DUGALD MOORE.
Reading edition
A poet of remarkable ingenuity and power, Dugald Moore was born in Stockwell Street, Glasgow, in 1805. His father, who was a private soldier in one of the Highland regiments, died early in life, leaving his mother in circumstances of poverty. From his mother's private tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. When a child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of the establishment of Messrs James Lumsden and Son, booksellers, Queen Street. He very early began to write verses, and some of his compositions having attracted the notice of Mr Lumsden, senior, that benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution of his literary tastes. Through Mr Lumsden's personal exertions in procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a volume of poems entitled "The African, a Tale, and other Poems." Of this work a second edition was required in the following year, when he likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the title "Scenes from the Flood; the Tenth Plague, and other Poems." "The Bridal Night, and other Poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared from his pen in 1831. The profits of these publications enabled him to commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city. His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became the rendezvous of men of letters, and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of their custom.
In 1833, Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical Tales, illustrative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The Hour of Retribution, and other Poems;" and in 1839, "The Devoted One, and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets. Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. He has chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times.
RISE, MY LOVE.
Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded, Wanders o'er the dark blue sea; Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded, Hynda comes to set thee free! Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow, On the long and dreaming deep; A bower will greet us ere to-morrow, Where our eyes may cease to weep. Oh! some little isle of gladness, Smiling in the waters clear, Where the dreary tone of sadness Never smote the lonely ear— Soon will greet us, and deliver Souls so true, to freedom's plan; Death may sunder us, but never Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can. Then our lute's exulting numbers, Unrestrain'd will wander on, While the night has seal'd in slumbers, Fair creation, all her own. And we'll wed, while music stealeth Through the starry fields above, While each bounding spirit feeleth All the luxury of love. Then we'll scorn oppression's minions, All the despot's bolts and powers; While Time wreathes his heavy pinions With love's brightest passion-flowers. Rise, then! let us fly together, Now the moon laughs on the sea; East or west, I care not whither, When with love and liberty!
JULIA.
Born where the glorious star-lights trace In mountain snows their silver face, Where Nature, vast and rude, Looks as if by her God design'd To fill the bright eternal mind, With her fair magnitude. Hers was a face, to which was given Less portion of the earth than heaven, As if each trait had stole Its hue from Nature's shapes of light; As if stars, flowers, and all things bright Had join'd to form her soul. Her heart was young—she loved to breathe The air which spins the mountain's wreath, To wander o'er the wild, To list the music of the deep, To see the round stars on it sleep, For she was Nature's child! Nursed where the soul imbibes the print Of freedom—where nought comes to taint, Or its warm feelings quell: She felt love o'er her spirit driven, Such as the angels felt in heaven, Before they sinn'd and fell. Her mind was tutor'd from its birth, From all that's beautiful on earth— Lights which cannot expire— From all their glory, she had caught A lustre, till each sense seem'd fraught With heaven's celestial fire. The desert streams familiar grown, The stars had language of their own, The hills contain'd a voice With which she could converse, and bring A charm from each insensate thing, Which bade her soul rejoice. She had the feeling and the fire, That fortune's stormiest blast could tire, Though delicate and young; Her bosom was not formed to bend— Adversity, that firmest friend, Had all its fibres strung. Such was my love—she scorn'd to hide A passion which she deem'd a pride! Oft have we sat and view'd The beauteous stars walk through the night, And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright, To curb old Ocean's mood. She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part, That I might feel her beating heart— Might read her living eye; Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll Through every vein, which to my soul, Said—Nature could not lie.
LUCY'S GRAVE.
My spirit could its vigil hold For ever at this silent spot; But, ah! the heart within is cold, The sleeper heeds me not: The fairy scenes of love and youth, The smiles of hope, the tales of truth, By her are all forgot: Her spirit with my bliss is fled— I only weep above the dead! I need not view the grassy swell, Nor stone escutcheon'd fair; I need no monument to tell That thou art lying there: I feel within, a world like this, A fearful blank in all my bliss— An agonized despair, Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom, But tells me, thou art in the tomb! I knew Death's fatal power, alas Could doom man's hopes to pine, But thought that many a year would pass Before he scatter'd mine! Too soon he quench'd our morning rays, Brief were our loves of early days— Brief as those bolts that shine With beautiful yet transient form, Round the dark fringes of the storm! I little thought, when first we met, A few short months would see Thy sun, before its noontide, set In dark eternity! While love was beaming from thy face, A lover's eye but ill could trace Aught that obscured its ray; So calm its pain thy bosom bore, I thought not death was at its core! The silver moon is shining now Upon thy lonely bed, Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow, Cold as thy virgin head; She seems to breathe of many a day Now shrouded with thee in the clay, Of visions that have fled, When we beneath her holy flame, Dream'd over hopes that never came! Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell, It mars the hallow'd scene; And must we bid again—farewell! Must life still intervene? Its charms are vain! my heart is laid E'en with thine own, celestial maid! A few short days have been An age of pain—a few may be A welcome passport, love! to thee.
THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.
'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land, As the patriot sons of the mountain should die, With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand, On the heath of the desert they lie. Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight, Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast; Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright, But red when the battle was past. They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met The foes of their country in battle array; But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set, And the flowers of the forest are faded away! Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep, No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near, To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep, Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.
THE FIRST SHIP.
The sky in beauty arch'd The wide and weltering flood, While the winds in triumph march'd Through their pathless solitude— Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest, That like space in darkness slept, When his watch old Silence kept, Ere the earliest planet leapt From its breast. A speck is on the deeps, Like a spirit in her flight; How beautiful she keeps Her stately path in light! She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee— The sun has on her smiled, And the waves, no longer wild, Sing in glory round that child Of the sea. 'Twas at the set of sun That she tilted o'er the flood, Moving like God alone O'er the glorious solitude— The billows crouch around her as her slaves. How exulting are her crew— Each sight to them is new, As they sweep along the blue Of the waves! Fair herald of the fleets That yet shall cross the wave, Till the earth with ocean meets One universal grave, What armaments shall follow thee in joy! Linking each distant land With trade's harmonious band, Or bearing havoc's brand To destroy!
WEEP NOT.
Though this wild brain is aching, Spill not thy tears with mine; Come to my heart, though breaking, Its firmest half is thine. Thou wert not made for sorrow, Then do not weep with me; There is a lovely morrow, That yet will dawn on thee. When I am all forgotten— When in the grave I lie— When the heart that loved thee 's broken, And closed the sparkling eye; Love's sunshine still will cheer thee, Unsullied, pure, and deep; For the God who 's ever near thee, Will never see thee weep.
TO THE CLYDE.
When cities of old days But meet the savage gaze, Stream of my early ways Thou wilt roll. Though fleets forsake thy breast, And millions sink to rest— Of the bright and glorious west Still the soul. When the porch and stately arch, Which now so proudly perch O'er thy billows, on their march To the sea, Are but ashes in the shower; Still the jocund summer hour, From his cloud will weave a bower Over thee. When the voice of human power Has ceased in mart and bower, Still the broom and mountain flower Will thee bless. And the mists that love to stray O'er the Highlands, far away, Will come down their deserts gray To thy kiss. And the stranger, brown with toil, From the far Atlantic soil, Like the pilgrim of the Nile, Yet may come To search the solemn heaps That moulder by thy deeps, Where desolation sleeps, Ever dumb. Though fetters yet should clank O'er the gay and princely rank Of cities on thy bank, All sublime; Still thou wilt wander on, Till eternity has gone, And broke the dial stone Of old Time.