Volume Iv Part 17 (1/2)
I whisper'd, ”My Mary!”--she spoke not: I caught Her hand, press'd her pale cheek--'twas icy and cold; Then sunk on her bosom--its throbbings were o'er-- Nor knew how I quitted my hold.
THE WRECKED MARINER.
Stay, proud bird of the sh.o.r.e!
Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff, Where waits our shatter'd skiff-- One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.
Fan with thy plumage bright Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine; And, gently to divine The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.
Again swoop out to sea, With lone and lingering wail--then lay thy head, As thou thyself wert dead, Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.
Now let her bid false Hope For ever hide her beam, nor trust again The peace-bereaving strain-- Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.
Oh! bid not her repine, And deem my loss too bitter to be borne, Yet all of pa.s.sion scorn But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.
Thou art away, sweet wind!
Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing, And o'er her bosom fling The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!
JOSEPH GRANT.
Joseph Grant, a short-lived poet and prose writer, was born on the farm of Affrusk, parish of Banchory-Ternan, Kincardines.h.i.+re, on the 26th of May 1805. He was instructed in the ordinary branches at the parish school, and employed as a youth in desultory labour about his father's farm. From boyhood he cherished a pa.s.sionate love for reading, and was no less ardent in his admiration of the picturesque and beautiful in nature. So early as his fourteenth year he composed verses of some merit. In 1828, he published ”Juvenile Lays,” a collection of poems and songs; and in 1830, ”Kincardines.h.i.+re Traditions”--a small volume of ballads--both of which obtained a favourable reception. Desirous of emanating from the retirement of his native parish, he accepted, in 1831, the situation of a.s.sistant to a shop-keeper in Stonehaven, and soon afterwards proceeded to Dundee, where he was employed in the office of the _Dundee Guardian_ newspaper, and subsequently as clerk to a respectable writer.
Grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_. In 1834, he published a second small volume of ”Poems and Songs;” and subsequently, in the same year, committed to the press a prose work, ent.i.tled ”Tales of the Glens,” which he did not, however, survive to publish. After an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary complaint, he died on the 14th April 1835, in his thirtieth year. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Strachan, Kincardines.h.i.+re, where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected to his memory. The ”Tales of the Glens” were published shortly after his decease, under the editorial care of the late Mr James M'Cosh, of Dundee, editor of the _Northern Warder_ newspaper; and, in 1836, an edition of his collected works was published at Edinburgh, with a biographical preface by the poet Nicol.
Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian sentiments, Grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of becoming an ornament to literature. Cut down in the bloom of youth, his elegy has been recorded by the Brechin poet, Alexander Laing--
”A kinder, warmer heart than his Was ne'er to minstrel given; And kinder, holier sympathies Ne'er sought their native heaven.”
THE BLACKBIRD'S HYMN IS SWEET.
The blackbird's hymn is sweet At fall of gloaming, When slow, o'er grove and hill, Night's shades are coming; But there is a sound that far More deeply moves us-- The low sweet voice of her Who truly loves us.
Fair is the evening star Rising in glory, O'er the dark hill's brow, Where mists are h.o.a.ry; But the star whose rays The heart falls nearest, Is the love-speaking eye Of our heart's dearest.
Oh, lonely, lonely is The human bosom, That ne'er has nursed the sweets Of young Love's blossom!
The loveliest breast is like A starless morning, When clouds frown dark and cold, And storms are forming.
LOVE'S ADIEU.
The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza, Blinks over the dark green sea, An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap, Richt dim and drowsilie.