JAMES HEDDERWICK.
Reading edition
James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the Glasgow Citizen, was born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London, in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the Scotsman newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the Scotsman, were copied into Chambers' Edinburgh Journal, and have since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these, entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a writer in Fraser's Magazine. Others have found their way, in an anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry." In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the Glasgow Citizen—a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844 he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for general circulation.
MY BARK AT SEA.
Away, away, like a child at play, Like a living ocean-child, Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way To the billows' music wild; The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground, And the waves around her leap, As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound, She dances o'er the deep! Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast, She lies with folded wing, But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd, She moves a joyous thing! And away she flies all gleaming bright, While a wave in lofty pride, Like a gallant knight, in plumage white, Is bounding by her side! For her glorious path the sea she hath, And she wanders bold and free, And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath Are her mighty minstrelsy! A queen the crested waves among, A light and graceful form, She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song, Like the genius of the storm!
SORROW AND SONG.
Weep not over poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song, And of gentle fancies. Rills o'er rocky beds are borne Ere they gush in whiteness; Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn Ere they shew their brightness. Sweetest gleam the morning flowers When in tears they waken; Earth enjoys refreshing showers When the boughs are shaken. Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought In its deepest waters; From the darkest mines are brought Gems for beauty's daughters. Through the rent and shiver'd rock Limpid water breaketh; 'Tis but when the chords are struck That their music waketh. Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd, All their sweets surrender; Gold must brook the fiery test Ere it shew its splendour. When the twilight, cold and damp, Gloom and silence bringeth, Then the glow-worm lights its lamp, And the night-bird singeth. Stars come forth when Night her shroud Draws as Daylight fainteth; Only on the tearful cloud God his rainbow painteth. Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song And of gentle fancies.
THE LAND FOR ME.
I 've been upon the moonlit deep When the wind had died away, And like an Ocean-god asleep The bark majestic lay; But lovelier is the varied scene, The hill, the lake, the tree, When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen; The land! the land! for me. The glancing waves I 've glided o'er When gently blew the breeze; But sweeter was the distant shore, The zephyr 'mong the trees. The murmur of the mountain rill, The blossoms waving free, The song of birds on every hill; The land! the land! for me. The billows I have been among When they roll'd in mountains dark, And Night her blackest curtain hung Around our heaving bark; But give me, when the storm is fierce, My home and fireside glee, Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce; The land! the land! for me. And when around the lightning flash'd I 've been upon the deep, And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd Adown the liquid steep; But now that I am safe on shore, There let me ever be; The sea let others wander o'er; The land! the land! for me.
THE EMIGRANTS.
The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, And eerie the face of the fast-falling night, But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright. When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish! We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark; Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark. Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river, Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell; From kindred and friends they had parted for ever, But their voices still blended in cries of farewell. We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking; We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers, But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking, A past of delight and a future of tears. And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze, On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell, Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas, And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell. More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy, As we shut out the night and its darkness once more; But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy, Were flush'd with delight a few moments before. So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender, Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea, Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour, To gild the far land where their homes were to be. In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming, Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep! But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming, And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep. And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever, A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell; 'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river, And startling the night with their cries of farewell.
FIRST GRIEF.
They tell me first and early love Outlives all after dreams; But the memory of a first great grief To me more lasting seems; The grief that marks our dawning youth To memory ever clings, And o'er the path of future years A lengthen'd shadow flings. Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour When to my father's home Death came—an uninvited guest— From his dwelling in the tomb! I had not seen his face before, I shudder'd at the sight, And I shudder still to think upon The anguish of that night! A youthful brow and ruddy cheek Became all cold and wan; An eye grew dim in which the light Of radiant fancy shone. Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow, The eye was fix'd and dim; And one there mourn'd a brother dead Who would have died for him! I know not if 'twas summer then, I know not if 'twas spring, But if the birds sang on the trees I did not hear them sing! If flowers came forth to deck the earth Their bloom I did not see; I look'd upon one wither'd flower, And none else bloom'd for me! A sad and silent time it was Within that house of woe, All eyes were dull and overcast, And every voice was low! And from each cheek at intervals The blood appear'd to start, As if recall'd in sudden haste To aid the sinking heart! Softly we trod, as if afraid To mar the sleeper's sleep, And stole last looks of his pale face For memory to keep! With him the agony was o'er, And now the pain was ours, As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose Like odour from dead flowers! And when at last he was borne afar From the world's weary strife, How oft in thought did we again Live o'er his little life! His every look—his every word— His very voice's tone— Came back to us like things whose worth Is only prized when gone! The grief has pass'd with years away And joy has been my lot; But the one is oft remember'd, And the other soon forgot. The gayest hours trip lightest by, And leave the faintest trace; But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears Time never can efface!
THE LINNET.
Tuck, tuck, feer—from the green and growing leaves; Ic, ic, ic—from the little song-bird's throat; How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves, While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves, And the summer in the heavens is afloat! Wye, wye, chir—'tis the little linnet sings; Weet, weet, weet—how his pipy treble trills! In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings, As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings, Giving gladness to the music of the rills! Ic, ic, ir—from a happy heart unbound; Lug, lug, jee—from the dawn till close of day! There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round, Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd, And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay! Jug, jug, joey—oh, how sweet the linnet's theme! Peu, peu, poy—is he wooing all the while? Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream, To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream, Or waiting for her lover at the stile? Pipe, pipe, chow—will the linnet never weary? Bel bel, tyr—is he pouring forth his vows? The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery, Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie, With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!