they drink are waters of the evergushing well,

Those streams, oh, how they wind around the swellings of the dell!

The flowers they browse are mantles spread o'er pastures wide and far,

As mantle o'er the firmament the stars, each flower a star!

I will not name each sister beam, but clustering

there I see

lea.

Of every hue I mark them, the many-spotted kine, The dun, the brindled, and the dark, and blends the white its shine;

And 'mid the Highlands rude I see the frequent furrows swell,

With the barley and the corn that Scotland loves so well.

undismay'd

The shade where bloom and cresses, and the earhoney'd heather,

Are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together;

For the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken;

"Tis time to loose the strings, I ween, and close my wildwood strain.

THE MELODY OF LOVE.1

Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,

Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore; Not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail,

Or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale.

As the planet of Venus, that gleams o'er the grove, Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love; Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays, Like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze.

The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn, Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn; But the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain, When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.

When summer bespangles the landscape with flowers,

While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers,

Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I'll rove,

And feast, unrestrained, on the smiles of my love.

THOMAS MOUNSEY CUNNINGHAM was born at Culfaud, Kirkcudbright, June 25, 1776. He received his education at the village school of Kellieston, not far from Dumfries, and subsequently at the Dumfries Academy. His father's circumstances being much reduced by unfortunate farming speculations, it became needful that Thomas should learn some trade, and he was accordingly apprenticed by his own desire to a mill-wright. It was during intervals of leisure, while acquiring a knowledge of his laborious occupation, that he first composed verses, which, being submitted to his father's notice, were highly praised. In 1797 he obtained employment at Rotherham, near Sheffield, and a few years later entered the establishment of Rennie, the celebrated London engineer. He afterwards became foreman to Mr. Dickson, also an engineer, and superin

The first verse of this lyric was composed by a lady. The poet completed it in Gaelic, and then translated the whole into English.-ED.

tendent of Fowler's chain-cable manufactory. In 1812 he returned to Rennie's establishment as a clerk, and was ultimately promoted to the position of chief clerk, with a liberal salary. He was much esteemed by his employer, being noted for his regularity and industry.

On leaving his father's house to seek his fortune, Thomas Cunningham had been advised by friends to abjure his poetical proclivities, and he seems for a time to have followed their advice. For a period of nine years nothing appeared from his pen. At length, in 1806, he became a contributor to the Scots Magazine, the editor of which was enthusiastic in praising bis compositions. James Hogg, also a contributor, took pains to discover the author, and sent him an epistle expressive of his admiration. An intimacy ensued between the poets, which ever after continued, and when the Shepherd planned the Forest Minstrel he made application to his friend Cunningham for contributions. No less than twenty-five of the songs contained

538

ham. Just as his name was becoming known by his lyrics he took offence at a criticism in the Scots Magazine, and for a second time ceased writing for a period of nine years, until discovering one of his songs in a collection entitled the Nithsdale Minstrel, he was induced to resume his pen, and wrote a severe poetical castigation of the publishers of the Minstrel for their unauthorized appropriation.

and which contained a humorous description of the scenes and characters familiar to his early days. Cunningham died of Asiatic cholera October 28th, 1834, in the fifty-eighth year of his age. Some of his productions, like those of other Scottish poets of distinction who published their lyrics anonymously, had the honour of being attributed to Robert Burns. No better evidence of their quality could be adHis first and last volume of poems, entitled Har'st Kirn, and other Poems and Songs, appeared in 1797. The principal piece, which furnishes the title to the book, was written during the year of its publication, and is descriptive of the fun and frolic of a harvesthome in a farm house of Scotland.

FAREWELL, YE STREAMS.

Farewell, ye streams, sae dear to me,
My bonny Clouden, Nith, and Dee;
Ye burns that row sae bonnily,

Your siller waves nae mair I'll see.

Yet though frae your green banks I'm driven
My saul away could ne'er be riven;
For still she lifts her e'en to heaven,

An' sighs to be again wi' thee.

Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed,
Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed,
An' lilt alang the verdant mead,

Or blythely on your whistles blaw;
An' sing auld Scotia's barns an' ha's,
Her bourtree dykes an' mossy wa's,

Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws, Whar love an' freedom sweeten a'.

Sing o' her carles teuch an' auld,
Her carlines grim that flyte an' scauld,
Her wabsters blythe, an' souters bauld,

Her flocks an' herds sae fair to see. Sing o' her mountains bleak an' high; Her fords, whar neighrin' kelpies ply; Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy;

Her lasses, lilting o'er the lea.

To you the darling theme belangs, That frae my heart exulting spangs; Oh, mind, amang your bonnie sangs, The lads that bled for liberty. Think on our auld forbears o' yore, Wha dyed the muir wi' hostile gore;

Wha slavery's bands indignant tore,
An' bravely fell for you an' me.
My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld,
Wha haud the pleugh or wake the fauld,
Until your dearest bluid rin cauld

Aye true unto your country be.
Wi' daring look her dirk she drew,
An' coost a mither's e'e on you;

Then let na ony spulzie crew

Her dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.

THE BEGGAR.

Wha's this, bedight in tatter'd claes,
Comes loutin' owre a sturdy rung,

Wi' cloutit wallets fore and aft,
And at his belt a gully hung?
Deep is the glen wi' drifted snaw,

And keen the wind blaws owre the hill; Ye downa up Borinairoch gang,

The nippin' cauld your bluid will chill.

Come in, an' share the kindly bleeze,
Whare feckless eild his bouk may warm;
Come in, an' share the frien'ly beild,

To shield thee frae the bitter storm.
Ye mauna trow that ilka Scot
Is reft o' pity's holy flame;
Auld neiber, gie's your shiverin' neive,
An' mak' my lanely ha' your hame.

Now, though the scone our Leezy beuk
Was toastit nice as scone cou'd be,

An' though our Crummy's aften roos'd,

The milk nor scone he doughtna pree; But glowr'd, as gin the awsome hour

Drew near to close his yirthly woe; Like some auld aik, before the storm Has laid its ancient honours low.

Tell me, auld neiber, where ye wan
That rusty blade an' honest scar?
I trow you've been on mony a field,
Amid the horrid din o' war?
He couldna speak-a deadly smile

Play'd on his looks serenely dour!
An' ere we wist, the vet'ran auld,
A lifeless corse lay on the floor!

THE HILLS O' GALLOWA'. Amang the birks, sae blythe an' gay, I met my Julia hameward gaun; The linties chantit on the spray,

The lammies loupit on the lawn; On ilka swaird the hay was mawn,

The braes wi' gowans buskit bra'; An' ev'ning's plaid o' gray was thrawn Out-owre the hills o' Gallowa'.

Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,
An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,
As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,

An' saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawning coost a glimmerin' e'e
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.

It isna owsen, sheep, and kye,
It isna gowd, it isna gear,
This lifted e'e wad hae, quoth I,

The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer; But gie to me my Julia dear,

Ye powers wha row this yirthen ba', An' oh, sae blythe through life I'll steer Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

Whan gloamin' danders up the hill,

An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes, Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill

That through the muir meand'ring rowes; Or, tint amang the scroggie knowes,

My birken pipe I'll sweetly blaw,

An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes, The hills and dales o' Gallowa'.

An' whan auld Scotland's heathy hills, Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,

Her flowery wilds an' wimpling rills,

Awake nae mair my canty strains; Where friendship dwells an' freedom reigns, Where heather blooms an' muir-cocks craw, Oh, dig my grave, and lay my banes Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

MARY'S GRAVE.

Ye briery bields, where roses blaw!
Ye flow'ry fells, an' sunny braes!
Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a'
The pleasures o' my youthfu' days.
Amang your leafy simmer claes,

And blushin' blooms, the zephyr flies,
Syne wings awa', and wanton plays
Around the grave whar Mary lies.

Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers,
Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay,
Can cheer the weary winged hours

As up the glen I joyless stray:
For a' my hopes ha'e flown away,

And when they reach'd their native skies, Left me, amid the world o' wae,

To weet the grave whar Mary lies.

It is na beauty's fairest bloom,

It is na maiden charms consigned And hurried to an early tomb,

That wrings my heart and clouds my mind; But sparkling wit, and sense refin'd,

And spotless truth without disguise, Make me with sighs enrich the wind That fans the grave whar Mary lies.

THE UNCO GRAVE.

Bonnie Clouden, as ye wander
Hills, an' haughs, an' muirs amang,
Ilka knowe an' green meander,

Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang!
Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,
Howms whare rows the gowden wave;
Blissful scenes, farewell for ever!
I maun seek an unco grave.

Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly, Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules, That some faithfu' hand might kindly Lay't amang my native mools. Cronies dear, wha late an' early

Aye to soothe my sorrows strave,