“ During the just, benignant sway of the "good Duke James," perhaps Fleurs was the happiest place of all Scotland to live in;—not a happier could be in the wide world. To have been born and brought up there, and in one's childhood to have had such a taste of the "golden age," I have always esteemed the sweetest privilege of life. No one can become utterly sour, no one can lose faith and hope in humanity, who was nurtured on the milk and honey of Fleurs, under "good Duke James." Poetry and enthusiasm must spring eternal in his breast. ”

“ E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays,
And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale.
Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine;
Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer,
They think not, alas! as they view his decline,
That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.
Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes,
And which souls that are songless can never enjoy;
They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows
Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy.
Sing on, then, sweet bard! ”

“ Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,
Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
But give to the living thy passion of tears
Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears,
Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost,
By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd.
Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,
Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er ”

“ The last echoes of the older Border Minstrelsy were dying from the memory of the aged, and the spirit which had awakened the strains seemed to have sighed an eternal farewell to its loved haunts in the past, when, suddenly arousing from a long slumber, it threw the mantle of inspiration, at the close of last century, over several sons of song, worthy to bear the lyre of their minstrel sires. Of these, unquestionably the most remarkable was James Hogg, commonly designated "The Ettrick Shepherd." ”

“ And feel no power can sever us—
Ah! this it is to live!
[Pg 246]
It is not death, when on the couch
Of sickness we are laid,
With all our spirit wasted,
And the bloom of youth decay'd;
To feel the shadow dim our eyes,
And pant for failing breath;
Then break at length life's feeble hain—
Oh, no! this is not death!
To part from one beneath whose smiles
We long were used to dwell,
To hear the lips we love pronounce
A passionate farewell;
To catch the last too tender glance
Of an adoring eye,
And weep in solitude of heart—
Ah! this it is to die!
GOOD NIGHT.
Good night! ”

“ The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene,
And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling
Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.
The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;
The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed;
At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither;
At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.
Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over,
And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea,
When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,
And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree. ”

“ With me, my native land, rejoice,
And let the bard thy bosom thaw,
As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice
Of him wha sings frae Alloa.
Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,
And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,
I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'
Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;
'Tis idle—gowd-gear hearts will say—
But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'
When death has come, and flowers shall bloom
Aboon the Bard of Alloa?
Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,
And glory shall your brows adorn,
And else than this, by none or few,
The poet's wreath will long be worn. ”

“ But banks and braes, and straths and streams, and woods and waves, though very dear to memory, merely come up to the painted beauties of descriptive verse. They must be warmed through
"The dearest theme
That ever waked the poet's dream,"
and love must fill the vision, before the soul can soar above the delicious but inanimate charms of earth, into the glowing region of human feeling and passion. ”

“ Why does the swan's melodious song
Come thrilling on the gentle gale?
Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,
Lie down to tell its mournful tale?
Why does the deer, when wounded, fly
To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?
Their time was past—they lived to die—
It was their dying hour!
Why does the dolphin change its hues,
Like that aërial child of light?
Why does the cloud of night refuse
To meet the morn with beams so bright?
Why does the man we saw to-day,
To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?
All earth can give must pass away—
It was their dying hour! ”

“ But my pen has of late strayed into the regions of prose. Poetry is too much its own reward; and one cannot always write for a barren smile, and a thriftless clap on the back. We must live; and the white bread and the brown can only be obtained by gross payment. There is no poet and a wife and six children fed now like the prophet Elijah—they are more likely to be devoured by critics, than fed by ravens. I cannot hope that Heaven will feed me and mine while I sing. So farewell to song for a season. ”

“ In all our friendless wanderings—in homeless penury—
Her gentle song and jetty eye were all unchanged to me.
I saw my true-love fade—I heard her latest sigh;
I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye:
Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave
The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave.
Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed,
And I 'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread;
For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me. ”

“ SONG OF THE ROYAL HIGHLAND REGIMENT.
For success, a prayer, with a farewell, bear
To the warriors dear of the muir and the valley—
The lads that convene in their plaiding of green,
With the curtal coat, and the sweeping eil-e.
In their belts array'd, where the dark blue blade
Is hung, with the dirk at the side;
When the sword is at large, and uplifted the targe,
Ha! not a foe the boys will abide.
The followers in peril of Ian the Earl,
The race of the wight of hand;
Sink the eyes of the foe, of the friend's mounts the glow,
When the Murdoch's high blood takes command. ”

“ Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory,
And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves,
Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story,
Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow—
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather,
The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen,
The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither,
But dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men! ”

“ And Love will a diviner air
Impart to Beauty.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
Star of descending Night!
Lovely and fair,
Robed in thy mellow light,
Subtle and rare;
Whence are thy silvery beams,
That o'er lone ocean gleams,
And in our crystal streams
Dip their bright hair?
Far in yon liquid sky,
Where streamers play
And the red lightnings fly,
Hold'st thou thy way;
Clouds may envelop thee,
Winds rave o'er land and sea,
O'er them thy march is free
As thine own ray.
OH! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME.
Oh! ”

“ Though occasionally called upon to face the blast, and wrestle with the storm, he still experiences a charm. But when the broad earth is green below, and the wide bending sky blue above, the voice of nature in the sounding of streams, the song of birds, and the bleating of sheep differ widely from what the susceptible and poetic mind is destined to experience amidst the clanking din of shuttles in the dingy, narrow workshop of the handloom weaver. Here the breath of the light hill breeze cannot come ”

“ The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,
Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!
The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;
The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,
Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,
An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,
Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',
To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.
When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame—
There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game! ”

“ At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr:
And thus through all broad Scotland these martyr'd relics go,
Like a fiery cross to rouse the land to the tyrant's overthrow!
The ancient halls of Jervieswoode are desolate and gray,
And its ancient oaks and lime trees are sinking in decay;
These are of things that perish, and their place soon knows them not,
But a glory from the past illumes this consecrated spot.
To him who braves the martyr's death is deathless honour given,
For the faith that breeds heroic deeds is dear to earth and heaven ”

“ While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;
Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along
The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?
Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,
"The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween?
'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,
He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!—
He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,
And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;
Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye,
Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;" ”

“ Thus, the christening of the wean, with all its ceremony and all its mirth—Hallowe'en, with its "rude awe and laughter"—the "Rockin'"—the "Brooze"—the Bridal—and a hundred other intensely Scottish and very old customs, were all ripe and ready for the poet, and many of them he has treated, accordingly, with consummate felicity and genius. It seems almost as if the final cause of their long-continued existence were connected with the appearance, in due time, of one who was to extract their finest essence, and to embalm them for ever in his own form of ideal representation. ”

“ By bank an' brae an' lover's bower,
Adown the course o' time,
Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,—
Their annual bloom renew,
Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel
Its ain sweet drap o' dew.
The oaks and cedars of the earth
May toss their arms in air,
Or bend beneath the sweeping blast
That strips the forest bare;
The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass,
Till sunshine spreads anew,
And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass,
Its lucent drap o' dew.
The great may loll in world's wealth
And a' the pomp o' state,
While labour, bent wi' eident cares,
Maun toil baith ear and late. ”

“ Perhaps no country contains a richer collection of love-songs than Scotland. We have a song for every phase of the motley-faced passion,—from its ludicrous aspect to its highest and most rapturous form. Every pulsation of the heart, as moved by love, has had its poetic expression; and we have lovers pouring out the depths of their souls to all kinds of maids, and in all kinds of situations. And maids are represented as bodying forth their feelings, also, under the sway of love. Many of these feminine lyrics are written by women themselves. ”