Volume Vi Part 23 (2/2)

OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.

Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud That sleeps in the smile o' dawn; An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells That spangle the blossom'd lawn: An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart, That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea; But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was gay as the summer time, When the earth is bricht an' gled, An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw, In their sparkling pearl-draps cled: An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea; But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower That waves by the moss-grown stane, An' her lips were rich as the rowans red That hang in forest lane; An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht, That struck ane dumb to see; But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale That fans the temples o' toil, An' the sweets o' a thousand summers cam'

On her breath an' sunny smile: An' spotless she gaed on the tainted earth, O' a mortal blemish free, While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss Was reaming to the brim, When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower Cam' a grisly carl fu' grim, Wha dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips Wi' a wild, unearthly glee; Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirm'd, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was young, an' the grim auld carl Held her fast in his cauld embrace, An' suck'd the red frae her hiney'd mou', An' the blush frae her peachy face: He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat, An' quench'd the fires o' her e'e; But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower, For my love was nae for me.

Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart, An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame; Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht, Wi' the cauld warld for my hame.

Yet my minstrelsy 's but a lanely lay, My wealth my aumous fee; Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carl, For this warld is nae for me.

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

The author of ”Harebell Chimes,” a volume of interesting verses, Andrew James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His father was a scion of the n.o.ble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848 the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it continues to be prosperously carried on.

Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of ”Harebell Chimes,” published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order; it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume ent.i.tled ”Genivieve, and other Poems,” was printed by Mr Symington for circulation among his friends.

DAY DREAM.

Close by the marge of Leman's lake, Upon a thymy plot, In blissful rev'rie, half awake, Earth's follies all forgot, I conjured up a faery isle Where sorrow enter'd not, Withouten shade of sin or guile-- A lovely Eden spot.

With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade, And leaves of tender green, All trembling in the light and shade, As sunbeams glanced between: The mossy turf, bespangled gay With fragrant flowery sheen-- Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May-- The fairest ever seen.

Near where a crystal river ran Into the rich, warm light, A domed palace fair began To rise in marble white.

'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet, With mirrors dazzling bright-- With antique vase and statuette, A palace of delight.

And ”Mignon” in a snow-white dress, With circlet on her hair, Appear'd in all her loveliness, Like angel standing there.

She struck the cithern in her hand, And sang with 'witching air Her own sweet song, ”Know'st thou the land?”

To music wild and rare.

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