Still with sheep my memories go, Where in spring the young fawns leap; DISAPPOINTED LOVE.1 Heavy to me is the shieling, and the hum that is in it, Since the ear that was wont to listen is no more on the watch. Where is Isabel, the courteous, the conversable, a sister in kindness? Where is Anne, the slender-browed, the turret Thou callest me not to thy side; but love is to me for a messenger. There is strife within me, and I toss to be at liberty; Anne, yellow-haired daughter of Donald, surely That when far from thee, beyond many moun- Now, then, hear me this once, if for ever I am to be without thee My spirit is broken-give me one kiss ere I leave this land! breasted, whose glossy hair pleased me when Haughtily and scornfully the maid looked upon yet a boy? Heich! what an hour was my returning! Pain such as that sunset brought, what availeth me to tell it? I traversed the fold, and upward among the trees Each place, far and near, wherein I was wont to salute my love. When I looked down from the crag, and beheld the fair-haired stranger dallying with his bride, I wished that I had never revisited the glen of my dreams. Such things came into my heart, as that sun was going down, A pain of which I shall never be rid, what availeth me to tell it? me; Never will it be work for thy fingers to unloose the band from my curls; Thou hast been absent a twelvemonth, and six were seeking me diligently, Was thy superiority so high that there should be no end of abiding for thee? Ha! ha! ha!-hast thou at last become sick? Is it love that is to give death to thee? Surely the enemy has been in no haste. But how shall I hate thee, even though towards me thou hast become cold? When my discourse is most angry concerning thy name in thine absence, Of a sudden thine image, with its old dearness, comes visibly into my mind, My sleep is disturbed-busy is foolishness within And a secret voice whispers that love will yet and great, stand before God; and the books were opened: and another book was opened, which was the book of life. . . . And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them; and they were judged every man according to their works." led a rather irregular life for many years, but | place for them. And I saw the dead, small at length reformed, and in 1755 the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge appointed him schoolmaster and catechist at Kinloch Rannoch. In this secluded spot he laboured with diligence during the remainder of his days; and here he wrote various poems and hymns, which latter will render his name as lasting as the Gaelic in which they were written. Besides his sacred poems and lyrics, he wrote a diary, which has been published with a memoir of the author. He possessed a most felicitous style, and it is to be regretted that his poetical writings, which resemble those of Cowper, have never been properly translated. His "Day of Judgment," displaying great power of imagination, is among the most popular poems in the language; "The Dream" contains useful lessons on the vanity of human pursuits; and "The Skull" is a highly poetic composition. He rendered very essential service to the Rev. James Stewart of Killin in translating the New Testament into Gaelic, and accompanied that gentleman to Edinburgh in 1766, for the purpose of supervising its publication. During his sojourn in the Scottish capital he attended the university classes in natural philosophy, anatomy, astronomy, and divinity. Among the men of distinction to whom Buchanan was introduced in Edinburgh was the celebrated David Hume, who kindly invited him to his house. While discussing the merits of various authors the historian observed that it was impossible to imagine anything more sublime than some of the passages in Shakspere, and in support of his assertion that they were far superior to any contained in the Bible he quoted the magnificent lines from "The Tempest "The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The poet admitted the great beauty and sub- Buchanan's beautiful hymns, which are sung in every Highland cottage, were first published in 1767. Since that time upwards of fifteen editions have been issued. "It may be truly said," remarks a recent writer, "that we have one hymn-writer, Dugald Buchanan, that has never yet been surpassed by any hymnpoet of any country, ancient or modern. The great characteristic of our hymns is their devotional and evangelical tone. A heterodox mist, or even an unscriptural or doubtful expression, is never met with. They have, however, one great fault in common- their length. The same fault characterizes all the popular songs of the Celts. The singing of fifty or one hundred stanzas with our ancestors seemed a common and quite a feasible thing. Dugald Buchanan is perhaps the only modern (Gaelic) poet that possesses much sublimity: many verses of his minor pieces, and nearly the whole of his 'Day of Judgment,' are dramatically vivid and very sublime." Soon after the publication of his little volume of hymns the poet returned to his useful and pious labours at Rannoch, where he died, June 2, 1768. His many friends there desired that his remains should be buried among them, but his wife and children preferred that he should be interred in the burial-place of his ancestors at Little Leny, near Callander. A meeting was held there more than a century after the poet's death by the Dugald Buchanan Memorial Committee, when a large number of influential gentlemen were present. Suggestions were made about establishing a Dugald Buchanan bursary, and about placing a tombstone in Little Leny churchyard over the poet's grave, but the committee agreed to restrict their operations for the present to the erection of a monument in Strathire, where the poet was born and bred. 1 Remarks on Scottish Gaelic Literature, by Nigel M'Neill, Inverness, 1873. THE SKULL. As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave Alas! that thine aid should have ever betray'd Without beauty or grace, or a glance to express Or, wert thou a hero, a leader to glory, Of the by-stander nigh a thought; Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both, Nor passes emotion its throat. No glow on its face, no ringlets to grace Its brow, and no ear for my song; While armies thy truncheon obey'd; To victory cheering, as thy foemen careering In flight, left their mountains of dead? Was thy valiancy laid, or unhilted thy blade, When came onwards in battle array Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of The sepulchre-swarms, ensheathed in their arms, death The raised features hath flatten'd along. The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam The intelligent sight, are no more; But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil, Come hither their dwellings to bore. No lineament here is left to declare Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breath That my voice may not die without a reply, Say, wert thou a may, of beauty a ray, And flatter'd thine eye with a smile? Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net, The hearts of the youth to wile? Alas! every charm that a bosom could warm Say, wise in the law, did the people with awe Acknowledge thy rule o'er them A magistrate true, to all dealing their due, And just to redress or condemn? Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of gold In the scales of thy partial decree; While the poor were unheard when their suit they preferr'd, And appeal'd their distresses to thee? To sack and to rifle their prey? How they joy in their spoil, as thy body the while Besieging, the reptile is vain, And her beetle-mate blind hums his gladness to find His defence in the lodge of thy brain! Some dig where the sheen of the ivory has been, Some, the organ where music repair'd; In rabble and rout they come in and come out At the gashes their fangs have bared. . Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land, Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou! Required, to a moment, its due; While the frown of thy pride to the aged denied Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown, Or a head do I clutch whose devices were such Say, once in thine hour, was thy medicine of power Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a To extinguish the fever of ail? And seem'd, as the pride of thy leech-craft e'en tried, O'er omnipotent death to prevail? spy In the haunt of thy venomous jaws, Its slander display, as poisons its prey The devilish snake in the grass? That member unchain'd by strong bands is restrain'd, The inflexible shackles of death; And its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevail Where its slaves once harbour'd beneath. And oh if thy scorn went down to thine urn, Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to take The hardness thy bones shall environ, To brass-links the veins of thy frame Shall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall grow Like the anvil that melts not in flame! But wert thou the mould of a champion bold Oh! then, though the fence of each limb and each sense Is broken-each gem with a flaw Be comforted thou! For rising in air And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd, If they will, by the creatures of prey. THE DREAM. As lockfasted in slumber's arms I lay and dream'd (so dreams our race When every spectral object charms, To melt, like shadow, in the chase), A vision came; mine ear confess'd Its solemn sounds: "Thou man distraught! Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest, Or fills the world thy crave of thought? "Since fell transgression ravaged here, And reft man's garden-joys away, He weeps his unavailing tear, And straggles, like a lamb astray. "With shrilling bleat for comfort hie To every pinfold, humankind; Ah! there the fostering teat is dry, The stranger mother proves unkind. "Thy wish has prosper'd;-has its taste Survived the hour its lust was drown'd; Or yields thine expectation's zest To full fruition, golden-crown'd? "The rosebud is life's symbol bloom'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven; Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb, When to the grasping hand 'tis given. "Go, search the world wherever woe Of high or low the bosom wrings, There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe, Is answer'd from the breast of kings. "From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud, "Is wealth thy lust-does envy pine Where high its tempting heaps are piled? Look down, behold the fountain shine, And, deeper still, with dregs defiled! "Quickens thy breath with rash inhale, And folds an insect in its toil? The creature turns thy life-blood pale, And blends thine ivory teeth with soil. "When high thy fellow-mortal soars, His state is like the topmast nestIt swings with every blast that wars, And every motion shakes its crest. "And if the world for once is kind, "For as the sapling's sturdy stalk, Whose double twist is crossly strain'd, Such is thy fortune-sure to baulk At this extreme what there was gained. |