Volume V Part 21 (1/2)
Mart of the ties of blood, Mart of the souls of men!
O Christ! to see thy Brotherhood Bought to be sold again, Front of h.e.l.l, to trade therein.
Genius face the giant sin; Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear, Temper'd all in Pity's tear, Every point and every tip, In the blood of Jesus dip; Pierce till the monster reel and cry, Pierce him till he fall and die.
Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell, Power divine and terrible!
See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands, On half the sunken central lands; Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame Sing as they pierce the blot of shame, Till all the dark economies Become the light of blessed skies.
For this, above in wondering love, To Genius shall it first be given, To trace the lines of past designs, All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.
ROBERT WHITE.
Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghs.h.i.+re. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm.
Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the _Newcastle Magazine_. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years.
Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.
Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications.
In 1829 appeared from his pen ”The Tynemouth Nun,” an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, ”The Wind,” a poem; and in 1856, ”England,” a poem. He has contributed songs to ”Whistle Binkie,” and ”The Book of Scottish Song.” At present he has in the press a ”History of the Battle of Otterburn,” prepared from original sources of information.
MY NATIVE LAND.
Fair Scotland! dear as life to me Are thy majestic hills; And sweet as purest melody The music of thy rills.
The wildest cairn, the darkest dell, Within thy rocky strand, Possess o'er me a living spell-- Thou art my native land.
Loved country, when I muse upon Thy dauntless men of old, Whose swords in battle foremost shone-- Thy Wallace brave and bold; And Bruce who, for our liberty, Did England's sway withstand; I glory I was born in thee, Mine own enn.o.bled land!
Nor less thy martyrs I revere, Who spent their latest breath To seal the cause they held so dear, And conquer'd even in death.
Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain, No bigot's stern command Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain, My dear devoted land.
And thou hast ties around my heart, Attraction deeper still-- The gifted poet's sacred art, The minstrel's matchless skill.
Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott Have touch'd with magic hand Is in my sight a hallow'd spot, Mine own distinguish'd land!
Oh! when I wander'd far from thee, I saw thee in my dreams; I mark'd thy forests waving free, I heard thy rus.h.i.+ng streams.
Thy mighty dead in life came forth, I knew the honour'd band; We spoke of thee--thy fame--thy worth-- My high exalted land!
Now if the lonely home be mine In which my fathers dwelt, And I can wors.h.i.+p at the shrine Where they in fervour knelt; No glare of wealth, or honour high, Shall lure me from thy strand; Oh, I would yield my parting sigh In thee, my native land!
A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.
Eliza fair, the mirth of May Resounds from glen and tree; Yet thy mild voice, I need not say, Is dearer far to me.