BOTHWELL A PRISONER IN MALMOE. 533 See-Oh never more, my comrades! * * * Open wide the vaults of Athol, * Last of Scots, and last of freemen- BOTHWELL A PRISONER IN THE CASTLE OF MALMOE, The sun is bright, the day is warm, And look upon the sea. 'Tis clear and blue, with here and there And yonder glides a stately ship, Bound on her voyage home. And whistle o'er their lazy task Swift by the window skims the tern, On light and glancing wing, And every sound that rises up Y Fair is the sight, yet strange to me; While gazing on the headland cliffs, For I was reared among the hills, Within a Border home, Where, brawling down their narrow glens, And well I know the bonny braes Or birches show their green, I would not leave thee, Border keep, SONNET TO BRITAIN, BY THE D OF W Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were! Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, Where the grim despot mutter'd—sauve qui peut! And they fled darkling. Silence in the ranks; Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash Of armies, in the centre of his troop The soldier stands-unmovable, not rash- Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash, Shoulder, hoop! Bon Gaultier's Ballads. OLD MEMORIES. 535 ALEXANDER SMITH. (1830-1867.) In 1853 appeared "The Life Drama," by Alexander Smith, a selftaught poet, a native of Kilmarnock. Though very unequal in execution, and abounding in instances of crude and immature taste, this work had also proofs of rich imagination and poetical feeling. In 1857, Mr. Smith published a second volume, entitled “ City poems, which sustained but did not increase his reputation. In 1861, Mr. Smith published a narrative poem in blank verse, "Edwin of Deira," which is unquestionably his best work. He was also the author of several prose works of considerable merit. From 1854 he held the office of Secretary to the University of Edinburgh. OLD MEMORIES. My head is grey, my blood is young, The spring doth stir my spirit yet To seek the cloistered violet, The primrose in the lanes. In heart I am a very boy, Haunting the woods, the waterfalls, When the broad sun goes down the west, Or trembling o'er a sparrow's nest. But chief, to live that hour again, When first I stood on sea-beach old, First heard the voice, first saw out-rolled The glory of the main. Many rich draughts hath Memory, The Soul's cup-bearer, brought to me. FROM THE LIFE DRAMA. On balcony, all summer roofed with vines, Golden and green, soft-showering through the leaves. At last she sank luxurious in her couch, Purple and golden-fringèd, like the sun's, And stretched her white arms on the warmèd air, As if to take some object wherewithal All glad from grass to sun! Yet more I love It joined November's troop, then marching past; A few half-wither'd flowers. THIS lady is remarkable as a blind poetess-a circumstance in itself calculated to excite attention and interest, but many of her pieces are distinguished by true poetic feeling and beauty, and her literary acquirements have been achieved under great difficulties. Frances Brown is the daughter of an Irish village postmaster, county of Donegal. She lost her sight from small-pox at the age of eighteen months, and had to trust solely to memory and perseverance for her knowledge of nature and books. After writing in the Athenæum and other periodicals, Miss Brown, in 1844, published a volume of poems, which has been followed by a second volume, and by numerous contributions to literary journals. Sir Robert Peel, when in office, settled upon her a small pension of £20 a year. The blind poet, Dr. Thomas Blacklock [1721-1791], had advantages of education denied to Miss Brown, but he was unquestionably inferior as a poet. THE POET'S PATH. THE POET'S PATH. 537 THE poet's path of old, it passed by Grecian grove and hill; And through the wrecks of war and time we trace its splendour still; For there the ancient temples rose, as at the thrilling call Of that Egyptian wanderer's lyre arose the Theban wall. And since o'er many a distant shore that starry path hath shone, For gleaming through the Polar night, it cheered the frozen zone; The old Crusaders saw it shine through realms of Eastern bloom, And the wanderers of the Western woods amid their leafy gloom. But, like the ocean-doomed, who sought the happy isles of yore, The feet that seek that pleasant path may turn aside no more; For tuneful lips that once have quaffed the bright Castalian rill, Though never more they taste the wave, will wander by it still. As he who traversed lands of old the glorious and unknownReturned at last in age to be a stranger in his own; So hearts that early leave the dust, that upward path to share, Forgotten lose their hold of earth, and seem but strangers there. But oh! what glorious visions shine, what lovely scenes arise, Around that mystic path, to win from earth the pilgrim's eyes! Though ever seen through thorny brakes, or wastes of trackless sand, As Israel from the wilderness beheld his promised land. Long, long, the early Muse hath left her own, her Grecian isles: And long the Runic harp is hushed among the Northern wilds; And o'er the poet's path a flood of time and tears hath swept ; But still 't is all of Eden which our fallen world hath kept. 1 Marco Paolo. |