The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Ii Part 34

For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities blaze, Whilst the wine-cup s.h.i.+nes in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride, Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou, Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!

MEN OF ENGLAND.

Men of England, who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood!

Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood,

By the foes you 've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye 've done, Trophies captured, breaches mounted, Navies conquer'd, kingdoms won.

Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreathes of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery, Whence no public virtues bloom?

What avail in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

Pageants!--Let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws, And the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of civic heroes, Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours, Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We 're the sons of sires that baffled Crown'd and mitred tyranny; They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights--so will we!

MRS G. G. RICHARDSON.[112]

Caroline Eliza Scott, better known as Mrs G. G. Richardson, the daughter of a gentleman of considerable property in the south of Scotland, was born at Forge, her father's family residence, in the parish of Canonbie, on the 24th of November 1777, and spent her childhood and early youth amidst Border scenes, Border traditions, and Border minstrelsy. It is probable that these influences fostered the poetic temperament, while they fed the imaginative element of her mind, as she very early gave expression to her thoughts and feelings in romance and poetry. Born to a condition of favourable circ.u.mstances, and a.s.sociating with parents themselves educated and intellectual, the young poetess enjoyed advantages of development rarely owned by the sons and daughters of genius. The flow of her mind was allowed to take its natural course; and some of her early anonymous writings are quite as remarkable as any of her acknowledged productions. Her conversational powers were lively and entertaining, but never oppressive. She was ever ready to discern and do homage to the merits of her contemporaries, while she never failed to fan the faintest flame of latent poesy in the aspirations of the timid or unknown. Affectionate and cheerful in her dispositions, she was a loving and dutiful daughter, and shewed the tenderest attachment to a numerous family of brothers and sisters. She was married to her cousin, Gilbert Geddes Richardson, on the 29th of April 1799, at Fort George, Madras; where she was then living with her uncle, General, afterwards Lord Harris; and the connexion proved, in all respects, a suitable and happy one. Her husband, at that time captain of an Indiaman, was one of a number of brothers, natives of the south of Scotland, who all sought their fortunes in India, and one of whom, Lieutenant-Colonel Richardson, became known in literature as an able translator of Sanscrit poetry, and contributor to the "Asiatic Researches." He was lost at sea, with his wife and six children, on their homeward voyage; and this distressing event, accompanied as it was by protracted suspense and anxiety, was long and deeply deplored by his gifted sister-in-law.

Young, beautiful, and doubly attractive from the warmth of her heart, and the fascination of her manners, Mrs Richardson was not only loved and appreciated by her husband, and his family, but greatly admired in a refined circle of Anglo-Indian society; and the few years of her married life were marked by almost uninterrupted felicity. But death struck down the husband and father in the very prime of manhood; and the widow returned with her five children (all of whom survived her), to seek from the scenes and friends of her early days such consolation as they might minister to a grief which only those who have experienced it can measure. She never brought her own peculiar sorrows before the public; but there is a tone of gentle mournfulness pervading many of her poems, that may be traced to this cause; and there are touching allusions to "one of rare endowments," that no one who remembered her husband's character could fail to recognise. Her intense love of nature happily remained unchanged; and the green hills, the flowing river, and the tangled wildwood, could still soothe a soul that, but for its susceptibility to these beneficent charms, might have said in its sadness of everything earthly, "miserable comforters are ye all."

Continuing to reside at Forge while her children were young, she devoted herself to the direction of their education, the cultivation of her own pure tastes, and the peaceful enjoyments of a country life; and when she afterwards removed to London, and reappeared in brilliant and distinguished society, she often reverted, with regret, to the bright skies and cottage homes of Canonbie. In 1821, Mrs Richardson again returned to Scotland, and took up her abode at Dumfries, partly from the desire of being near her connexions, and partly for the sake of the beautiful scenery surrounding that pretty county town. In 1828 she published, by subscription, her first volume of miscellaneous poems, which was well received by the public, favourably noticed by the leading journals, and received a circulation even beyond the range of 1700 subscribers. A second edition, in a larger form, soon followed; and, in 1834, after finally settling in her native parish, she published a second volume, dedicated to the d.u.c.h.ess of Buccleuch, and which was also remarkably successful. From this time she employed her talents in the composition of prose; she published "Adonia," a novel, in three volumes; and various tales, essays, and fugitive pieces, forming contributions to popular serials. Her later poems remain in ma.n.u.script. She maintained an extensive correspondence with her literary friends, and spent much of her time in reading and study, and in the practice of sincere and unostentatious piety. Her faculties were vigorous and unimpared, until the seizure of her last illness, which quickly terminated in death, on the 9th October 1853, when she had nearly completed her seventy-sixth year. She died at Forge, and was laid to rest in the church-yard of her own beloved Canonbie.

[112] The memoir of Mrs G. G. Richardson has been kindly supplied by her accomplished relative, Mrs Macarthur, Hillhead, near Glasgow.

THE FAIRY DANCE.

The fairies are dancing--how nimbly they bound!

They flit o'er the gra.s.s tops, they touch not the ground; Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight, All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight.

Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear-- 'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear,-- The lazy-wing'd moth, with the gra.s.shopper wakes, And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes.

How featly they trip it! how happy are they Who pa.s.s all their moments in frolic and play, Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares, And laugh at the fetters mortality wears!

But where have they vanish'd?--a cloud 's o'er the moon, I 'll hie to the spot,--they 'll be seen again soon-- I hasten--'tis lighter,--and what do I view?-- The fairies were gra.s.ses, the diamonds were dew.

And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth; Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud, Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud.

SUMMER MORNING.

How pleasant, how pleasant to wander away, O'er the fresh dewy fields at the dawning of day,-- To have all this silence and lightness my own, And revel with Nature, alone,--all alone!

What a flush of young beauty lies scatter'd around, In this calm, holy suns.h.i.+ne, and stillness profound!

The myriads are sleeping, who waken to care, And earth looks like Eden, ere Adam was there.

The herbage, the blossoms, the branches, the skies, That shower on the river their beautiful dyes, The far misty mountains, the wide waving fields, What healthful enjoyment surveying them yields!

Yes, this is the hour Nature's lovers partake, The manna that melts when Life's vapours awake; Another, and thoughts will be busy, oh how Unlike the pure vision they 're ranging in now!

Lo! the hare scudding forth, lo! the trout in the stream Gently splas.h.i.+ng, are stirring the folds of my dream, The cattle are rising, and hark, the first bird,-- And now in full chorus the woodlands are heard.

Oh, who on the summer-clad landscape can gaze, In the orison hour, nor break forth into praise,-- Who, through this fair garden contemplative rove, Nor feel that the Author and Ruler is love?

I ask no hewn temple, sufficient is here; I ask not art's anthems, the woodland is near; The breeze is all risen, each leaf at his call Has a tear drop of grat.i.tude ready to fall!

THERE 'S MUSIC IN THE FLOWING TIDE.

There 's music in the flowing tide, there 's music in the air, There 's music in the swallow's wing, that skims so lightly there, There 's music in each waving tress of grove, and bower, and tree, To eye and ear 'tis music all where Nature revels free.

There 's discord in the gilded halls where lordly rivals meet, There 's discord where the harpers ring to beauty's glancing feet, There 's discord 'neath the jewell'd robe, the wreath, the plume, the crest, Wherever Fas.h.i.+on waves her wand, there discord rules the breast.

There 's music 'neath the cottage eaves, when, at the close of day, Kind-hearted mirth and social ease the toiling hour repay; Though coa.r.s.e the fare, though rude the jest, that cheer that lowly board, There loving hearts and honest lips sweet harmony afford!

Oh! who the music of the groves, the music of the heart, Would barter for the city's din, the frigid tones of art?

The virtues flourish fresh and fair, where rural waters glide.

They shrink and wither, droop and die, where rolls that turbid tide.

AH! FADED IS THAT LOVELY BLOOM.