DAVID VEDDER.
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David Vedder was the son of a small landowner in the parish of Burness, Orkney, where he was born in 1790. He had the misfortune to lose both his parents ere he had completed his twelfth year, and was led to choose the nautical profession. At the age of twenty-two, he obtained the rank of captain of a vessel, in which he performed several voyages to Greenland. In 1815, he entered the revenue service as first officer of an armed cruiser, and in five years afterwards was raised to the post of tide-surveyor. He first discharged the duties of this office at Montrose, and subsequently at the ports of Kirkcaldy, Dundee, and Leith.
A writer of verses from his boyhood, Vedder experienced agreeable relaxation from his arduous duties as a seaman, in the invocation of the muse. He sung of the grandeur and terrors of the ocean. His earlier compositions were contributed to some of the northern newspapers; but before he attained his majority, his productions found admission into the periodicals. In 1826, he published "The Covenanter's Communion, and other Poems," a work which was very favourably received. His reputation as a poet was extended by the publication, in 1832, of a second volume, under the title of "Orcadian Sketches." This work, a melange of prose and poetry, contains some of his best compositions in verse; and several of the prose sketches are remarkable for fine and forcible description. In 1839, he edited the "Poetical Remains of Robert Fraser," prefaced with an interesting memoir.
Immediately on the death of Sir Walter Scott, Vedder published a memoir of that illustrious person, which commanded a ready and wide circulation. In 1842, he gave to the world an edition of his collected poems, in an elegant duodecimo volume. In 1848, he supplied the letterpress for a splendid volume, entitled "Lays and Lithographs," published by his son-in-law, Mr Frederick Schenck of Edinburgh, the distinguished lithographer. His last work was a new English version of the quaint old story of "Reynard the Fox," which was published with elegant illustrations. To many of the more popular magazines and serials he was in the habit of contributing; articles from his pen adorned the pages of Constable's Edinburgh Magazine, the Edinburgh Literary Journal, the Edinburgh Literary Gazette, the Christian Herald, Tait's Magazine, and Chambers's Journal. He wrote the letterpress for Geikie's volume of "Etchings," and furnished songs for George Thomson's "Musical Miscellany," Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and Robertson's "Whistlebinkie." At the time of his death, he was engaged in the preparation of a ballad on the subject of the persecutions of the Covenanters. In 1852, he was placed upon the retired list of revenue officers, and thereafter established his residence in Edinburgh. He died at Newington, in that city, on the 11th February 1854, in his 64th year. His remains were interred in the Southern Cemetery.
Considerably above the middle height, Vedder was otherwise of massive proportions, while his full open countenance was much bronzed by exposure to the weather. Of beneficent dispositions and social habits, he enjoyed the friendship of many of his gifted contemporaries. Thoroughly earnest, his writings partake of the bold and straightforward nature of his character. Some of his prose productions are admirable specimens of vigorous composition; and his poetry, if not characterised by uniformity of power, never descends into weakness. Triumphant in humour, he is eminently a master of the plaintive; his tender pieces breathe a deep-toned cadence, and his sacred lyrics are replete with devotional fervour. His Norse ballads are resonant with the echoes of his birth-land, and his songs are to be remarked for their deep pathos and genuine simplicity.
JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME.
Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre, While plaudits shake the vaulted fane; Let warriors rush through flood and fire, A never-dying name to gain; Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing, Pursue some high or holy theme: Be 't mine, in simple strains, to sing My darling Jeanie 's welcome hame! Sweet is the morn of flowery May, When incense breathes from heath and wold— When laverocks hymn the matin lay, And mountain peaks are bathed in gold— And swallows, frae some foreign strand, Are wheeling o'er the winding stream; But sweeter to extend my hand, And bid my Jeanie welcome hame! Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog, Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes; And baudrons, on the ingle rug, Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums." The mavis, frae our apple-tree, Shall warble forth a joyous strain; The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy Shall welcome Jeanie hame again! Like dew-drops on a fading rose, Maternal tears shall start for thee, And low-breathed blessings rise like those Which soothed thy slumb'ring infancy. Come to my arms, my timid dove! I 'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more; The fountain of thy father's love Is welling all its banks out o'er!
I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER.
Air—"Todlin' hame."
I neither got promise of siller nor land With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand; But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride, And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my dear fireside, There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside! Ambition once pointed my view towards rank, To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank: 'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with pride My sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my happy fireside, My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside! Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air; And purity reigns in her bosom so fair; She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride, Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my happy fireside, There 's harmony still at my ain fireside! Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam, I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home; Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide, What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside? My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside, There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!
THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART.
Air—"Gramachree."
There is a pang for every heart, A tear for every eye; There is a knell for every ear, For every breast a sigh. There 's anguish in the happiest state, Humanity can prove; But oh! the torture of the soul Is unrequited love! The reptile haunts the sweetest bower, The rose blooms on the thorn; There 's poison in the fairest flower That greets the opening morn. The hemlock and the night-shade spring In garden and in grove; But oh! the upas of the soul Is unrequited love! Ah! lady, thine inconstancy Hath made my peace depart; The unwonted coldness of thine eye Hath froze thy lover's heart. Yet with the fibres of that heart Thine image dear is wove; Nor can they sever till I die Of unrequited love!
THE FIRST OF MAY.
Air—"The Braes of Balquhidder."
Now the beams of May morn On the mountains are streaming, And the dews on the corn Are like diamond-drops gleaming; And the birds from the bowers Are in gladness ascending; And the breath of sweet flowers With the zephyrs is blending. And the rose-linnet's thrill, Overflowing with gladness, And the wood-pigeon's bill, Though their notes seem of sadness; And the jessamine rich Its soft tendrils is shooting, From pear and from peach The bright blossoms are sprouting. And the lambs on the lea Are in playfulness bounding, And the voice of the sea Is in harmony sounding; And the streamlet on high In the morning beam dances, For all Nature is joy As sweet summer advances. Then, my Mary, let 's stray Where the wild-flowers are glowing, By the banks of the Tay In its melody flowing; Thou shalt bathe in May-dew, Like a sweet mountain blossom, For 'tis bright like thy brow, And 'tis pure as thy bosom!
SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.
Oh! the sunny peaches glow, And the grapes in clusters blush; And the cooling silver streams From their sylvan fountains rush; There is music in the grove, And there 's fragrance on the gale; But there 's nought so dear to me As my own Highland vale. Oh! the queen-like virgin rose, Of the dew and sunlight born, And the azure violet, Spread their beauties to the morn; So does the hyacinth, And the lily pure and pale; But I love the daisy best In my own Highland vale. Hark! hark! those thrilling notes! 'Tis the nightingale complains; Oh! the soul of music breathes In those more than plaintive strains; But they 're not so dear to me As the murmur of the rill, And the bleating of the lambs On my own Highland hill. Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow, And the juicy fruits may blush, And the beauteous birds may sing, And the crystal streamlets rush; And the verdant meads may smile, And the cloudless sun may beam, But there 's nought beneath the skies Like my own Highland home.
THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.
Air—"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."
The tempest is raging And rending the shrouds; The ocean is waging A war with the clouds; The cordage is breaking, The canvas is torn, The timbers are creaking— The seamen forlorn. The water is gushing Through hatches and seams; 'Tis roaring and rushing O'er keelson and beams; And nought save the lightning On mainmast or boom, At intervals brightening The palpable gloom. Though horrors beset me, And hurricanes howl, I may not forget thee, Beloved of my soul! Though soon I must perish In ocean beneath, Thine image I 'll cherish, Adored one! in death.
THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]
Talk not of temples—there is one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven; Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair; The dome is vast immensity— All nature worships there! The Alps array'd in stainless snow, The Andean ranges yet untrod, At sunrise and at sunset glow Like altar-fires to God. A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze, As if with hallow'd victims rare; And thunder lifts its voice in praise— All nature worships there! The ocean heaves resistlessly, And pours his glittering treasure forth; His waves—the priesthood of the sea— Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth, And there emit a hollow sound, As if they murmur'd praise and prayer; On every side 'tis holy ground— All nature worships there! The grateful earth her odours yield In homage, Mighty One! to thee; From herbs and flowers in every field, From fruit on every tree, The balmy dew at morn and even Seems like the penitential tear, Shed only in the sight of heaven— All nature worships there! The cedar and the mountain pine, The willow on the fountain's brim, The tulip and the eglantine, In reverence bend to Him; The song-birds pour their sweetest lays, From tower, and tree, and middle air; The rushing river murmurs praise— All nature worships there! Then talk not of a fane, save one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven. Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair, The dome is vast immensity— All nature worships there!