Volume I Part 22 (1/2)

The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff, Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff; The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around, While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound; Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?

Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen, ”The Harp of the North,” newly strung now I ween?

'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name, He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!-- He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old, And soul to the tales that so oft have been told; Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye, Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his ”Lay;”

To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight, Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.

MRS DUGALD STEWART.

Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, the second wife of the celebrated Professor Stewart, is ent.i.tled to a more ample notice in a work on Modern Scottish Song than the limited materials at our command enable us to supply. She was the third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She was born in the year 1765, and became the wife of Professor Dugald Stewart on the 26th July 1790. Having survived her husband ten years, she died at Warriston House, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, on the 28th of July 1838. She was the sister of the Countess Purgstall (the subject of Captain Basil Hall's ”Schloss Hainfeld”), and of George Cranstoun, a senator of the College of Justice, by the t.i.tle of Lord Corehouse.

The following pieces from the pen of the accomplished author are replete with simple beauty and exquisite tenderness.

THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

TUNE--_”Ianthe the Lovely.”_

The tears I shed must ever fall: I mourn not for an absent swain; For thoughts may past delights recall, And parted lovers meet again.

I weep not for the silent dead: Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er; And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between, If certain that his heart is near, A conscious transport glads each scene, Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.

E'en when by death's cold hand removed, We mourn the tenant of the tomb, To think that e'en in death he loved, Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears Of her who slighted love bewails; No hope her dreary prospect cheers, No pleasing melancholy hails.

Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy; The flattering veil is rent aside, The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew The hours once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view, And turns the past to agony.

E'en time itself despairs to cure Those pangs to every feeling due: Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor, To win a heart, and break it too!

No cold approach, no alter'd mien, Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between-- He made me blest, and broke my heart:[39]

From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn, Neglected and neglecting all; Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall.

[39] The four first lines of the last stanza are by Burns.

RETURNING SPRING, WITH GLADSOME RAY.[40]

Returning spring, with gladsome ray, Adorns the earth and smoothes the deep: All nature smiles, serene and gay, It smiles, and yet, alas! I weep.

But why, why flows the sudden tear, Since Heaven such precious boons has lent, The lives of those who life endear, And, though scarce competence, content?

Sure, when no other bliss was mine Than that which still kind Heaven bestows, Yet then could peace and hope combine To promise joy and give repose.

Then have I wander'd o'er the plain, And bless'd each flower that met my view; Thought Fancy's power would ever reign, And Nature's charms be ever new.