Hogg's poems under the title of the Mountain Bard; and also a treatise on sheep. By these publications he obtained the (to him) large sum of £300, and he rushed into farming on a scale ten times beyond his means, having leased two farms in Dumfriesshire, at rents far beyond their value. The consequence was, that in less than three years he was again penniless, and in debt. In these circumstances he tried to obtain a captaincy in the militia, and a situation in the excise, but failed in both, and again fell back upon his pen. He published a collection of songs, containing a large proportion of his own early pieces, under the title of the Forest Minstrel, and dedicated it to the Countess of Dalkeith. The handsome gift of one hundred guineas from his patroness was the only profit that it brought him. His next venture was a weekly newspaper, The Spy, which lived about twelve months, leaving him in a state of financial exhaustion. When his fortune was about its lowest, in consequence of the failure of his various schemes, he, in 1813, astonished the world by his Queen's Wake, a production for which no one would have given him credit, but which places his right to the title of poet beyond dispute. It is in every way a remarkable poem, or rather a garland of varied poetic gems gracefully strung together, and was at once recognised as such. Although the plan of it is taken from Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, yet the application and the execution are so original, that this in no way detracts from the merits of Hogg's genius, and the fact almost never intrudes itself on | the reader's notice. The story of Kilmeny is invariably selected as the masterpiece of the work; but, while fully alive to its charm as a production of the imagination, and its musical sweetness of language, and allowing for a certain dimness of outline as appropriate to the morbid sentiment of which it is the embodiment, we cannot overlook the confusion and want of perspective that pervade it, nor can we grant that indistinctness of outline enhances the beauty of even SO purely ideal a clime of the imagination as that in which the scene of Kilmeny is laid. It also contains some descriptive incongruities, and the affectation of the ancient spelling is an absurdity that almost gives it a serio-comic air. "Fate of Macgregor," similarly founded on superstitious sentiment, though inferior in imaginative breadth, has not, in our estimation, the blemishes which mar 'Kilmeny." It is in every way equal to Campbell's "Lochiel's Warning," which appeared about ten years earlier. The Hogg's next venture was The Poetic Mirror, intended as a collection of the poems of living bards. Scott refused to contribute, and this caused a temporary estrangement between the poets. He then issued Dramatic Tales, and The Brownie of Bodsbeck, &c. In 1820, he received a life-lease of the farm of Altrive from the Duke of Buccleuch, at a nominal rent, and on settling here he married. But his passion for farm ventures could not be overcome while he had the means of gratifying it, and with his wife's and his own means he took a lease of, and stocked the farm of Mount Benger. The usual results followed. In 1821, he completed his Jacobite Relics, and, in 1822, received two hundred pounds for a select volume of his best poems. Besides these publications, he contributed to Blackwood's Magazine. His last poem was "Queen Hynde," which appeared in 1826. He died in 1835, and was buried in the churchyard of Ettrick. Twenty years after his death, his widow received a government pension of £100 a-year; and in 1860, a monument was erected to his memory overlooking St Mary's Loch. Hogg has been compared with Ramsay; but except in the possession of a ludicrous Goldsmithian egotism which amused without offending, they are contrasts rather than counterparts, Ramsay being a shrewd and economic, almost unimpassioned man of business, while Hogg was the very reverse. Perhaps the best portrait of him is his own Bard of Ettrick in the Queen's Wake. THE BARD OF ETTRICK. The next was named-the very sound Excited merriment around : But when the bard himself appear'd, The ladies smiled, the courtiers sneer'd ; For such a simple air and mien Before a court had never been. A clown he was, bred in the wild, And late from native moors exiled, In hopes his mellow mountain strain High favour from the great would gain. Poor wight! he never ween'd how hard For poverty to earn regard! Dejection o'er his visage ran, His coat was bare, his colour wan, His forest doublet darn'd and torn, His shepherd plaid all rent and worn ; Yet dear the symbols to his eye, Memorials of a time gone by. The bard on Ettrick's mountains green Instead of ocean's billowy pride, With many a mountain, moor, and tree, The pilot swan majestic wind, So softly sail, and swiftly row, With sable oar, and silken prow. Instead of war's unhallow'd form, His eye had seen the thunderstorm Descend within the mountain's brim, And shroud him in its chambers grim; Then from its bowels burst amain The sheeted flame and sounding rain, And by the bolts in thunder borne, The heaven's own breast and mountain torn. The wild-roe from the forest driven; The oaks of ages peel'd and riven; Impending oceans whirl and boil, Convulsed by nature's grand turmoil. Instead of arms or golden crest, His harp with mimic flowers was drest; Around, in graceful streamers, fell THE FATE OF MACGREGOR. "Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen; And do what it freezes my vitals to say. Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind; Thou knowest in the strife I was never be- Nor ever receded a foot from the van, man. But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and by all, An oath which I cannot, and dare not recall, Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile, The moon rises broad from the brow of To meet with a spirit this night in Glen Ben-Lomond ; The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay; Arise! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away." Stern scowled the Macgregor; then, silent and sullen, Gyle. "Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone, I called to remembrance some deeds I had done, When entered a lady, with visage so wan, He turned his red eye to the braes of And looks such as never were fastened Strathfillan; "Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed; on man. I knew her, O brother! I knew her full well! The Campbells this night for Macgregor Of that once fair dame such a tale I could must rest." "Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts Three days round the hills of M'Nab and Of riding and running such tidings they We must meet them at home else they'll quickly be here." "The Campbell may come, as promises bind him, tell As would thrill thy bold heart: but how long she remained, So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained, I knew not-but ages seemed short to the while. Though proffer'd the Highlands, nay, all the green isle, With length of existence no man can enjoy, his The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly! And haughty M'Nab, with his giants be- The thrice-threaten'd pangs of last night This night I am bound to relinquish the Macgregor would dive to the mansions fray, Despairing and mad, to futurity blind, The present to shun, and some respite to find, I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile, To meet her alone by the brook of GlenGlye. "She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone, The glory and name of Macgregor were gone: That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo, Afar on the mountains of Highland GlenFalo, Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon, Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun : That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common, For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond. "A parting embrace, in one moment, she gave: This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue; Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart'sblood will glue: Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing, When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring." Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light: It faded-it darkened-he shuddered-he sighed, "No! not for the universe!" low he replied. Away went Macgregor, but went not alone; To watch the dread rendezvous Malcolm has gone. They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene ! And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene! O'er mountains inverted, the blue waters curled, Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the And rocked them on skies of a far nether grave! Then flitting elusive, she said, with a frown, "The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own!" "Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind; The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind. Come, buckle thy panoply-march to the field,- See, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield! Ay, that was M'Nab, in the height of his pride, When the lions of Dochart stood firm by A skiff sailing light, where a lady did A dim rayless beam was her prow and her He struck at the lady, but, strange though mast, Like wold-fire, at midnight, that glares on the waste. it seem, His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream; Though rough was the river with rock and But the groans from the boat that cascade, No torrent, no rock, her velocity staid; She wimpled the water to weather and lee, And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea. Mute Nature was roused in the bounds of the glen; The wild deer of Gartney abandoned his den, Fled panting away, over river and isle, Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle. The fox fled in terror, the eagle awoke, As slumbering he dozed in the shelve of the rock; Astonished, to hide in the moonbeam he flew, And screwed the night heaven till lost in the blue. Young Malcolm 'beheld the pale lady approach, The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch; He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain, As begging for something he could not obtain ; She raised him indignant, derided his stay, Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away. Though fast the red bark down the river did glide, Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side; ascended amain, Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain. They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away; Macgregor is vanished for ever and aye! TO THE COMET OF 1811. How lovely is this wildered scene, As twilight from her vaults so blue Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green, To sleep embalmed in midnight dew! All hail, ye hills, whose towering height, Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky! And thou, mysterious guest of night, Dread traveller of immensity! Stranger of heaven! I bid thee hail ! Broad pennon of the King of Heaven! Art thou the flag of woe and death, From angel's ensign-staff unfurled? Art thou the standard of his wrath] Waved o'er a sordid sinful world? No, from that pure pellucid beam, That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, No latent evil we can deem, Bright herald of the eternal throne ! |
