Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 130

7 When chill the blast of Winter blows, Away the Summer flies, The flowers resign their sunny robes, And all their beauty dies.

8 Nipt by the year the forest fades; And shaking to the wind, The leaves toss to and fro, and streak The wilderness behind.

9 The Winter past, reviving flowers Anew shall paint the plain, The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, And flourish green again.

10 But man departs this earthly scene, Ah! never to return!

No second Spring shall e'er revive The ashes of the urn.

11 The inexorable doors of death What hand can e'er unfold?

Who from the cerements of the tomb Can raise the human mould?

12 The mighty flood that rolls along Its torrents to the main, The waters lost can ne'er recall From that abyss again.

13 The days, the years, the ages, dark Descending down to night, Can never, never be redeemed Back to the gates of light.

14 So man departs the living scene, To night's perpetual gloom; The voice of morning ne'er shall break The slumbers of the tomb.

15 Where are our fathers? Whither gone The mighty men of old?

The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, In sacred books enrolled?

16 Gone to the resting-place of man, The everlasting home, Where ages past have gone before, Where future ages come,

17 Thus nature poured the wail of woe, And urged her earnest cry; Her voice, in agony extreme, Ascended to the sky.

18 The Almighty heard: then from his throne In majesty he rose; And from the heaven, that opened wide, His voice in mercy flows:

19 'When mortal man resigns his breath, And falls a clod of clay, The soul immortal wings its flight To never-setting day.

20 'Prepared of old for wicked men The bed of torment lies; The just shall enter into bliss Immortal in the skies.'

THOMAS BLACKLOCK.

The amiable Dr Blacklock deserves praise for his character and for his conduct under very peculiar circ.u.mstances, much more than for his poetry. He was born at Annan, where his father was a bricklayer, in 1721. When about six months old, he lost his eyesight by small-pox. His father used to read to him, especially poetry, and through the kindness of friends he acquired some knowledge of the Latin tongue. His father having been accidentally killed when Thomas was nineteen, it might have fared hard with him, but Dr Stevenson, an eminent medical man in Edinburgh, who had seen some verses composed by the blind youth, took him to the capital, sent him to college to study divinity, and encouraged him to write and to publish poetry. His volume, to which was prefixed an account of the author, by Professor Spence of Oxford, attracted much attention. Blacklock was licensed to preach in 1759, and three years afterwards was married to a Miss Johnstone of Dumfries, an exemplary but plain-looking lady, whose beauty her husband was wont to praise so warmly that his friends were thankful that his infirmity was never removed, and thought how justly Cupid had been painted blind. He was even, through the influence of the Earl of Selkirk, appointed to the parish of Kirkcudbright, but the paris.h.i.+oners opposed his induction on the plea of his want of sight, and, in consideration of a small annuity, he withdrew his claims. He finally settled down in Edinburgh, where he supported himself chiefly by keeping young gentlemen as boarders in his house. His chief amus.e.m.e.nts were poetry and music. His conduct to (1786) and correspondence with Burns are too well known to require to be noticed at length here. He published a paper of no small merit in the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica' on Blindness, and is the author of a work ent.i.tled 'Paraclesis; or, Consolations of Religion,'--which surely none require more than the blind. He died of a nervous fever on the 7th of July 1791, so far fortunate that he did not live to see the ruin of his immortal _protege_.

Blacklock was a most amiable, genial, and benevolent being. He was sometimes subject to melancholy--_un_like many of the blind, and one especially, whom we name not, but who, still living, bears a striking resemblance to Blacklock in fineness of mind, warmth of heart, and high- toned piety, but who is cheerful as the day. As to his poetry, it is undoubtedly wonderful, considering the circ.u.mstances of its production, if not _per se_. Dr Johnson says to Boswell,--'As Blacklock had the misfortune to be blind, we may be absolutely sure that the pa.s.sages in his poems descriptive of visible objects are combinations of what he remembered of the works of other writers who could see. That foolish fellow Spence has laboured to explain philosophically how Blacklock may have done, by his own faculties, what it is impossible he should do. The solution, as I have given it, is plain. Suppose I know a man to be so lame that he is absolutely incapable to move himself, and I find him in a different room from that in which I left him, shall I puzzle myself with idle conjectures that perhaps his nerves have, by some unknown change, all at once become effective? No, sir; it is clear how he got into a different room--he was CARRIED.'

Perhaps there is a fallacy in this somewhat dogmatic statement. Perhaps the blind are not so utterly dark but they may have certain dim _simulacra_ of external objects before their eyes and minds. Apart from this, however, Blacklock's poetry endures only from its connexion with the author's misfortune, and from the fact that through the gloom he groped greatly to find and give the burning hand of the peasant poet the squeeze of a kindred spirit,--kindred, we mean, in feeling and heart, although very far removed in strength of intellect and genius.

THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE.

While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, And touch each feature with a trembling hand; Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride, To mix the colours, and the pencil guide.

Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind; How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind!

By self the fop in magic colours shown, Though, scorned by every eye, delights his own: When age and wrinkles seize the conquering maid, Self, not the gla.s.s, reflects the flattering shade.

Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay; Thy charms to others as to me display.

Straight is my person, but of little size; Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes; My youthful down is, like my talents, rare; Politely distant stands each single hair.

My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear; So smooth, a child may listen without fear; Not formed in cadence soft and warbling lays, To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways.

My form so fine, so regular, so new, My port so manly, and so fresh my hue; Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say, 'See, see _Memento Mori_ cross the way.'

The ravished Proserpine at last, we know, Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau; But, thanks to nature! none from me need fly; One heart the devil could wound--so cannot I.

Yet, though my person fearless may be seen, There is some danger in my graceful mien: For, as some vessel tossed by wind and tide, Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to side; In just vibration thus I always move: This who can view and not be forced to love?

Hail! charming self! by whose propitious aid My form in all its glory stands displayed: Be present still; with inspiration kind, Let the same faithful colours paint the mind.

Like all mankind, with vanity I'm blessed, Conscious of wit I never yet possessed.

To strong desires my heart an easy prey, Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway.

This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe; The next, I wonder why I should do so.

Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye; Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie.

I ne'er for satire torture common sense; Nor show my wit at G.o.d's nor man's expense.

Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown; Wish well to all, and yet do good to none.

Unmerited contempt I hate to bear; Yet on my faults, like others, am severe.

Dishonest flames my bosom never fire; The bad I pity, and the good admire; Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days, And scribble--not for pudding, but for praise.

These careless lines, if any virgin hears, Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years, She may consent a generous flame to own, And I no longer sigh the nights alone.

But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice, Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice; Cry, 'Save us, Heaven! a spectre, not a man!'

Her hartshorn s.n.a.t.c.h or interpose her fan: If I my tender overture repeat; Oh! may my vows her kind reception meet!

May she new graces on my form bestow, And with tall honours dignify my brow!

ODE TO AURORA, ON MELISSA'S BIRTHDAY.

Of time and nature eldest born, Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn, Emerge, in purest dress arrayed, And chase from heaven night's envious shade, That I once more may, pleased, survey, And hail Melissa's natal day.

Of time and nature eldest born, Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn; In order at the eastern gate The hours to draw thy chariot wait; Whilst zephyr, on his balmy wings Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, With odours sweet to strew thy way, And grace the bland revolving day.

But as thou leadst the radiant sphere, That gilds its birth, and marks the year, And as his stronger glories rise, Diffused around the expanded skies, Till clothed with beams serenely bright, All heaven's vast concave flames with light; So, when, through life's protracted day, Melissa still pursues her way, Her virtues with thy splendour vie, Increasing to the mental eye: Though less conspicuous, not less dear, Long may they Bion's prospect cheer; So shall his heart no more repine, Blessed with her rays, though robbed of thine.

MISS ELLIOT AND MRS c.o.c.kBURN.

Here we find two ladies amicably united in the composition of one of Scotland's finest songs, the 'Flowers of the Forest.' Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, sister of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, wrote the first and the finest of the two versions. Mrs c.o.c.kburn, the author of the second, was a remarkable person. Her maiden name was Alicia Rutherford, and she was the daughter of Mr Rutherford of Fernilee, in Selkirks.h.i.+re. She married Mr Patrick c.o.c.kburn, a younger son of Adam c.o.c.kburn of Ormiston, Lord Justice-Clerk of Scotland. She became prominent in the literary circles of Edinburgh, and an intimate friend of David Hume, with whom she carried on a long and serious correspondence on religious subjects, in which it is understood the philosopher opened up his whole heart, but which is unfortunately lost. Mrs c.o.c.kburn, who was born in 1714, lived to 1794, and saw and proclaimed the wonderful promise of Walter Scott. She wrote a great deal, but the 'Flowers of the Forest' is the only one of her effusions that has been published. A ludicrous story is told of her son, who was a dissipated youth, returning one night drunk, while a large party of _savans_ was a.s.sembled in the house, and locking himself up in the room in which their coats and hats were deposited. Nothing would rouse him; and the company had to depart in the best subst.i.tutes they could find for their ordinary habiliments,--Hume (characteristically) in a dreadnought, Monboddo in an old shabby hat, &c.--the echoes of the midnight Potterrow resounding to their laughter at their own odd figures.

It is believed that Mrs c.o.c.kburn's song was really occasioned by the bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirks.h.i.+re, although she chose to throw the new matter of lamentation into the old mould of song.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

BY MISS JANE ELLIOT.

1 I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, La.s.ses a-lilting before the dawn of day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

2 At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, The la.s.ses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.