Volume Vi Part 26 (1/2)
Amid life's danger and despair Still let our deeds be true, For nought but what is right and fair Can heal our hopeless view.
The beautiful will soothe us, like The suns.h.i.+ne of a friend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.
Oh, never leave life's morning dream, 'Tis whisper'd down from heaven, But trace its maze, though sorrow seem The sole reward that 's given; The joy is there, or not on earth, Which with our souls may blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.
THE WEE BLINK THAT s.h.i.+NES IN A TEAR.
Life's pleasure seems sadness and care, When dark is the bosom that feels, Yet mingled wi' shades o' despair Is the ray which our sorrow reveals; Though darkly at times flows the stream, It rows till its waters are clear-- And Hope s.h.i.+elds a bud in our life's darkest dream Like the wee blink that s.h.i.+nes in a tear.
Afar in the wilderness blooms The flower that spreads beauty around, And Nature smiles sweet on our tombs And softens with balm every wound.
Oh, call not our life sad nor vain, Wi' its joys that can ever endear, There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain, Like the wee blink that s.h.i.+nes in a tear.
Sweet smiles the last hope in our woe And fair is the lone desert isle; Young Flora peeps gay from the snow; And dearest in grief is a smile; The dew-drop is bright with a star; Age glows when young memories appear; But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by far Is the wee blink that s.h.i.+nes in a tear.
FLOWERS OF MY OWN LOVED CLIME.
Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved, When my wild heart was careless and free, But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved, Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me.
Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves, Like songs of the dear olden time; Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breast Of the home and the friends that were mine, In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest, Nor deem'd it should ever repine.
I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been, And the spell brings the dear olden time When I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see, I treasure a life all my own, And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee, For like thine half its beauty hath flown.
I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again, And s.n.a.t.c.h back the dear olden time, When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
JAMES MACFARLAN.
A poet of singular merit, under circ.u.mstances in the highest degree unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in Glasgow and Greenock const.i.tuted his entire scholastic education; but an intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications of verses, with the t.i.tles, ”City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces,” and ”The Lyrics of Life.” A little poetical _brochure_, ent.i.tled, ”The Wanderer of the West,” is his latest production.
Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the Glasgow Athenaeum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with the _Bulletin_, a daily journal published in Glasgow.
ISABELLE.
Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!
Oh, beautiful and bright!
Thy voice is music of the heart-- Thy looks are rarest light!
What time the silver dawn of dreams Lights up the dark of sleep, As yon pale moon lights up the heaven With beauty clear and deep, I see thee in the ebbing stars, I hear quaint voices swell, And dim and phantom winds that come And whisper, Isabelle.
Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!
Oh, beautiful and bright!
Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart, Like rich star-crowded night.