Volume Vi Part 27 (1/2)

What though our blood be tinged with mud, My lord's is simply purer; 'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor make His seat in heaven surer.

But should the n.o.ble deign to speak, We 'll hail him as a brother, And trace respective pedigrees To Eve, our common mother.

Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather?

Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing, And journey on together.

WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL.

A youth of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Riddell, was the youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell.[12] He was born at Flexhouse, near Hawick, Roxburghs.h.i.+re, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Inst.i.tution, Edinburgh, where he remained till 1850, when, procuring a bursary from the governors of Heriot's Hospital, he entered the University of Edinburgh.

During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and occasionally enfeebled his mental, energies. After a period of suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead, on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year.

Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in his eighth year some vigorous poetry. With a highly retentive memory he retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and Greek cla.s.sics, he added a correct acquaintance with many of the modern languages. He found consolation on his deathbed, by perusing the Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with Christian resignation.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See ”Minstrel,” vol. iv. p. 1.

LAMENT OF WALLACE.[13]

No more by thy margin, dark Carron, Shall Wallace in solitude, wander, When tranquil the moon s.h.i.+nes afar on Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur.

For lost are to me Thy beauties for ever, Since fallen in thee Lie the faithful and free, To waken, ah, never!

And I, thus defeated, must suffer My country's reproach; yet, forsaken, A home to me nature may offer Among her green forests of braken.

But home who can find For heart-rending sorrow?

The wound who can bind When thus pierced is the mind By fate's ruthless arrow?

'Tis death that alone ever frees us Of woes too profound to be spoken, And nought but the grave ever eases The pangs of a heart that is broken.

Then, oh! that my blood In Carron's dark water Had mix'd with the flood Of the warriors' shed 'Mid torrents of slaughter.

For woe to the day when desponding I read in thine aspect the story Of those that were slain when defending Their homes and their mountains of glory.

And curst be the guile Of treacherous knavery That throws o'er our isle In its tyranny vile The mantle of slavery.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Composed in the author's fourteenth year.

OH! WHAT IS IN THIS FLAUNTING TOWN?[14]

Oh! what is in this flaunting town That pleasure can impart, When native hills and native glens Are imaged on the heart, And fancy hears the ceaseless roar Of cataracts sublime, Where I have paused and ponder'd o'er The awful works of time?

What, what is all the city din?