And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry ;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
RED rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,
Mirk is the night and rainie O,
Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,
I'll gang and see my Nanie O.
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;
My kind and winsome Nanie Q,
She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nane can do't but Nanie O.
In preaching-time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonny O,
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,
For thieving looks at Nanie O.
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;
The world's in love with Nanie O;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie O.
My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely O;
I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
They sparkle sae divinely O.
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;
The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie O;
Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair,
And says, I dwell with Nanie O.
Tell not, thou star at gray daylight,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonny O,
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew
When coming frae my Nanie O.
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;
Nane ken o' me and Nanie O;
The stars and moon may tell't aboon,
They winna wrang my Nanie O!
THIS accomplished genius was the son of a butcher in Nottingham, and was born on 21st August 1785. He at first assisted in his father's business, but at last, anxious to have a profession which would give employment to his mind, he was apprenticed to an attorney. His habits of study were unremitting, and at the age of fifteen he obtained, in a competition, a silver medal from a London magazine for a translation from Horace. In 1803 he published a volume of poems, some of which were written in his thirteenth year. The volume was severely handled by the critics, but fortunately Southey, who happened to read the pieces, wrote the young poet with words of encouragement. White was at one time inclined to deism, but an accidental reading of Scott's " Force of Truth" brought conviction to his mind of the truth of Christianity, and gave a new tinge to his character, and object to his life. He resolved to devote himself to the ministry, and by the help of some friends was enabled to go through the necessary studies. He earned the highest distinctions at his college, but he purchased them too dearly, as his unremitting application had totally ruined his health, and he died on 19th October 1806, at the early age of twenty-one. His remains, collected by Southey, are among the finest compositions in our language.
How insignificant is mortal man,
Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour!
How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit
Of infinite duration, boundless space!
God of the universe-Almighty One-
Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds,
Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer,
Swift and impetuous as the northern blast,
Ridest from pole to pole;-Thou who dost hold
The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp,
And reinest in the earthquake, when thy wrath
Goes down towards erring man,-I would address
To Thee my parting pæan; for of Thee,
Great beyond comprehension, who thyself
Art time and space, sublime infinitude,
Of Thee has been my song!-With awe I kneel
Trembling before the footstool of thy state,
My God, my Father!-I will sing to Thee
A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle,
Ere on the cypress wreath which overshades
The throne of Death I hang my mournful lyre,
And give its wild strings to the desert gale.
Rise, son of Salem, rise, and join the strain,
Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp,
And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul
To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing,
And halleluiah, for the Lord is great,
And full of mercy!
AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;
We sing the Saviour of our race,
The Lamb, our shield and hiding-place.
When God's right arm is bared for war,
And thunders clothe his cloudy car,
Where, where, oh where, shall man retire,
To escape the horrors of his ire?
'Tis He, the Lamb, to Him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by:
God sees his Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.
Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To Him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.
ADDRESS TO CONTEMPLATION.
THEE do I own, the prompter of my joys,
The soother of my cares, inspiring peace;
And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave,
And blame and censure me, that I don't tie
My ev'ry thought down to the desk, and spend
The morning of my life in adding figures
With accurate monotony, that so
The good things of the world may be my lot,
And I might taste the blessedness of wealth:
But, oh! I was not made for money getting;
For me no much respected plum awaits,
Nor civic honour, envied. For as still
I tried to cast with school dexterity
The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts
Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt,
Which fond remembrance cherish'd, and the pen
Dropt from my senseless fingers as I pictured,
In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent
I erewhile wander'd with my early friends
In social intercourse. And then I'd think
How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide,
One from the other; scatter'd o'er the globe,
They were set down with sober steadiness,
Each to his occupation. I alone,
A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries,
Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering
With ev'ry wind to ev'ry point o' th' compass.
Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge
In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid
The busy bustling crowds could meditate,
And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away
Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend.
Aye, Contemplation, ev'n in earliest youth,
I woo'd thy heav'nly influence! I would walk
A weary way when all my toils were done,
To lay myself at night in some lone wood,
And hear the sweet song of the nightingale.
Oh, those were times of happiness, and still
To memory doubly dear; for growing years
Had not then taught me man was made to mourn;
And a short hour of solitary pleasure,
Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense
For all the hateful bustles of the day.
My op'ning mind was ductile then, and plastic,
And soon the marks of care were worn away,
While I was sway'd by every novel impulse,
Yielding to all the fancies of the hour.
But it has now assumed its character;
Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone,
Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend.
Yet still, O Contemplation! I do love
To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same
With thee alone I know to melt and weep,
In thee alone delighting.
PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY in the University of Edinburgh, was born on 18th May 1785 at Paisley, where his father was a manufacturer. At thirteen he was sent to Glasgow University, and from thence transferred to Oxford, where he won the Newdegate Prize for English verse. On leaving the University he bought a beautiful place on the banks of Windermere, where he spent four years in the enjoyment of the society of the "Lake poets." In 1812 was published the "Isle of Palms ;" and in 1816, "The City of the Plague," which established his reputation as a poet. It was in prose, however, that he won his highest laurels; and in "Blackwood's Magazine," as "Christopher North," he wrote a succession of articles which filled the public with wonder and delight. In 1820, Wilson was appointed to the Moral Philosophy chair in Edinburgh, which he held till 1851, when he resigned in consequence of bad health. About the same time he received a pension from the Crown of L.300 ayear. He died at Edinburgh, 3d April 1854.
(From the "Isle of Palms.")
BUT list! a low and moaning sound
At distance heard, like a spirit's song,
And now it reigns above, around,
As if it called the ship along.
The moon is sunk; and a clouded grey
Declares that her course is run,
And like a god who brings the day,
Up mounts the glorious sun.
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