Volume 6 / Part 2 — ALEXANDER MACANSH.
Reading edition
The author of "The Social Curse, and other Poems," Alexander Macansh, was born at Dunfermline in 1803. At the age of eleven apprenticed to a flaxdresser, he followed this occupation during a period of thirty-eight years, of which the greater portion was spent in Harribrae factory, in his native town. During the intervals of his occupation, which demanded his attention about fourteen hours daily, he contrived to become familiar with British and continental authors, and with the more esteemed Latin classics. He likewise formed an intimate acquaintance with mathematical science. Of decided poetical tastes, he contributed verses to Tait's Magazine, the Edinburgh Literary Journal, and the Scotsman newspaper. In 1850, he published, by subscription, his volume of poems, entitled "The Social Curse, and other Poems," which has secured him a local reputation. Continuing to reside in Dunfermline, he has, for several years, possessed a literary connexion with some of the provincial newspapers, and has delivered lectures on science to the district institutions. To Mr Joseph Paton, of Dunfermline, so well known for his antiquarian pursuits, he has been indebted for generous support and kindly encouragement. Mr Macansh labours under severe physical debility.
THE MOTHER AND CHILD.
The mother, with her blooming child, Sat by the river pool, Deep in whose waters lay the sky, So stilly beautiful. She held her babe aloft, to see Its infant image look Up joyous, laughing, leaping from The bosom of the brook. And as it gazed upon the stream, The wondering infant smiled, And stretched its little hands, and tried To clasp the shadow'd child, Which, in that silent underwold, With eager gesture strove To meet it with a brother-kiss, A brother-clasp of love. Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, ('Twas thus the mother sung;) The shrew, Experience, has not yet With envious gesture flung Aside the enchanted veil which hides Life's pale and dreary look; An angel lurks in every stream, A heaven in every brook. Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, Ere drop the tears of woe Upon that mirror, scattering all Those glorious shapes, and show A fleeting shadow, which thou think'st An angel, breathing, living— A shallow pebbly brook which thou Hast fondly deem'd a heaven.
CHANGE.
Change! change! the mournful story Of all that 's been before; The wrecks of perish'd glory Bestrewing every shore: The shatter'd tower and palace, In every vale and glen, In broken language tell us Of the fleeting power of men. Change! change! the plough is sweeping O'er some scene of household mirth, The sickle hand is reaping O'er some ancient rural hearth— Where the mother and the daughter In the evenings used to spin, And where little feet went patter, Full often out and in. Change! change! for all things human, Thrones, powers of amplest wing, Have their flight, and fall in common With the meanest mortal thing— With beauty, love, and passion, With all of earthly trust, With life's tiniest wavelet dashing, Curling, breaking into dust. Where arose in marble grandeur The wall'd cities of the past, The sullen winds now wander O'er a ruin-mounded waste. Low lies each lofty column; The owl in silence wings O'er floors, where, slow and solemn, Paced the sandal'd feet of kings. Still change! Go thou and view it, All desolately sunk, The circle of the Druid, The cloister of the monk; The abbey boled and squalid, With its bush-maned, staggering wall; Ask by whom these were unhallow'd— Change, change hath done it all.
THE TOMB OF THE BRUCE.
Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes O'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base, O'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes, Of the noblest, the bravest, of Scotia's race. How hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying, Embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews, The lamb watching over the sleep of the lion, Religion enthroned on the tomb of the Bruce! Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him, Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile, And sterner the music that storm'd around him, Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle, When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending, And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose, His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending, Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce. I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming— Let our country be free, or with freedom expire; I see him again, with his great sword o'erflaming The plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire. Still onward it blazes, that red constellation, In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce: Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nation From shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce. But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunder Of battle to him is now silent and o'er, And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder, Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more. Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled, Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse, Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world— Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?