The father enjoying repose from toil,
And the lover entranc'd with deep dreams of guile.
I see the pale invalid rave and roll,
While trouble is eating away his soul;
His weary and sunken eye grows dim,
Yet sleep, the consoler, is far from him.
I see him partake of somniferous food,
And strain from his blue veins the purpling blood;
While his feverish skin and burning heart
Feel keenly the sting of affliction's dart!
I view the billows black and wild,
Where loftily rocks all storm-beguil'd
The majestic ship, while her startled crew
Are gazing with faces of pallid hue.
I see the hailstone showers descend,
And spirey masts like willows bend;
The bulwarks break, and the frenzied breeze
Blow up from deep caverns the sacred seas.
I see from the west, in the sylvan glade,
The gallant youth and the virtuous maid;
The love-looks, blushes, and smiles that start
From soften'd channels around the heart.
I see them travel the shadowy grove,
While Philomel opens her song of love;
And I throw around them my latest ray
As I leave them to love in their bower gay.
I view the customs of every state-
The rich, the poor, the mean, the great;
And on each side of my shining car
Are follies, and foibles, and peace, and war;
Envyings, murmuring, strifes and sin,
Hideous hissings of mingling din-
Cities' tumultuous revellers vile,
And beings that live on the food of guile.
I see the mountains rear their heads,
Tearing the shower-clouds to misty shreds;
Where all is awful, and grand, and high,
With herbless granite that cleaves the sky.
I see the weary waste of trees
That wave their boughs in the wanton breeze,
And each smooth river that wanders by
These rock-ribb'd strands, where wild wings fly.
And last I see, in the crystal waves,
The high heavens sleeping in liquid caves;
My own bright smile is reflected there,
And each starlight that sparkles in azure air.
The circling clouds, and the hills above, Are mirror'd to light in one look of love; All these do I see with my radiant eye, As I travel through the empyreal sky!
DEATH CAME SUDDEN AT LAST.
"Death came sudden at last." In Scotland, the phrase now quoted is very common, even among those who claim some privilege to mental cultivation. It matters not how long the patient may have languished in decline, or how severely he may have suffered the hopeless sting of trouble; yet, after all, "Death comes sudden at last "
Fond mother! long hast thou watch'd thy child
Through weary nights-with accents mild
Soothing its faltering, feeble cries,
And wiping the tears from its infant eyes;
Lulling its wakrife mind to rest,
Lock'd to thy feeling maternal breast,
While trouble prey'd on its tender heart,
And caus'd it to sorrow, and sob, and start;
And thou hast often wish'd in vain
That death would ease it of its pain;
For, oh! 'twas hard for a thing so young
To have its guileless bosom wrung;
To see it writhing and hear its moan,
And yet not wish that its soul were gone.
Surely, now that it lies at rest,
And feels not the pains that pierc'd its breast,
Your trouble and tears will all be past,
"No-for death came sudden at last!"
Brother, thy gentle sister lies
With weary frame and filming eyes;
Mark how pale her cheek is now,
Wither'd is her benignant brow;
Chang'd those lips where rose-tints lay,
Fled her hopes once vain and gay;
See how the hectic spot appears
Redder and redder as weakness nears.
Death, thou seest in her wan look,
Earth has that fond face forsook;
Heaven alone is settling there-
Fittest home for the dying fair!
Ah! thou hast bade her oft farewell,
While warm tears o'er thine eyelids fell,
But yet she linger'd on again,
Deeper and deeper to drink of pain.
Now ye find her on her bier,
Look, but shed not now a tear;
Frail, languid limbs, thoughts, fears, and grief,
May chill the heart-pulse of thy zeal;
But these, though bitter, are but brief,
And much has fallen man to feel.
All her suffering sighs are past, "Yes-but death came sudden at last."
See the sapless, sinking sage
Bending low with the wear of age,
Faltering step and palsied hand
Prove him ripe for a better land.
Asthma stifles up his breast,
Night affords but transient rest;
Morn by morn, and night by night,
Have ye been woke for life's last sight,
And your hearts have sigh'd and pray'd,
Wishing his weary soul were fled.
Thus your prayers are answer'd now,
Death has chill'd his time-worn brow;
Surely you joy that his woes are past,
"Yes-but death came sudden at last."
One all-consoling hope remains
For him whose days have cheerless grownA home, where pleasure always reigns, Where sorrow's sting is never known.
Then cheer thee, Galt-thy worth, thy name,
And merits, shall live after thee;
And echo, with the trump of fame,
Shall sound thy requiem o'er the sea.'
ANSWER TO THE STANZAS OF THE
CELEBRATED JOHN GALT,
ON THE CALAMITOUS STATE OF HIS HEALTH.
Thou may'st be helpless, sad, and lame,
On one lone seat compell'd to stay, And muse on youth and dreams of fame, And hopes and wishes all away.
But, Galt, thy name is not forgot!
Posterity shall hand it down,
And sympathetic tears fall hot
From eyes that languish like thine own.
And though thy sands seem nearly run, And pleasure from thy heart is driven, There is a home beyond the sun
To intellectual mankind given.
Thou may'st not see the lark arise,
Nor breezes bland on upland play, Nor travel more 'neath orient skies, Nor taste the balmy breath of May.
Thy glowing fancy may not soar
On pinions of unwearying flight, Nor seek, in greatness, to explore
Those treasures where it drank delight.
But, what of that? much hast thou done,
Nor slept ignobly on thy way;
But, like the ever-blazing sun,
Hast cheer'd us with each mental lay.
ON A LARK PURSUED BY A HAWK.
To D. RANKINE, Esq., Kilmarnock, to whom this circumstance occurred.
So brave is innocence, pursued by guilt,
That even the sword, when bar'd from point to
hilt,
And drawn revengeful, glittering o'er the head
Of truth, can scarce impart one thought of dread;
Nay, even the fiendish one, who grasps the brand,
Stands trembling with the weapon in his hand;
He dreads the force of virtue, and amaz'd
Throws off the demon-frown which crime had
rais'd.
A ravenous hawk a gentle lark pursued,
With tireless wing and eye with rage imbued,
* This poem having been inserted in the "Glasgow Scots Times," the following letter was received by the author, from London, and is inserted here to show the many trials Mr. Galt has experienced.
Old Brompton, 10th Dec., 1833.
SIR-I have seen this morning your obliging, and, I presume to add, sympathetic verses, which are not the less acceptable in coming from an author personally unknown to me. It has been very flattering to me to have received so much kindness of late from the public press; for a man who has suffered from nine attacks of a strange species of paralysiswho has thrice lost his speech, and once his sight, and who moves in continual dread, is really an object of compassion, especially one who has been very active.
I am much better, as this testifies, for I could not sign my name at one time, and the improvement came on me almost as quickly as the disease. Ten minutes before I wrote this, I was almost speechless.
I am, Sir, yours very truly,
To tear the helpless songster to his nest,
And drink the glowing life-blood from its breast.
The little flutterer urg'd itself along
With breathless flight, before a foe so strong,
And toss'd, and turn'd, and soar'd, and sunk below,
To 'scape the murderous talons of its foe.
At last, with fear and weariness worn out,
It faltering flew between its dread and doubt;
A moment longer, and the bird of prey
Had snatch'd it, little trembling thing! away;
But with that instinct, Nature does bestow,
It trusted man, before its feebler foe;
Downward it darted with a look oppress'd,
And hid its trembling bosom in his breast.
Who would not then feel sympathy and joy?
Who could be half so cruel as destroy
The trusting, panting innocent of air,
Nor shield it then, from danger and despair?
But mark the guilt that moves the foe-bird now;
He dares not risk the terror of man's brow;
But turning, discontent, he hies on high,
To wander onward through the pathless sky.
Thou peaceful land! in cloudless youth
I sought thy pebbly shore,
And ever since, a charm-like truth,
Has flash'd my memory o'er!
Yes, fancy, with her dream-like power,
Oft brought thee forth to view,
With every flated plant and flower,
Impearl'd with early dew!
Now walk I on thy strand again;
Beside thy lov'd Lochgaer;
And feeling links me with her chain,
To thine enchantments rare!
In rapture do I now behold
Thy giant-crested trees,
That first the morning sun of gold
Embraces 'mid the breeze!
Here let the care-worn worldling come-
Leave off his tiresome trade,
The noisy commerce-wheels of home,
And pace awhile each glade;
Where mountain-monarchs wave their heads 'Mid the unsullied air,
And thus, in great cathedral shades,
Exult o'er cold despair!
When night's inconstant virgin queen,
Glides o'er her path of blue,
Thy palace, plac'd in halls of green,
Looks spell-like to the view.
There sleeps calm beauty all around;
No sound disturbs the air;
But all is mute as fairy-ground,
And to the soul as fair.
Behold these two gigantic pines,
Twin sentinels of old!
Which mock the lightning when it shines
In robes of thunder roll'd!
These seem eternal as the world,
Rearing their proud heads high,
Unscath'd by all the lightnings hurl'd
Throughout the low'ring sky!
O, mighty man!-how mean art thou-
How fragile seems thy form,
When plac'd beside these monarchs now,
These Samsons of the storm!
Fit trophies that might represent
The powerful and the brave,
And stand as living monuments
O'er Bruce' and Wallace' grave!
'Tis autumn, and the rustling leaves Are falling thickly round; And every passing zephyr heaves Its millions to the ground. "Tis Nature sinking to repose, When fleeting life is o'er; Like generations that now close
Their eyes, to mourn no more!
Yet is this quiet land lovely still;
The light steals strangely now,
Adown the gently sloping hill,
Through every opening bough;
And falls like magic round my feet
Upon the sward so green;
Which makes each sweet scene still more sweet
More sacred and serene!
So, peaceful land, I must depart,
And leave thy charms behind,
To mix with scenes that soil the heartWhere Nature's eye is blind.
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