giving vent to the familiar sentiments of his bosom. We can trace here, in short, and with the same pleasing effect, that entire absence of art, effort, and affectation, which we have already noticed as the most remarkable distinction of his attempts in description. Almost all the other poets with whom we are acquainted, appear but too obviously to put their feelings and affections, as well as their fancies and phrases, into a sort of studied dress, before they venture to present them to the crowded assembly of the public: and though the style and fashion of this dress varies according to the taste and ability of the inventors, still it serves almost equally to hide their native proportions, and to prove that they were a little ashamed or afraid to exhibit them as they really were. Now, Mr. Grahame, we think, has got over this general nervousness and shyness about showing the natural and simple feelings with which the contemplation of human emotion should affect us; or rather, has been too seriously occupied, and too constantly engrossed with the feelings themselves, to think how the confession of them might be taken by the generality of his readers, to concern himself about the contempt of the fastidious, or the derision of the unfeeling. In his poetry, therefore, we meet nei
THE poem of The Sabbath will long endear the name of JAMES GRAHAME to all who love the due observance of Sunday, and are acquainted with the devout thoughts and poetic feeling which it inspires. Nor will he be remembered for this alone; his British Georgics and his Birds of Scotland, rank with those productions whose images and sentiments take silent possession of the mind, and abide there when more startling and obtrusive things are forgotten. There is a quiet natural ease about all his descriptions; a light and shade both of landscape and character in all his pictures, and a truth and beauty which prove that he copied from his own emotions, and painted with the aid of his own eyes, without looking, as Dryden said, through the spectacles of books. To his fervent piety as well as poetic spirit the public has borne testimony, by purchasing many copies of his works. The Birds of Scotland is a fine series of pictures, giving the form, the plumage, the haunts, and habits of each individual bird, with a graphic fidelity rivalling the labours of Wilson. His drama of Mary Stuart wants that passionate and happy vigour which the stage requires; some of his songs are natural and elegant; his Sabbath Walks, Biblical Pictures, and Rural Calendar, are all alike remarkable for accuracy of description and an original turn of thought. Hether with the Musidoras and Damons of Thomson, was born at Glasgow, 22d April, 1765; his father, nor the gipsy-women and Ellen Orfords of Crabbe; who was a writer, educated him for the bar, but he and still less with the Matthew Schoolmasters, showed an early leaning to the Muses, and such a Alice Fells, or Martha Raes of Mr. Wordsworth;— love of truth and honour as hindered him from but we meet with the ordinary peasants of Scotaccepting briefs which were likely to lead him out land in their ordinary situations, and with a touchof the paths of equity and justice. His Sabbath ing and simple expression of concern for their sufwas written and published in secret, and he had the ferings, and of generous indulgence for their faults. pleasure of finding the lady whom he had married He is not ashamed of his kindness and condescen among its warmest admirers; nor did her admira- sion, on the one hand; nor is he ostentatious or tion lessen when she discovered the author. His vain of it, on the other; but gives expression in health declined; he accepted the living of Sedge- the most plain and unaffected manner to sentiments ware, near Durham, and performed his duties that are neither counterfeited nor disguised. We diligently and well till within a short time of his do not know any poetry, indeed, that lets us in so death, which took place 14th September, 1811. directly to the heart of the writer, and produces so The great charm of Mr. Grahame's poetry, (says a full and pleasing a conviction that it is dictated by writer in the Edinburgh Review,) appears to us to the genuine feelings which it aims at communicatconsist in its moral character; in that natural ex-ing to the reader. If there be less fire and eleva pression of kindness and tenderness of heart, which gives such a peculiar air of paternal goodness and patriarchal simplicity to his writings; and that earnest and intimate sympathy with the objects of his compassion, which assures us at once that he is not making a theatrical display of sensibility, but merely
tion than in the strains of some of his contemporaries, there is more truth and tenderness than is commonly found along with those qualities, and less getting up either of language or of sentiment than we recollect to have met with in any modern composition.
Description of a Sabbath morning in the country. The labourer at home. The town mechanic's morning walk; his meditation. The sound of bells. Crowd proceeding to church. Interval before the service begins. Scottish service. English service. Scriptures read. The organ, with the voices of the people. The sound borne to the sick man's couch: his wish. The worship of God in the solitude of the woods. The shepherd boy among the hills. People seen on the heights returning from church. Contrast of the present times with those immediately preceding the Revolution. The persecution of the Covenanters: A Sabbath conventicle: Cameron: Renwick: Psalms. Night conventicles during storms. A funeral according to the rites of the church of England. A female character. The suicide. Expostulation. The incurable of an hospital. A prison scene. Debtors. Divine service in the prison hall. Persons under sentence of death. The public guilt of inflicting capital punish ments on persons who have been left destitute of religious and moral instruction. Children proceeding to a Sunday-school. The father. The impress. Appeal on the indiscriminate severity of criminal law. Comparative mildness of the Jewish law. The year of jubilee. Description of the commencement of the jubilee.
The sound of the trumpets through the land. The bondman and his family returning from their servitude to take possession of their inheritance. Emigrants to the wilds of America. Their Sabbath worship. The whole inhabitants of Highland districts who have emigrated together, still regret their country. Even the blind man regrets the objects with which he had been con
versant. An emigrant's contrast between the tropical climates and Scotland. The boy who had been born on the voyage. Description of a person on a desert island. His Sabbath. His release. Missionary ship. The Pacific ocean. Defence of missionaries. Effects of the conversion of the primitive Christians. Transition to the slave trade. The Sabbath in a slave ship.
Appeal to England on the subject of her encouragement to this horrible complication of crimes. Transition to war. Unfortunate issue of the late war-in Francein Switzerland. Apostrophe to TELL. The attempt to resist too late. The treacherous foes already in possession of the passes. Their devastating progress. Desolation. Address to Scotland. Happiness of seclusion from the world. Description of a Sabbath evening in Scotland. Psalmody. An aged man. Description of an industrious female reduced to poverty by old age
and disease. Disinterested virtuous conduct to be found chiefly in the lower walks of life. Test of charity in the opulent. Recommendation to the rich to devote a portion of the Sabbath to the duty of visiting the sick. Invocation to health-to music. The Beguine nuns. Lazarus. The Resurrection. Dawnings of faith its progress
How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear-the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of psalms-the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings, peace o'er yon village broods;
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days the man of toil is doom'd To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's cold But on this day, imbosom'd in his home, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God-not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke; While, wandering slowly up the river-side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
But now his steps a welcome sound recalls: Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile, Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe: Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground. The aged man, the bowed down, the blind Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new-made grave well pleased;
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach The house of God; these, spite of all their ills, A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise They enter in. A placid stillness reigns, Until the man of God, worthy the name, Arise and read th' anointed shepherd's lays. His locks of snow, his brow serene, his look Of love, it speaks, " Ye are my children all; The gray-hair'd man, stooping upon his staff, As well as he, the giddy child, whose eye Pursues the swallow flitting thwart the dome." Loud swells the song: O how that simple song, Though rudely chanted, how it melts the heart, Commingling soul with soul in one full tide Of praise, of thankfulness, of humble trust! Next comes the unpremeditated prayer, Breathed from the inmost heart, in accents low, But earnest.-Alter'd is the tone; to man Are now address'd the sacred speaker's words. Instruction, admonition, comfort, peace, Flow from his tongue: O chief let comfort flow!
It is most needed in this vale of tears: Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy; The stranger to discern th' Almighty's shield Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child Feel, 'mid his tears, I have a father still! "Tis done. But hark that infant querulous voice Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear; And see the father raise the white-robed babe In solemn dedication to the Lord:
The holy man sprinkles with forth-stretch'd hand The face of innocence; then earnest turns, And prays a blessing in the name of Him Who said, Let little children come to me; Forbid them not:* the infant is replaced Among the happy band: they, smilingly, In gay attire, hie to the house of mirth, The poor man's festival, a jubilee day, Remember'd long.
Nor would I leave unsung The lofty ritual of our sister land: In vestment white, the minister of God Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes. Then swells into a diapason full:
The people rising, sing, With harp, with harp, And voice of psalms; harmoniously attuned The various voices blend; the long drawn aisles, At every close, the lingering strain prolong. And now the tubes a mellow'd stop controls, In softer harmony the people join, While liquid whispers from yon orphan band Recall the soul from adoration's trance, And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears. Again the organ-peal, loud-rolling, meets The hallelujahs of the choir: Sublime, A thousand notes symphoniously ascend, As if the whole were one, suspended high In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float, Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch: Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close, Yet thinks he hears it still his heart is cheer'd; He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise,— "Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow; My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow, There would I bless his name, who led me forth From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets, Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye." It is not only in the sacred fane
That homage should be paid to the Most High; There is a temple, one not made with hands- The vaulted firmament: Far in the woods,
*" And they brought young children to him that he should touch them; and his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he was much dis. pleased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God. Verily, I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them." Mark x. 13-16.
Almost beyond the sound of city chime, At intervals heard through the breezeless air; When not the limberest leaf is seen to move, Save where the linnet lights upon the spray; When not a floweret bends its little stalk, Save where the bee alights upon the bloom ;- There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love, The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon; Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts, Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend Beyond the empyrean.-
Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne, The Sabbath-service of the shepherd-boy. In some lone glen, where every sound is lull'd To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill, Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry, Stretch'd on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son ; Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold, And wonders why he weeps; the volume closed, With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conn'd
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof, Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth Pines unrewarded by a thankless state. Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen, The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps, Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands Returning homeward from the house of prayer. In peace they home resort. O blissful days! When all men worship God as conscience wills. Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew, A virtuous race, to godliness devote.
What though the skeptic's scorn hath dared to soil The record of their fame! what though the men Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatize The sister-cause, religion and the law, With superstition's name! yet, yet their deeds, Their constancy in torture and in death,— These on tradition's tongue still live; these shall On history's honest page be pictured bright To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse Disdains the servile strain of fashion's quire, May celebrate their unambitious names. With them each day was holy, every hour They stood prepared to die, a people doom'd To death;-old men, and youths, and simple maids. With them each day was holy; but that morn On which the angel said, See where the Lord Was laid, joyous arose; to die that day Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways, O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought
The upland muirs, where rivers, there but brooks, Dispart to different seas: Fast by such brooks A little glen is sometimes scoop'd, a plat With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers
Amid the heathery wild, that all around Fatigues the eye; in solitudes like these, Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foil'd A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws: There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array, Whose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose On England's banner, and had powerless struck The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,) The lyart veteran heard the word of God
By Cameron thunder'd, or by Renwick pour'd In gentle stream; then rose the song, the loud Acclaim of praise. The wheeling plover ceased Her plaint; the solitary place was glad,
And on the distant cairns the watcher's ear* Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note, But years more gloomy follow'd; and no more Th' assembled people dared, in face of day, To worship God, or even at the dead
Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce, And thunder-peals compell'd the men of blood To couch within their dens: then dauntlessly The scatter'd few would meet, in some deep dell By rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice, Their faithful pastor's voice: He by the gleam Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book, And words of comfort spake: Over their souls His accents soothing came,-as to her young The heathfowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve, She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast, They, cherish'd, cower amid the purple blooms.
But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale, The house of prayer itself,—no place inspires Emotions more accordant with the day,
Than does the field of graves, the land of rest:- Oft at the close of evening prayer, the toll, The solemn funeral toll, pausing, proclaims The service of the tomb the homeward crowds Divide on either hand; the pomp draws near: The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, I am the resurrection and the life.
Ah me! these youthful bearers robed in white, They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend Is gone, dead in her prime of years :-'Twas she, The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give,
With angel tongue pleaded to those who could; With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye, That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd For longer life, with heart resign'd to die,- Rejoiced to die; for happy visions bless'd Her voyage's last days,† and hovering round, Alighted on her soul, giving presage That heaven was nigh:- - what a burst Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy
With melancholy ornaments-(the name, The record of her blossoming age)-appears Unveil'd, and on it dust to dust is thrown, The final rite. O! hark that sullen sound! Upon the lower'd bier the shovell'd clay Falls fast, and fills the void.
But who is he That stands aloof, with haggard, wistful eye, As if he coveted the closing grave? And he does eovet it-his wish is death: The dread resolve is fix'd; his own right-hand Is sworn to do the deed: The day of rest No peace, no comfort brings his wo-worn spirit: Self-cursed, the hallow'd dome he dreads to enter; He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope; Annihilation is his only heaven. Loathsome the converse of his friends: he shuns The human face; in every careless eye Suspicion of his purpose seems to lurk. Deep piny shades he loves, where no sweet note Is warbled, where the rook unceasing caws: Or far in moors, remote from house or hut, Where animated nature seems extinct. Where e'en the hum of wandering bee ne'er breaks The quiet slumber of the level waste; Where vegetation's traces almost fail, Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks Half buried lie, and tell where greenwoods grew,There on the heathless moss outstretch'd he broods O'er all his ever-changing plans of death: The time, place, means, sweep like a stormy rack, In fleet succession, o'er his clouded soul;— The poniard, and the opium draught, that brings Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm Between the act and consequence, the flash Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death;The ruin'd tower perch'd on some jutting rock, So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below, The breath might take its flight in midway air,This pleases for a while; but on the brink, Back from the toppling edge his fancy shrinksIn horror: sleep at last his breast becalms,— He dreams 'tis done; but starting wild awakes, Resigning to despair his dream of joy.
Then hope, faint hope, revives-hope, that despair May to his aid let loose the demon frenzy,
Her heavenward eyes suffused! Those eyes are To lead scared conscience blindfold o'er the brink
But all her loveliness is not yet flown:
She smiled in death, and still her cold, pale face Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake, In which the wintry stars all bright appear, Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice, Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged, Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast. Again that knell! The slow procession stops: The pall withdrawn, death's altar, thick emboss'd
* Sentinels were placed on the surrounding hills to give warning of the approach of the military.
Towards the end of Columbus's voyage to the new world, when he was already near, but not in sight of land, the drooping hopes of his mariners (for his own confidence seems to have remained unmoved) were revived by the appearance of birds, at first hovering round the ship, and then alighting on the rigging.
Of self-destruction's cataract of blood. Most miserable, most incongruous wretch! Darest thou to spurn thy life, the boon of God, Yet dreadest to approach his holy place? O dare to enter in! maybe some word, Or sweetly chanted strain, will in thy heart Awake a chord in unison with life. What are thy fancied woes to his, whose fate Is (sentence dire!) incurable disease,- The outcast of a lazar house, homeless, Or with a home where eyes do scowl on him!` Yet he, e'en he, with feeble steps draws near, With trembling voice joins in the song of praise. Patient he waits the hour of his release; He knows he has a home beyond the grave.
Or turn thee to that house with studded doors, And iron-visor'd windows; even there The Sabbath sheds a beam of bliss, though faint ;-
The debtor's friends (for still he has some friends) Have time to visit him; the blossoming pea, That climbs the rust-worn bars, seems fresher tinged; And on the little turf, this day renew'd, The lark, his prison mate, quivers the wing With more than wonted joy. See, through the bars That pallid face retreating from the view,
That glittering eye following, with hopeless look, The friends of former years, now passing by In peaceful fellowship to worship God:
With them, in days of youthful years, he roam'd O'er hill and dale, o'er broomy knowe; and wist As little as the blithest of the band
Of this his lot; condemn'd, condemn'd unheard, The party for his judge ;-among the throng, The Pharisaical hard-hearted man
He sees pass on, to join the heaven-taught prayer, Forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors: From unforgiving lips most impious prayer! O happier far the victim than the hand That deals the legal stab! The injured man Enjoys internal, settled calm; to him
The Sabbath bell sounds peace; he loves to meet His fellow sufferers to pray and praise: And many a prayer, as pure as e'er was breathed In holy fanes, is sigh'd in prison halls.
Ah me! that clank of chains, as kneel and rise The death-doom'd row. But see, a smile illumes The face of some; perhaps they're guiltless: 0! And must high-minded honesty endure The ignominy of a felon's fate!
No, 'tis not ignominious to be wrong'd: No; conscious exultation swells their hearts To think the day draws nigh, when in the view Of angels, and of just men perfect made, The mark which rashness branded on their names Shall be effaced;-when wafted on life's storm, Their souls shall reach the Sabbath of the skies ;- As birds from bleak Norwegia's wintry coast Blown out to sea, strive to regain the shore, But, vainly striving, yield them to the blast.- Swept o'er the deep to Albion's genial isle, Amazed they light amid the bloomy sprays Of some green vale, there to enjoy new loves, And join in harmony unheard before.
The land is groaning 'neath the guilt of blood Spilt wantonly: for every death-doom'd man, Who, in his boyhood, has been left untaught That wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness, And all her paths are peace, unjustly dies. But, ah! how many are thus left untaught,- How many would be left, but for the band United to keep holy to the Lord
His child shall still receive instruction's boon. But hark, a noise,-a cry, a gleam of swords!— Resistance is in vain,-he's borne away, Nor is allow'd to clasp his weeping child.
My innocent, so helpless, yet so gay! How could I bear to be thus rudely torn From thee;-to see thee lift thy little arm, And impotently strike the ruffian man,— To hear thee bid him chidingly-begone!
0 ye who live at home, and kiss each eve Your sleeping infants ere you go to rest, And, waken'd by their call, lift up your eyes Upon their morning smile,-think, think of those, Who, torn away without one farewell word To wife or children, sigh the day of life In banishment from all that's dear to man ;-
O raise your voices in one general peal Remonstrant, for th' oppress'd. And ye, who sit Month after month devising impost laws, Give some small portion of your midnight vigils To mitigate, if not remove, the wrong.
Relentless justice! with fate-furrow'd brow; Wherefore to various crimes of various guilt, One penalty, the most severe, allot? Why, pall'd in state, and mitred with a wreath Of nightshade, dost thou sit portentously, Beneath a cloudy canopy of sighs,
Of fears, of trembling hopes, of boding doubts; Death's dart thy mace!-Why are the laws of God, Statutes promulged in characters of fire,* Despised in deep concerns, where heavenly guidance Is most required? The murderer-let him die, And him who lifts his arm against his parent, His country, or his voice against his God. Let crimes less heinous dooms less dreadful meet Than loss of life! so said the law divine: That law beneficent, which mildly stretch'd, To men forgotten and forlorn, the hand Of restitution: Yes, the trumpet's voice The Sabbath of the jubileet announced: The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land At once, in every city, echoing rings, From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs, So loud, that far within the desert's verge The couching lion starts, and glares around. Free is the bondman now, each one returns To his inheritance: The man, grown old In servitude far from his native fields, Hastes joyous on his way; no hills are steep, Smooth is each rugged path; his little ones
"And it came to pass, on the third day in the morning, that there were thunders and lightnings, and a thick cloud upon the mount, and the voice of the trumpet exWhom Jesus loved with forth-stretch'd hand to ceeding loud; so that all the people that was in the camp
A portion of his day, by teaching those
Behold yon motley train, by two and two, Each with a Bible heath its little arm, Approach well pleased, as if they went to play, The dome where simple lore is learnt unbought: And mark the father 'mid the sideway throng; Well do I know him by his glistening eye, That follows steadfastly one of the line, A dark seafaring man he looks to be; And much it glads his boding heart to think, That when once more he sails the valley'd deep,
trembled:" Exod. xix. 16.
"And thou shalt number seven Sabbaths of years unto thee, seven times seven years; and the space of the seven Sabbaths of years shall be unto thee forty and nine years. Then shalt thou cause the trumpet of the jubilee to sound on the tenth day of the seventh month; in the day of atonement shall ye make the trumpet sound throughout all your land. And ye shall hallow the fiftieth year, and proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof: it shall be a jubilee unto you; and ye shall return every man unto his possession, and ye shall return every man unto his family." Lev. xxv. 8-10.
« AnteriorContinuar » |