Volume 6 / Part 2 — ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
Reading edition
The author of "Harebell Chimes," a volume of interesting verses, Andrew James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His father was a scion of the noble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848 the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it continues to be prosperously carried on.
Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of "Harebell Chimes," published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order; it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume entitled "Genivieve, and other Poems," was printed by Mr Symington for circulation among his friends.
DAY DREAM.
Close by the marge of Leman's lake, Upon a thymy plot, In blissful rev'rie, half awake, Earth's follies all forgot, I conjured up a faery isle Where sorrow enter'd not, Withouten shade of sin or guile— A lovely Eden spot. With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade, And leaves of tender green, All trembling in the light and shade, As sunbeams glanced between: The mossy turf, bespangled gay With fragrant flowery sheen— Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May— The fairest ever seen. Near where a crystal river ran Into the rich, warm light, A domèd palace fair began To rise in marble white. 'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet, With mirrors dazzling bright— With antique vase and statuette, A palace of delight. And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress, With circlet on her hair, Appear'd in all her loveliness, Like angel standing there. She struck the cithern in her hand, And sang with 'witching air Her own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?" To music wild and rare. It died away—the palace changed, Dream-like, into a bower! Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged, Secure from hunter's power. Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground, With daisy, starry flower, While crimson flower-bells cluster'd round The rose-twined faery bower. Therein "Undine," lovely sprite! Sat gazing on sunrise, And sang of "morning, clear and bright"— The tears came in her eyes: She look'd upon the lovely isle, And now up to the skies, Then in a silv'ry misty veil She vanish'd from mine eyes. A music, as of forest trees Bent 'neath the storm-blast's sway, Rose swelling—dying in the breeze, A strange, wild lullaby. The islet with its flowery turf Then waxèd dim and gray; I look'd—no islet gemm'd the surf— The dream had fled away.
FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT.
Fair as a star of light, Like diamond gleaming bright, Through darkness of the night, Is my love to me. As bell of lily white, In streamlet mirror'd bright, All quiv'ring with delight, Is my love to me— My love to me. A flowing magic thrill Which floodeth heart and will With gushes musical, Is my love to me. Bright as the trancèd dream, Which flitteth in a gleam, Before morn's golden beam, Is my love to me— My love to me. Like living crystal well, In cool and shady dell, Unto the parch'd gazelle, Is my love to me. And dearer than things fair, However rich and rare, In earth, or sea, or air, Is my love to me— My love to me.
NATURE MUSICAL.
There is music in the storm, love, When the tempest rages high; It whispers in the summer breeze A soft, sweet lullaby. There is music in the night, When the joyous nightingale, Clear warbling, filleth with his song The hillside and the vale. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything. There is music by the shore, love, When foaming billows dash; It echoes in the thunder peal, When vivid lightnings flash. There is music by the shore, In the stilly noon of night, When the murmurs of the ocean fade In the clear moonlight. There is music in the soul, love, When it hears the gushing swell, Which, like a dream intensely soft, Peals from the lily-bell. There is music—music deep In the soul that looks on high, When myriad sparkling stars sing out Their pure sphere harmony. There is music in the glance, love, Which speaketh from the heart, Of a sympathy in souls That never more would part. There is music in the note Of the cooing turtle-dove; There is music in the voice Of dear ones whom we love. There is music everywhere, love, To the pure of spirit given; And sweetest music heard on earth But whispers that of heaven. Oh, all is music there— 'Tis the language of the sky— Sweet hallelujahs there resound Eternal harmony. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.