Volume 6 / Part 2 — JAMES MACFARLAN.
Reading edition
A poet of singular merit, under circumstances in the highest degree unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in Glasgow and Greenock constituted his entire scholastic education; but an intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications of verses, with the titles, "City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces," and "The Lyrics of Life." A little poetical brochure, entitled, "The Wanderer of the West," is his latest production.
Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the Glasgow Athenæum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with the Bulletin, a daily journal published in Glasgow.
ISABELLE.
Oh, beautiful and bright thou art! Oh, beautiful and bright! Thy voice is music of the heart— Thy looks are rarest light! What time the silver dawn of dreams Lights up the dark of sleep, As yon pale moon lights up the heaven With beauty clear and deep, I see thee in the ebbing stars, I hear quaint voices swell, And dim and phantom winds that come And whisper, Isabelle. Oh, beautiful and bright thou art! Oh, beautiful and bright! Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart, Like rich star-crowded night. As moonbeams silver on the wave Of some night-sadden'd river, So on my lonesome life thy love Would lie in light for ever. Yet wander on—oh, wander on, Cold river, to the sea, And, weary life, thy ocean gain— Undream'd eternity. In vain the cruel curse of earth Hath torn our lives apart; The man-made barriers of gold Weigh down the humble heart. Oh, hadst thou been a village maid— A simple wayside flower— With nought to boast, save honest worth, And beauty all thy dower! Such might have been—such should have been, But other lot befell; I am the lowly son of toil, And thou proud Isabelle. It ever seems to me that love Should level all degrees; Pure honour, and a stainless heart Are Nature's heraldries. No scutcheon needs a noble soul (Alas! how thinks the age?); He is not poor who freedom hath For his broad heritage. Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil; Vain dreams of youth, farewell; The future hath its duty's prize— The past, its Isabelle.
HOUSEHOLD GODS.
Built on Time's uneven sand, Hope's fair fabric soon is shatter'd; Bowers adorn'd by Fancy's hand Torn in wandering leaves are scatter'd. Perish'd, perish'd, lost and perish'd, Old affections fondly cherish'd. All our blossoms wither soon, While we dream the flower will strengthen, And across life's summer noon Death's dark shadow seems to lengthen. In that mighty shadow perish'd All we liv'd for, all we cherish'd. Dear ones loved are lost in night; O'er the world we wander lonely, And the heart of all youth's light Holds one fading sunbeam only. Old affections vainly cherish'd, All except the memory perish'd.
POOR COMPANIONS.
Look up, old friend! why hang thy head? The world is all before us. Earth's wealth of flowers is at our feet, Heaven's wealth of worlds is o'er us. Spring leans to us across the sea With affluent caressing, And autumn yet shall crown our toil With many a fruitful blessing. Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather? Let monarchs rule, but we shall sing And journey on together. You mourn that we are born so poor— I would not change our treasure For all the thorn-concealing flowers That strew the path of pleasure. God only searches for the soul, Nor heeds the outward building; Believe me, friend, a noble heart Requires no aid of gilding. Then never let us pine in spring, We 've braved out wintry weather, We yet may touch a sweeter string When toiling on together. What though our blood be tinged with mud, My lord's is simply purer; 'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor make His seat in heaven surer. But should the noble deign to speak, We 'll hail him as a brother, And trace respective pedigrees To Eve, our common mother. Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather? Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing, And journey on together.