Abbildungen der Seite
PDF

And fare thee weel, my only luve!

And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again, my luve,

Though it were ten thousand mile.

It's no the frosty winter wind,

It's no the driving drift and snaw: But aye the tear comes in my e'e,

To think on him that's far awa.

My father pat me frae his door,

My friends they hae disown'd me a'; But I hae ane will tak my part,

The bonnie lad that's far awa.

A pair o'gloves he gave to me,

And silken snoods he gave me twa; And I will wear them for his sake,

The bonnie lad that's far awa.

The weary winter soon will pass,

And spring will cleed the birken-shaw; And my sweet babie will be born,

And he'll come hame that's far awa.

SONG AE fond kiss and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her, was to love her ; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met-or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

[ocr errors][merged small]

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA, O How can I be blithe and glad,

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo’e best,

Is o'er the hills and far awa?

[ocr errors]
[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

SAMUEL ROGERS.

SAMUEL ROGERS, one of the most elegant of the a recent edition has been given to the world, accomBritish poets, was the son of a banker, and himself panied with numerous engravings. This poem is follows that business in London, where he was born, his last and greatest, but by no means his best, perabout 1760. He received a learned education, which formance; though an eminent writer in the New he completed by travelling through most of the Monthly Magazine calls it “ perfect as a whole.” countries of Europe, including France, Switzerland, There are certainly many very beautiful descriptive (taly, Germany, &c. He has been all his life master passages to be found in it; and it is totally free of an ample fortune, and not subject, therefore, to the from meretriciousness : but we think the author common reverses of an author, in which character has too often mistaken commonplace for simplicity, he first appeared in 1787, when he published a spirit- to render it of much value to his reputation, as a ed Ode to Superstition, with other poems. These whole. It is as the author of the Pleasures of Mewere succeeded, after an interval of five years, by mory, that he will be chiefly known to posterity, the Pleasures of Memory; a work which at once though, at the same time, some of his minor poems established his fame as a first-rate poet. In 1798, he are among the most pure and exquisite fragments published his Epistle to a Friend, with other poems; of verse, which the poets of this age have produced. and did not again come forward, as a poet, till 1814, In society, few men are said to be more agreeable when he added to a collected edition of his works, in manners and conversation than the venerable his somewhat irregular poem of the Vision of Co- subject of our memoir ; and his benevolence is lumbus. In the same year came out his Jaqueline, said to be on a par with bis taste and accoma tale, in company with Lord Byron's Lara; and, plishments. Lord Byron must have thought highly in 1819, his Human Life. In 1822, was published of his poetry, if he were sincere in saying, “We his first part of Italy, which has since been com- are all wrong, excepting Rogers, Crabbe, and pleted, in three volumes, duodecimo; and of which, Campbell."

[blocks in formation]

O COULD my mind, unfolded in my page,

ANALYSIS Enlighten climes and mould a future age ;

The poem begins with the description of an obscure There as it glow'd, with noblest frenzy fraught, village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites Dispense the treasures of exalted thought;

on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed senTo virtue wake the pulses of the heart,

sation is an effect of the memory. From an effect we And bid the tear of emulation start!

naturally ascend to the cause; and the subject proposed

is then unfolded, with an investigation of the nature and O could it still, through each succeeding year,

leading principles of this faculty. My life, my manners, and my name endear; It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succession, And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust,

and introduce each other with a certain degree of reguStill hold communion with the wise and just ! larity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, Yet should this verse, my leisure's best resource,

and sometimes by an internal operation of the inind. Of

the former species is most probably the memory of brutes; When through the world it steals its secret course,

and its many sources of pleasures to them, as well as to Revive but once a generous wish supprest,

us, are considered in the first part. The latter is the most Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest ;

perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the In one good deed a fleeting hour employ,

second. Or Aush one faded cheek with honest joy;

When ideas have any relation whatever, they are atBlest were my lines, though limited their sphere,

tractive of each other in the mind; and the perception of

any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which Though short their date, as his who traced them

was connected with it either in tine or place, or which here.

1793. I can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our

attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity.
Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: and,

: | The storied arras, source of fond delight, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat

With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; and light, he who feels the infirmities of age dwells most | And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest. on whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity of On the dim window glows the pictured crest. his youth.

The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The associating principle, as here employed, is no less

The clock still points its moral to the heart. conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes

That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise

When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; to every mild and generous propensity.

And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Not confined to man, it extends through all animated Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of time? nature; and its effect sare peculiarly striking in the That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, domestic tribes.

Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive

thought ; TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; With magic tints to harmonize the scene.

Those once-loved forms, still breathing through Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke,

their dust, When round the ruins of their ancient oak

Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, Starting to life-all whisper of the past ! And games and carols closed the busy day.

As through the garden's desert paths I rove, Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more What fond illusions swarm in every grove! With treasured tales, and legendary lore.

How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest; To chase the dreams of innocent repose.

Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!

Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! What secret charms this silent spot endear! How oft inscribed, with friendship's votive rhyme,

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, The bark now silver'd by the touch of time ;
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. Soard in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,
That casement arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, Through sister elms that waved their summer-shade;
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!
court,

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! When nature pleased, for life itself was new, Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! And the heart promised what the fancy drew. Clothed with far softer hues than light can give.

See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd, Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; The martin's old, hereditary nest :

Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest! When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong O haste, unfold the hospitable hall!

The sage's precept, and the poet's song. That hall, where once, in antiquated state, What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, The chair of justice held the grave debate. [hung, When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight

Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly steals! Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, When round yon ample board, in due degree, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. | Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. And all was sunshine in each little breast.

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosoes 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing.

Quickening my truant feet across the lawn: Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear:

When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Or view'd the forest feats of Robin Hood :

Some little friendship form’d and cherish'd here, Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,

And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; With golden visions, and romantic dreams! O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. The gipsy's fagot—there we stood and gazed ;

Ye household deities ! whose guardian eye Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe, Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high ; Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,

Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; And breathe th: soul of inspiration round. | The drowsy brood that on her back she bore,

[ocr errors]

Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;

Control the latent fibres of the heart. Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest | As studious Prospero's mysterious spell shade,

Drew every subject spirit to his cell; When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd :- Each, at thy call, advances or retires, And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call,

As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall. Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And traced the line of life with searching view, And through the frame invisibly convey How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and The subtle, quick vibrations as they play. fears,

Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore ; Co learn the colour of my future years !

From reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; What different spheres to human bliss assign'd! This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! What slow gradations in the scale of mind! We led the bending beggar on his way,

Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought; (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver gray,) O mark the sleepless energies of thought! Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,

Th’adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, As in his scrip we dropt our little store,

Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see And sigh'd to think that little was no more, The dear abode of peace and privacy; He breath'd his prayer, “ Long may such goodness And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, live !"

The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.

breeze, But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The village common spotted white with sheep, The church clock strikes ! ye tender scenes, fare- The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep; well!

All rouse reflection's sadly pleasing train, It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. The few fond lines that time may soon efface. So, when the mild Tupia dared explore

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel door, Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, And, with the sons of science, woo'd the gale Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, That, rising, swell’d their strange expanse of sail; When the heart danced, and life was in its spring ; So, when he breathed his firm, yet fond adieu, Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,

Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe, That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.

And all his soul best loved-such tears he shed, The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, While each soft scene of summer beauty fled. Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast; He lectured every youth that round him play'd; Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, And fairy forests fringed the evening sky. Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.

So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. I search the records of each mouldering stone. Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering height, Guides of my life! instructers of my youth ! That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light; Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth; But now the morn with orient hues portray'd Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade: In age heloved, in poverty revered;

All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring, In friendship's silent register ye live,

And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing! Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, -But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, As summer clouds flash forth electric fire. When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, What spells entrance my visionary mind

Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined ! Hence homefelt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh;

Ethereal power! who at the noon of night This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
Recall'st the far fled spirit of delight;

For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate,
From whom that musing, melancholy mood Venice should blush to hear the muse relate,
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; When exile wore his blooming years away,
Blest Memory, hail! O grant the grateful muse, To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,
Her pencil dipt in nature's living hues,

When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, For this he roused her sanguinary laws;
And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Glad to return, though hope could grant no more, Lulld in the countless chambers of the brain, And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore. Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. And hence the charm historic scenes impart: Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise ! Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. Each stamps its image as the other flies!

Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale Each, as the various avenues of sense

Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,

gale;

In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell, When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.

And on the scath'd oak warr'd the winter wind; 'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb When not a distant taper's twinkling ray We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom: Gleam'd o'er the furze to light him on his way So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of time, When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime; And the big rain-drops told the tempest near; When at his feet, in honour'd dust disclosed, Then did his horse the homeward track descry, Th’immortal sage of Syracuse reposed.

The track that shunn'd his sad, inquiring eye; And as he long in sweet delusion hung,

And win each wavering purpose to relent, Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung; With warmth so mild, so gently violent, Who now but meets him musing, when he roves That his charm'd hand the careless rein resign'd, His ruind Tusculan's romantic groves?

And doubts and terrors vanish'd from his mind. In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll Recall the traveller, whose alter'd form His moral thunders o'er the subject soul?

Has borne the buffet of the mountain storm; And hence that calm delight the portrait gives : And who will first his fond impatience meet? We gaze on every feature till it lives!

His faithful dog's already at his feet! Still the fond lover sees the absent maid;

Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door, And the lost friend still lingers in his shade! Though all, that knew him, know his face no Say why the pensive widow loves to weep,

more, When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep: His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each, Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace With that mute eloquence which passes speech, The father's features in his infant face.

And see, the master but returns to die ! The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away,

Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly? Won by the raptures of a game at play;

The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of He bends to meet each artless burst of joy,

earth, Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.

The wanton insults of un feeling mirth, What though the iron school of war erase

These, when to guard misfortune's sacred grave, Each milder virtue, and each softer grace;

Will firm fidelity exult to brave. What though the fiend's torpedo touch arrest

Led by what chart, transports the timid dove Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast:

The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love? Still shall this active principle preside,

Say, through the clouds what compass points her And wake the tear to pity's self denied.

fight? Th’ intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the Condemn'd to climb his mountain cliffs no more,

sight. If enance he hears the song so sweetly wild, Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, Which on thuse cliffs his infant hours beguiled, Eclipse her native shades, her native skies:Melis at the song iost scenes that round him rise, 'Tis vain! through ether's pathless wilds she And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.

goes, Ask not if court or canps dissolve the charm: And lights at last where all her cares repose. lay why t'espasian loved nis Sabine farm;

Sweet bird! thy truth shall Haarlem's walls by great Navaire, when France and freedom

attest, blea,

And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. Sou bt the lone limits of a forest shed.

When, with the silent energy of grief, When Dioclesian's seli-corrected mund

With looks that ask'd, yet dared not hope relief, The imperial fasces of a worla resign'd.

Want with her babes round generous valour clung, tar why we trace the cabours of his spade, To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, in calm Salona's philosophic snage.

'Twas thine to animate her closing eye; day, when contentious Chailes renounced a throne, Alas! 'twas thine, perchance, the first to die, fo muse with monks unletter d and unknown, Crush'd by her meager hand, when welcomed from What from his soul the parting tu dute drew!

the sky. What claim'd the sorrows of a lası acieu?

Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow The still retreats that soothed his irauquil breast,

horn, Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress d. Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn.

Undamp'd by time, the generous instinct gam O’er thymy downs she bends her busy course, Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows;

And many a stream allures her to its source. Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, 'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, On every form of varied life imprest.

Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, Th? social tribes its choicest influence hail: Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; And when the drum beats briskly in the gale, Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Tho war-worn courser charges at the sound, Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ? And with young vigour wheels the pasture rour!. Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell? Oft has the aged tenant of the vale

With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out the tale; Of varied scents, that charm'd her as she flew? Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed, Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign From sire to son with pious zeal bequeath'd. !Guards the least link of being's glorious chain,

« ZurückWeiter »