Volume 6 / Part 2 — THOMAS YOUNG.
Reading edition
The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems," a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the Dundee Advertiser, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of £300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.
ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.
By Niagara's flood Antoinette stood, And watch'd the wild waves rush on, As they leapt below Into vapoury snow, Or fell into flakes of foam. The sun's last beams Fell in golden gleams On water and wave-girt isle, And in tinge all fair Dipp'd the girl's bright hair And heighten'd her happy smile. Away—away! In wild ecstasy She threads the abyss's brink, Where waters—black— Of the cataract Into drifted snow-waves sink. A father's eye Looketh anxiously On the freaks of his favour'd child, Till her spirit appals His soul, and he calls "Antoinette" in accents wild. A bolder heart Loves the girl's free sport, And he grasps her by the gown, Then tosseth her high In the twilight sky— But, heavens! she falleth down! She sinks in the wave; He swimmeth to save! Oh, never was mortal arm More manfully braced, As it grasps her slim waist, And struggles in frantic alarm! In vain does he strike— The fresh waves break, And the doom'd ones are downward borne! Yet the swimmer's eye Seemeth still to defy The might of the merciless storm. More loud than before Is the cataract's roar, And the furrow'd wave is bright With many a pearl From the shining swirl Of the water's lucid light. And down below Is the woolly snow Of Niagara's wrathful bed, But the lip of the bold Hath never told The secrets that there lie hid. A strong arm, press'd Round a maiden's waist On the doleful morrow is seen, And her oozy hair Laves his forehead bare With the waft of the wavy stream.