DANIEL WEIR.
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Daniel Weir was born at Greenock, on the 31st of March 1796. His father, John Weir, was a shoemaker, and at one period a small shopkeeper in that town. From his mother, Sarah Wright, he inherited a delicate constitution. His education was conducted at a private school; and in 1809, he became apprentice to Mr Scott, a respectable bookseller in Greenock. In 1815, he commenced business as a bookseller on his own account.
Imbued with the love of learning, and especially of poetry, Weir devoted his hours of leisure to extensive reading and the composition of verses. To the "Scottish Minstrel" of R. A. Smith, he contributed several respectable songs; and edited for Messrs Griffin & Co., booksellers in Glasgow, three volumes of lyric poems, which appeared under the title of "The National Minstrel," "The Sacred Lyre," and "Lyrical Gems." These collections are adorned with many compositions of his own. In 1829, he published a "History of the Town of Greenock," in a thin octavo volume, illustrated with engravings. He died on the 11th November 1831, in his thirty-fifth year.
Possessed of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational talents were of a remarkable description, and attracted to his shop many persons of taste, to whom his poetical talents were unknown. He was familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the humour totally irresistible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather mal-formed, he was under the middle size; his head seemed large for his person, and his shoulders were of unusual breadth. His complexion was dark, and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance was lit upon the recitation of some witty tale, he looked the impersonation of mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action, he was seriously impressed by religious principle; some of his devotional compositions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry. He left an unpublished MS. poem, entitled "The Pleasures of Religion."
SEE THE MOON.
See the moon o'er cloudless Jura Shining in the lake below; See the distant mountain tow'ring Like a pyramid of snow. Scenes of grandeur—scenes of childhood— Scenes so dear to love and me! Let us roam by bower and wildwood— All is lovelier when with thee. On Leman's breast the winds are sighing; All is silent in the grove; And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning, Sparkle like the eye of love. Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless; Blessed night to love and me! Let us roam by bower and fountain— All is lovelier when with thee.
LOVE IS TIMID.
Love is timid, love is shy, Can you tell me, tell me why? Ah! tell me why true love should be Afraid to meet the kindly smile Of him she loves, from him would flee, Yet thinks upon him all the while? Can you tell me, tell me why Love is timid, love is shy? Love is timid, love is shy, Can you tell me, tell me why? True love, they say, delights to dwell In some sequester'd, lonely bow'r, With him she loves, where none can tell Her tender look in passion's hour. Can you tell me, tell me why Love is timid, love is shy? Love is timid, love is shy, Can you tell me, tell me why? Love, like the lonely nightingale, Will pour her heart, when all is lone; Nor will repeat, amidst the vale, Her notes to any, but to one. Can you tell me, tell me why Love is timid, love is shy?
RAVEN'S STREAM.
My love, come let us wander Where Raven's streams meander, And where, in simple grandeur, The daisy decks the plain. Peace and joy our hours shall measure; Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure! Then how sweet, and then how cheerie, Raven's braes will be, my dearie. The silver moon is beaming, On Clyde her light is streaming; And, while the world is dreaming, We 'll talk of love, my dear. None, my Jean, will share this bosom, Where thine image loves to blossom; And no storm will ever sever That dear flow'r, or part us ever.
OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS.
Air—"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."
Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours Ne'er come again— Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers, And primrose plain! With other days, Ambitious rays May flash upon our mind; But give me back the morn of life, With fond thoughts twined; As it sweetly broke on bower and hill, And youth's gay mind! Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot On life's dark sea, And memory hails that sacred spot Where'er we be; It leaves all joys, And fondly sighs As youth comes on the mind, And looks upon the morn of life With fond thoughts, &c. When age will come, with locks of gray, To quench youth's spark, And its stream runs cold along the way Where all seems dark, 'Twill smiling gaze, As memory's blaze Breaks on its wavering mind; But 'twill never bring the morn of life, With fond thoughts, &c.
COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.
Could we but look beyond our sphere, And trace, along the azure sky, The myriads that were inmates here Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high— Then might we tell of those who see Our wand'rings from eternity! But human frailty cannot gaze On such a cloud of splendid light As heaven's sacred court displays, Of blessed spirits clothed in white, Who from the fears of death are free, And look from an eternity. They look, but ne'er return again To tell the secrets of their home; And kindliest tears for them are vain— For never, never shall they come, Till Time's pale light begin to flee Before a bright eternity! Could we but gaze beyond our sphere, Within the golden porch of heaven, And see those spirits which appear Like stars upon the robe of even! But no! unseen to us they see Our wanderings from eternity! The crimes of men which Heaven saw, And pitied with a parent's eye, Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw In mercy from its home on high; They look, but all they know or see Is silent as eternity! At noonday hour, or midnight deep, No bright inhabitant draws nigh; And though a parent's offspring weep, No whisper echoes from the sky; Though friends may gaze, yet all they see Is known but in eternity! Yet we may look beyond our sphere On One who shines among the throng; And we by faith may also hear The triumphs of a glorious song; And while we gaze on Him, we see The path to this eternity!
IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.
In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest; We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle, Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest! But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd, Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away; While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide, Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray! Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain, Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true; Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain A sunshine as bright and as promising too? Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs, Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest; For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies, Where sorrow 's unknown—'tis the home of the blest!
ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.
Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on; 'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved, And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs, Has fled like a dream when the morn appears; While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies, No more to revisit this valley of tears: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! Few, few were his years; but, had they been more, The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away, And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore, Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn, Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here; But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn, Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er, Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes; Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! Who would not recline on the breast of a friend, When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day? Who would not rejoice at his journey's end, When perils and toils encompass'd his way? Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
THE DYING HOUR.
Why does the day, whose date is brief, Smile sadly o'er the western sea? Why does the brown autumnal leaf Hang restless on its parent tree? Why does the rose, with drooping head, Send richer fragrance from the bow'r? Their golden time of life had fled— It was their dying hour! Why does the swan's melodious song Come thrilling on the gentle gale? Why does the lamb, which stray'd along, Lie down to tell its mournful tale? Why does the deer, when wounded, fly To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r? Their time was past—they lived to die— It was their dying hour! Why does the dolphin change its hues, Like that aërial child of light? Why does the cloud of night refuse To meet the morn with beams so bright? Why does the man we saw to-day, To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r? All earth can give must pass away— It was their dying hour!
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, Which seem'd, to fancy's ear, The mournful music of the mind, The echo of a tear; And still methought the hollow sound Which, melting, swept along, The voice of other days had found, With all the powers of song. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And thought of friends untrue— Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined, That nought could e'er undo; Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright— Of joys which fancy gave— Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light Were darken'd in the grave. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind When all was still as death; When nought was heard before, behind— Not e'en the sleeper's breath. And I have sat at such an hour And heard the sick man's sigh; Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r, At that lone moment die. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And wept for others' woe; Nor could the heart such music find To bid its tear-drops flow. The melting voice of one we loved, Whose voice was heard no more, Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved, Still breathing as before. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And sat beside the dead, And felt those movings of the mind Which own a secret dread. The ticking clock, which told the hour, Had then a sadder chime; And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r, Which sung the dirge of time. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, When, o'er the new-made grave Of one whose heart was true and kind, Its rudest blasts did rave. Oh! there was something in the sound— A mournful, melting tone— Which led the thoughts to that dark ground Where he was left alone. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And courted sleep in vain, While thoughts like these have oft combined To rack the wearied brain. And even when slumber, soft and deep, Has seen the eyelid close, The restless soul, which cannot sleep, Has stray'd till morning rose.