Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

SPRING.

BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.

I.

GREAT God! I rejoice in thy beautiful earth,
When the flowers are all in their pride of birth,
And the leaves look forth, like emerald gems
By diamonds tipped, from their dewy stems:
When the spring is young, and the sun is high,
And a flood of music rolls o'er the sky,
As the air awoke from its winter dreams
Is filled with the voice of a thousand hymns,
While the glad birds revel in grateful glee
Till man might grasp the melody!

Yea, the lovely soul of each infant flower,
Like sunbeams struggling through a shower,
Peers forth to hear, and spreads abroad
Its fragrant rainbowed wings to God!

II.

Now the bounding heart and the deathless soul
Feel a flood of life in its spring-tide roll;
And the gush of feelings that slumbered long
Bursts forth at the voice of creation's song.
Then we list and gaze, till on ear and eye
Excess of joy grows agony!

Or lured by the plaintive bird of spring
Which with echo has buried its viewless wing,

We seek the lone cliff's ivyed breast

Where eternal shadows in coolness rest;

But there where sunbeam ne'er could stray,
The silken moss and primrose play

And deep in the shaded brook below

The grey trout sports, and the lilies grow—
Yea, whether in sun or shade we trode,
There shouts, here whispers rose to God!

III.

O Lord! if this earth be so lovely to see,
How transportingly bright must thy paradise be !
Where the song of the seraph-the hymn of the blest,
All holy and pure as the star of the west,

And the swift-flying angel with harps on his wing,
Are heard where the flowers of Eternity spring-
Where the anthem of joy, rushing forth like a river,
Shall peal in Hosannas for ever and ever
To Him who hath saved us, and made our abode
'Midst the undying flowers of a visible God!

A NIGHT WITH THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

"Wha wadna choose to be the chief
'Mang Scotia's glorious peasantry,
Than be the king, and wear the crown
'Mid perils, pain, and treacherie?"

ONE of the most general and reasonable kinds of curiosity, is that of knowing something of the private character of those who have gained for themselves a name distinguishing them above their fellows. Their appearance, manners, nay their very deeds become objects of temporary interest to all, at one time or other in their lives-they are desirous to know, how he who routed the superior force of the enemy adjusts his cravat, and whether the popular author wears shoe-ties or silver buckles. Whether this curiosity is caused, like the cholera morbus, by the state of the atmosphere about the great man, producing the disease and carrying the infection to others, contagious and infectious at the same time, we cannot just now stop to determine; certain, however, it is the disease exists, and we are about now to offer one little pill to the pensive public affected with it. At some future time we indulge the hope of introducing our friend the Ettrick Shepherd more fully to our readers; meantime we would powerfully adjure such of our brother contributors as have any pleasing reminiscences of the great literary characters of the day, to forward them in their best phrases to the office of our infant Periodical -our infant Hercules, we hope-which will soon crush the hydra of ignorance so long the pest and disgrace of the Border.

Thirty years ago the Shepherd was "ad unguem factus homo," the chief among ten thousand for activity, muscular vigour, and dexterity in field sports. Wily, wily was the trout that would not rise to his brown drake wing and black heckle thrown with his own unerring skill; lish indeed was the chiel who could rise above him at the flying leap; and at wearing a camstary ewe, where was the man in all Yarrow and Ettrick to boot, that could foot him along the heather hill side? Nor has he lost much of this even in his 60th year. His step is not indeed so fleet, but it is as firm as ever; his hand not so steady, but its cunning has not forsaken him; his chest is not now opposed in friendly or hostile contention to his brother wrestlers, but it is as capacious as ever, and his heart is in the same place. Men of Blackadder and Whiteadder! there is many a deadly liester hand among ye, and many a bonny stream for the sport is there in your waters, but let it be stream and stream about between the Fisher's Tryst and the salmon haunted Tweed, and we will wager the whole of the next twelve numbers of this Magazine, that the Shepherd's basket makes any two of yours kick the beam.Done! Done!

"Come, callants, let's hae the whisky-I'm just perfectly wasting

my time wi' this cauldrife wine-Lassie! are ye gaun to bring the het water?-Never kenn'd o' a lass that couldna keep the men in het water afore"-cried our jovial chairman, and it was the slogan cry to an onslaught on Watson's huge blue bottle of the mountain dew. We were all staunch admirers of the Shepherd; he was at our head, and we were happy.

"The King" with the anthem, “Willie was a wanton wag!"— "Mrs. Hogg"-with its appropriate song of "When the kye come hame," and so forth, commenced the revels of the evening. There were among us one or two who could serve as able henchmen to the Shepherd in the song department,-M'Leod with his original melodies to some of the finest songs of Scotland, and Gilfillan whose sweetly touching lyrics have now gone forth to the world, and stand high in the list of those which place Scotia first as the land of song;others, too, lent their voices at a humble distance; the tale and the joke intervened; the night was "driving on wi' sangs and clatter;" when-who should enter our jovial assembly but Montgomery,-the divine poet, profanely called by scorners by the awful name of "Satan."

Never, however, was a name more improperly applied, unless there may seem to our readers any thing Satanic in a pale-faced, amiable, but vain looking young man with his black hair shaded on his head, sans whiskers, moustaches, or any other hairy appendage whatever. His glass was filled, his speech was spoken, his book was commended, and we went on as before. Now we allow with Mrs. Malaprop, that "comparisons are oderiferous," but it was utterly impossible not to make one between the old and youthful poet. While the din went on around us, we leaned pensively back in our chair, and gazed like Sterne's Maria first at the one and then at the other. Our companions declare that we were then in a state of metaphysical abstraction -vulgarly, "blind fou," but this we potently deny, and hope to prove by these lucubrations that they were lying knaves. The figure of Montgomery was slighter, more graceful and easy; but then the Shepherd's, in spite of a little exuberance which every honest gentleman of his age should possess, seemed more active and vigorous, as it was in fact much more muscular. And we who have seen Mr. Hogg's clean-shaped leg doubt much if the young one could have shown such an understanding. The divine poet wore his hair beautiful and black, in a most becoming manner for a young aristocratic Poet; but then it wanted the wildness and imaginative expression which his of the Queen's Wake in its wiry and shivered disarrangement possessed. Then again in the eye, the bard of the mountains beat him of Oxford by chalks. The first was blue, keen, and somewhat small-the other dark, larger, but without any traceable expression except vanity. The Satan man talked much of himself and his books, the Ettrick (par excellence) said nothing at all about himself, but told his tale, and sang his song, and laughed and applauded like the rest. Finally, the veteran, though under the influence of his fifth tumbler, was steady and himself, while we could perceive that the young one, towards the close of his third and last, began to "babble of green fields," and to verge towards a state of excitement.

We have spoken merely of their external appearance, for few in

deed, not to mention the poet-laureate of Apollyon, may be mentioned in the same day as our own Shepherd, in regard to the fame and love which genius procures for its possessor. His is not only the admiration due to lofty thoughts and wild creations, which is confined principally to cultivated minds, nor does he claim only the cold respect given to genius for its own sake.

Though meriting this admiration and this respect also, in a high degree, he possesses a yet deeper interest in the hearts of his fellow men-an interest to which perhaps no other man living can lay claim so strongly, and which is only shared in an equal degree by Burns and Tannahill, and some others among the illustrious dead.

He has sung the loves and the sorrows and joys of his countrymen, in a feeling which is recognised by every heart; and thus, while his fame has extended itself immeasurably further than the mere epic or dramatic poet's, it is mingled with a yearning love which is better than admiration, the dearest guerdon of the lyrical bard-the very breath of his nostrils! There then, where he sits, with his light and heartsome smile, and his kind blue eye kindling up into a transienttoo bright to be lasting-beam of genius, as the thought of some "bonnie bonnie lassie" comes over his mind, where in all broad Scotland will you find a man like our Shepherd?-Who has had more difficulties to struggle with in his uphill scramble to fame? and who has arrived at a prouder eminence? Has any one met with worldly misfortunes so frequent and overpowering, and yet kept a cheerful heart and countenance to the last? Again we must have recourse to Mrs. Malaprop, and disclaim all wish to make odious comparisons, but were the "losses and crosses" that Burns complains of, and many and sad they were, so overwhelming in their nature, or so disheartening in their frequent occurrence as those which have fallen "quick, thick and heavy" on the devoted head of the Ettrick Shepherd?

Unforeseen and unavoidable misfortunes have at different times plunged him from comparative independence to poverty-honest indeed-but still poverty, and not the less an evil. Yet how often is

the memory of Burns bedaubed with pity which he would have spurned, had he experienced it, while any thing but sympathy is awarded to the living suffering of the poet of Kilmeny, though it has been proved by him, of the same nature, and tenfold more painfully? Mr. Hogg-people say is a vain man ;-so he is, and we thank God for it. We agree with Dr. Goldsmith in believing that there was never a good or great old man who was not vain. A man who has struggled, as the Shepherd has done, for the admiration of his fellow men, must either be a hypocrite or a heartless wretch who is not so. And if ever man upon this earth had a right to be vain, that man must be the Ettrick Shepherd. The first among his rural competitors in manly sports-acknowledged in his own country to have been the fleetest of foot for seven years;-without education or encouragement, but by the sole irresistible force of genius, raising himself to a level with those in his own age of the most towering talent, and extending his influence far far beyond what any of them could reachreceived with gratulations in every assembly which he honours with his presence, and the object of devoted affection and admiration among the inhabitants of the valley where he dwells-what wonder

VOL. I.

L

is it that he should be vain, or rather how wonderful would it have been, had he not been so?-Yet the charge is made by those who know not his character, by those who have it "from friends in Edinburgh," or who abstract his peculiarities from the Noctes Ambrosianæ. Whom has he offended by his vanity?-Go to the cottars in Yarrow, and make the charge against him if you will; you will find yourself much more likely to have your heels tripped up, or be treated to a ducking in the deepest pool in the river, than to get a single soul to agree with you. Go to those who know him best and admire him most-for the terms are synonymous-in auld Reekie, and say that his vanity is disagreeable, and from Professor Wilson down to the humble inditer of this matter, you will be more likely to get a sound left handed hit on the mark than a quiet hearing. There he sits telling you in a strong, sonorous and not unmusical voice, that "Love is like a dizziness," and his honest smile, and soul-lighted eye are the best refutations of the calumny. He has known adversity, and has won fame; and he knows, that for his sake the green hills which mingle their shadows in the lovely lake of St. Mary's, and the deep pools of the Yarrow which the speckled trout loves, will be sacred for ever and ever to the children of genius, and that his cottagehome, rising white on the banks of the river, will be the pilgrim shrine of many an unborn poet,-the dearest haunt of his memory,and the most eloquent theme of his song; yet is the good old man's hand as open and his heart as warm, as if his only skill was to tend his sheep on the heathy hills of his childhood- "Come, Gilfillan, my man, gie's one o' your ain; there's aye something original about your sangs that I like just verra much," said the Shepherd to the Leith minstrel, and forthwith we collected ourself to listen. The Song that he sung contained the simple eloquence of Nature, in the strain which the heart at times vibrates to in a thrilling ecstacy,-the "joy of grief," the true "luxury of woe."-But let him speak for himself:

SONG.

Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by,
And age is coming on, wi' his bleak winter sky,

And where shall we shelter frae his storms when they blaw,

When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'.

They say that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years,

But naething did they tell o' its sorrows and tears;
Oh! I'd gie a' the wit, gin ony wit be mine,

For ae sunny morning o' bonny lang syne.

Oh! the bonny waving broom, where sae aften we wad meet,
Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd mang our feet!
The bird wad stap its sang, but only for a wee,

As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk tree!

I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn
For the blythe happy days that never can return,
When love was in the heart, and joy was on the tongue,
And mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.

« ZurückWeiter »