And she did love them. They are past away Or unsphered Angel woefully astray, She glides along-the solitary hearted. SONG. She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me ; Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, But now her looks are coy and cold, And yet I cease not to behold SUMMER RAIN. Thick lay the dust, uncomfortably white, The woods and mountains slept in hazy light; Sudden the hills grew black, and hot as stove A flash—a crash-the firmament was split, WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. [WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, born in Glasgow in 1797, became a limb of the law' in 1819, being then appointed to the office of Sheriff Clerk Depute at Paisley. In 1828 he put his literary talent at the service of his party, edited a Tory newspaper, The Paisley Advertiser, and afterwards The Glasgow Courier. The strain of journalism proved too much for him, and he died of apoplexy at the early age of thirty-seven. A small volume of poems, narrative and lyrical, published in 1832, was the only fruit of his fine poetic gifts.] Motherwell's reputation in his own country as a poet was made by the plaintive song of Jeanie Morrison, a sweet and touching reminiscence of pleasant days spent with a school playfellow and child sweetheart. This and another song in the Scotch dialect, My heid is like to break, in which a betrayed damsel harrows up the feelings of her seducer with pitiless pathos, may be said to be the only two lyrics of his that have taken any hold of fame. They prove him to have been a man of keen sensibility; he was also a man of vigorous intellect and large culture, more of a student and a scholar than any contemporary Scotch lyrist. He wrote but little in verse-after he reached the prime of manhood his powers were wasted in vehement partisan support of a hopeless cause—but the little that he did write was not in the minor key of the songs in his native dialect. The exploits of the Vikings fascinated his imagination, and as the bard of these sturdy warriors he sang with a vigour that entitles him to be named as a link between Gray and Collins and Mr. William Morris. Motherwell found in the mighty deeds and haughty spirit of the irresistible masters of the sea more congenial themes than the woes and the aspirations of the Jacobites of which the literary world by his time was becoming somewhat weary, and revelled in the fresh field with eager delight. The most touching of his poems in its personal emotion, I am not sad, shows him resigned to the sadness of a nameless tomb,' but it is hard to believe that the wealth and variety of power evidenced in such poems as The Madman's Love, and his two songs in the Scotch dialect could have rested unused. W. MINTO. TRUE LOVE'S DIRGE. Some love is light and fleets away, Of loyal love I sing this lay, He loved her,-heart loved ne'er so well, He loved her,-oh, he loved her long, It is not meet for knight like me, Though scorned, love's recreant to be, That brave knight buckled on his brand, And fast he sought a foreign strand, He wandered wide by land and sea, Heigho! the wind and rain; A mirror of bright constancy. He would not chide, he would not blame, Heigho! the wind and rain, But at each shrine he breathed her name, Ah, well-a-day! Amen! He would not carp, he would not sing, That broke his heart with love-longing. He scorned to weep, he scorned to sigh, But like a true knight he could die,- The banner which that brave knight bore, Had scrolled on it, 'Faith Evermore.' That banner led the Christian van, Ah, well-a-day! bright train. The fight was o'er, the day was done, They found him on the battle-field, With broken sword and cloven shield, They found him pillowed on the dead, The blood-soaked sod his bridal bed, And his pale brow and paler cheek, The white moonshine did fall so meek They lifted up the True and Brave, They buried him on that far strand, Heigho! the wind and rain; His face turned towards his love's own land, Ah, well-a-day! how vain. The wearied heart was laid at rest, Heigho! the wind and rain; The dream of her he liked best, Ah, well-a-day! again. They nothing said, but many a tear, Rained down on that knight's lowly bier, They nothing said, but many a sigh, With solemn mass and orison, Heigho! the wind and rain; They reared to him a cross of stone, And on it graved with daggers bright, 'Here lies a true and gentle knight.' JEANIE MORRISON. I've wandered east, I've wandered west Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The love o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en Where first fond luve grows cule. |