IN sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown, Of Egypt's awful flood 1 Bruce's mingled feelings on arriving at the source of the Nile, are thus portrayed by him :-"I was, at that very moment, in possession of what had for many years been the principal object of my ambition and wishes; indifference, which, from the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, at least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken place of it. The marsh and the So long a hidden thing to earth! He heard its life's first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone A music sought, but never found By kings and warriors gone. The rapture of a conqueror's mood Its torrents could not tame; Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, Round those far fountains of the Nile. Night came with stars. Across his soul No more than this! What seem'd it now First by that spring to stand? A thousand streams of lovelier flow Bathed his own mountain-land! Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, Their wild, sweet voices, call'd him back. They call'd him back to many a glade, His childhood's haunt of play, Where brightly through the beechen shade Their waters glanced away; They call'd him, with their sounding waves, Back to his father's hills and graves. But, darkly mingling with the thought Of each familiar scene, Rose up a fearful vision, fraught With all that lay betweenThe Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, The whirling sands, the red simoom! Where was the glow of power and pride? His alter'd heart within him died With yearnings for his home! fountains of the Nile, upon comparison with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a trifling object in my sight. I remembered that magnificent scene in my own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, and Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to treat the inquiry about the source of the Nile as a violent effort of a distempered fancy." That through the leafy places glance on many- Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy colour'd wings, 1 This little poem derives an additional interest from being affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than that of the late Mr Dugald Stewart. The admiration he always expressed for Mrs Hemans's poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy subjects; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would em. ploy her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mrs Hemans (who was then residing in Wales) sent to hours of peace, the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of "Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given to Mr Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, "that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above." The letter reached Mr Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh-the last time, alas! his presence was ever to gladden that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterwards. The poem was read to him by his daughter, on his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions; and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life. And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, for the skies! THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS. SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief, For a pale cross above its greensward rose, Telling the cedars and the pines that there Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes, And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. Now all was hush'd-and eve's last splendour shone With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone. There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, Between the forest and the lake's bright wave; And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said— "I listen'd for the words, which, years ago, Pass'd o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. "Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone bencath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride, When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breathi, To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since thenMany, but bringing naught like him again! "Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came, O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe; Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things, Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings. "Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, I and my brethren that from earth are gone, And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke. "He told of far and sunny lands, which lie "We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, And on his gleaming hair no touch of timeTherefore we hoped but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes-and finds not him! "We gather'd round him in the dewy hour Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice, at first, the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swell'd and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. "And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough! he sank upon my breastOur friend that loved us, he was gone to rest! "We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We rear'd this cross in token where he lay, For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave. "But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken, And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast." Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye: "Son of the wilderness! despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot! Heaven darkly works-yet, where the seed hath been, There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. “Hope on, hope ever !—by the sudden springing Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, After cold silent months the woods among; And by the rending of the frozen chains, Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains. "Deem not the words of light that here were spoken, But as a lovely song, to leave no trace; Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken, And the full dayspring rise upon thy race! And fading mists the better path disclose, And the wide desert blossom as the rose." So by the cross they parted, in the wild, By many a blue stream in its lonely way; ["The Cross in the Wilderness,' by Mrs Hemans, is in every way worthy of her delightful genius; and nothing but want of room prevents us from quoting it entire. Mrs Hemans is, indeed, the star that shines most brightly in the hemisphere; and in every thing she writes, there is, along with a fine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral and religious truth. Of all the female poets of the day, Mrs Hemans is, in the best sense of the word, the most truly feminine-no false glitter about her-no ostentatious display -no gaudy and jingling ornaments-but, as an English matron ought to be, simple, sedate, cheerful, elegant, and religious."-PROFESSOR WILSON in Blackwood's Magazine. Dec. 1826. LAST RITES. By the mighty minster's bell, By the drum's dull muffled sound, By the arms that sweep the ground, By the volleying muskets' tone, Speak ye of a soldier gone In his manhood's pride. By the chanted psalm that fills Reverently the ancient hills,1 1 A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of England and Wales. "It is long since we have read any thing more beautiful Learn, that from his harvests done, By the pall of snowy white Which is the tenderest rite of all -Buried virgin's coronal, Requiem o'er the monarch's head, Farewell gun for warrior dead, Herdsman's funeral hymn? Tells not each of human woe? THE HEBREW MOTHER.2 THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach'd, than the following poem by Mrs Hemans."-Blackwood's Magazine. Jan. 1826. |