'Twas morning; and summer's young Their faces grew pale, and their swords sun from the east were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed; Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear With eyes turned to heaven in calm re signation, shining dew, Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and They sung their last song to the God of mountain flowers blue. Salvation. And far up in heaven, near the white sunny The hills with the deep mournful music cloud, were ringing, The song of the lark was melodious and The curlew and plover in concert were loud, singing; And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, length- But the melody died 'mid derision and ened and deep, laughter, Were the whistling of plovers and bleat- As the host of th' ungodly rushed on to ing of sheep. the slaughter. And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed Though in mist and in darkness and fir music and gladness, they were shrouded, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and redness; and unclouded; Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending, Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of July's sweet They stood like the rock which the morning. thunder is rending. But, oh! there were hearts cherished far The muskets were flashing, the blue other feelings, swords were gleaming, Illumed by the light of prophetic reveal- The helmets were cleft, and the red blood ings, was streaming; Who drank from the scen'ry of beauty The heavens grew dark, and the thunder but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow. was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling. 'Twas the few faithful ones who with When the righteous had fallen, and the Cameron were lying, combat was ended, Concealed 'mong the mist where the A chariot of fire through the dark cloud heath fowl was crying, For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering. descended; Its drivers were angels on horses of white ness, And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness. gliding, A seraph unfolded its doors bright and On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh re- Through the path of the thunder the fining. horsemen are riding; And the souls that came forth out of great Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is tribulation, before ye, Have mounted the chariots and steeds of A crown never fading, a kingdom of salvation. glory. ROBERT GILFILLAN. 1798-1850. myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid the bulbul sweetly THE sweet and plaintive lyric which | The palm-tree waveth high, and fair the preserves the name of Gilfillan takes its place among our standard songs as one of the best, if not the best of its kind. Its author was born in Dunfermline, in 1798, in very humble circumstances. After learning the trade of a cooper in Leith, he became a clerk in a winemerchant's office, and in 1837, was appointed collector of poor-rates for the burgh of Leith. He held this appointment till his death, which took place in 1850. Two editions of his poems have been published; but though some others of them, are well written, none comes up to the standard of "Why left I my Hame?" O, WHY LEFT I MY HAME? Oh, why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh, why left I the land where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, and I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink o' my ain countrie. sings; But I dinna see the broom wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang o' my ain THE Course of Time is a poem in blank verse, about the same length as Paradise Lost; but the verse and the length are perhaps the only resemblances which it bears to that great poem. Though possessing many eloquent passages, and giving decided proof of lofty and sustained capacity, it is on the whole heavy and uninteresting; but that it has circulated to the extent of upwards of twenty editions in this country, and many more in America, is evidence that it has been acceptable to a large number of readers, who prefer poetry more for the profit than the enjoyment which it yields. Its author, Robert Pollok, was born at Muirhouse, in Renfrewshire, in 1799, and was educated at Glasgow University, for the ministry of the Secession Church. His first book, published anonymously, was Tales of the Covenanters. The Course of Time was published in 1827, and the same year its author was licensed to preach; but his devotion to his professional and poetical studies, either originated or developed a consumption, for which he sought the benefit of a milder climate in vain. He died on 17th of September 1827, in his 28th year, after a few weeks' residence in the South of England, and was buried at Millbrook, near Southampton, A granite obelisk marks his grave, and a memoir of him was written in 1843. Was rather death than life. To live unknown, Unnoticed, unrenowned! to die un- Unepitaphed to go down to the pit, For fiction new, for thought unthought And when some curious rare idea peered That through his lattice peeped, wrote Such thought was cold about the heart, What seemed in truth imperishable song. and chilled The blood. Who could endure it? who Without a struggle, to be swept away more With living men? Philosophy failed here, came The aim of most, and main pursuit to win A name, to leave some vestige as they passed, That following ages might discern they once Had been on earth, and acted something there. Of earthly sort, about the sacred truth; With relish suited to the sinner's taste. And ofttimes, too, the simple hind, who seemed Ambitionless, arrayed in humble garb, While round him, spreading, fed his harmless flock, Many the roads they took, the plans Sitting was seen by some wild warbling they tried. The man of science to the shade retired, Of awful thoughtfulness, and dived, and dived Again, deeper and deeper still, to sound To make some grand discovery, by which And in the silent vigils of the night, Oft streaming wild unearthly fire, sat up, brook, Carving his name upon his favourite Or, in ill-favoured letters, tracing it Long after he was dead and in the grave, name. In purple some, and some in rags, stood For reputation. Some displayed a limb cane Of curious workmanship and marvellous twist. Many the roads they took, the plans they tried ; In strength some sought it, and in beauty And awful oft the wickedness they Long, long the fair one laboured at the To be observed, some scrambled up to glass, And, being tired, called in auxiliar skill thrones, And sat in vestures dripping wet with gore. The warrior dipped his sword in blood, and wrote His name on lands and cities desolate. Of praise. And much she caught, and The rich bought fields, and houses built, much deserved, When outward loveliness was index fair The bloom was on the skin alone; and and raised The monumental piles up to the clouds, And called them by their names: and, strange to tell! Rather than be unknown, and pass away She saw, sad sight! the roses on her Obscurely to the grave, some, small of cheek Wither, and heard the voice of fame retire soul, That else had perished unobserved, acquired And die away, she heaved most piteous Considerable renown by oaths profane ; sighs, By jesting boldly with all sacred things; And wept most lamentable tears; and And uttering fearlessly whate'er occurred; Wild, blasphemous, perditionable whiles, In wild delirium, made rash attempt- thoughts, That Satan in them moved; by wiser men Suppressed and quickly banished from the mind. Her frame itself soon mouldered down to Many the roads they took, the plans they |
