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ANDREW B. PICKEN.

vidual in the unfortunate expedition to Poyais, and the sufferings and privations endured by himself and his companions during their voyage and on their landing are vividly described in several of his poems and sketches. On leaving this scene of his misfortunes he engaged with a mahogany merchant in one of the West India Islands, but soon becoming tired of the dull monotony of his new occupation he returned to his native land.

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most of the principal cities of the Union, and passing through many vicissitudes of fortune, ultimately settled in Montreal, where he was well known as an artist and teacher of painting and drawing. Mr. Picken was a constant contributor to the newspapers and magazines of Montreal, and continued to be so until a short time before his death, which took place July 1, 1849. His principal poem is "The Bedouins," in three cantos. Of his prose tales that entitled "The Plague Ship" is considered the best. Several of this author's poetical compositions have been erroneously attributed to Andrew Picken, a native of Paisley, who wrote some occasional verses and several popular novels, including the Black Watch and the Dominie's

In 1823 Picken published a collected edition of his poetical compositions, entitled "The Bedouins, and other Poems," and contributed a series of tales and sketches under the title of "Lights and Shadows of a Sailor's Life" to the Edinburgh Observer. In 1830 he left Scotland for the United States, and after visiting | Legacy.

THE BEDOUINS.

It is the hour that green Kashmeer
Its loveliest aspect seems to wear,
When clouds, like bright ships, sailing on
In the red wake of the sinking sun,
The last pale pilgrims of his train,
Are wending towards the western main;
While o'er the hushed lake faintly creep
Their dim reflected gleams,

Like a maiden's eyes, half locked in sleep,
Seen smiling through her dreams;
And cedar heights and mountain crown
Have caught the shade of evening's frown;
And groups of topaz-coloured lights,
Such as on stilly moonless nights
Come shining down the Ganges oft,
When 'mid the tall cane tufts that shake
On its green shores, in accents soft,
The Hindoo girls their gazzels wake,
And speed their floating lamps along
With all the spells of sighs and song.
Lights like to these are winking now
In many a far fantastic row,

Tracking the long street and tall spire,
Through all the vale, with lines of fire.
These are the painted lanterns hung
From Bani roofs and galleries,
Where ye may hear the Alme's song,
And see the small white hand that flies
The vina's silver wires athwart,
Awakening tones that fill the heart.
There ye may see the dancing girls,
And hear their golden cymbals clashing,
As their gay groups in mazy whirls
Are past the lighted casements dashing,

(EXTRACT.)

Like sunny clouds together twined
And driven before the samoor wind.

Now is the hour when lovers meet
Far in the sandal bowers,
And the lone bulbul singeth sweet
To his own harem flowers,
And o'er the folded lotus bell

The wearied sun-bee hymns his prayer,
That the coy flower may ope her cell
And let him nestle there.

Ah! many a soft and silver tongue
Weaves at this hour such wily song.

Now is the hour when token flowers
Are from Zenana's wickets thrown,
By girls that pine through weary hours,
Unnoticed and alone;

And through the silken curtains peep
Glimpses of rich lips and bright eyes,
Like those that haunt the Moslem's sleep
With promises of paradise;

And Peri hands, to groups that stray
Beneath them, wave invitingly;
And cinnamon and basil blooms,
Such as are found on lovers' tombs,
And bear a language of their own
That lovers understand alone,

Are dropped from time to time to them
That dare their passionate promise claim-
Dare lean their hearts to the floweret's prayer,
And borrow love's pinions to woo them there
In their gilded prisons-so far above
The reach of every power but love.

THE HOME FEVER.

A RECOLLECTION OF THE WEST INDIES.

"Oh it's hame-an' it's hame, an' it's hame fain wad I be, Hame-hame-hame to my ain country."

We sate in a green verandah's shade,
Where the verdant "tye-tye" twined
Its fairy net-work around us, and made
A harp for the cool sea-wind,

That came there, with its low wild tones, at night,
Like a sigh that is telling of past delight.

And that wind, with its tale of flowers, had come From the island groves away;

And the waves, like wanderers returning home, To the beach came wearily:

And the conch's far home call, the parrot's cry, Had told that the Sabbath of night was nigh.

We sat alone in that trelliced bower,

And gazed o'er the darkening deep;

And the holy calm of the twilight hour Came over our hearts like sleep:

There was a "worm i' the bud" whose fold
Defied the leech's art;

Consumption's hectic plague-spot told

A tale of a broken heart.

The boy was dying-but the grave's long sleep
Is bliss to those that pine, and "watch, and weep."

He died; but memory's wizard power,

With its ghost-like train, had come

To the dark heart's ruins at that last hour,

And he murmured, "Home! home! home!"
And his spirit passed with its happy dream,
Like a bird in the track of a bright sunbeam.

Oh, talk of spring to the trampled flower,
Of light to the fallen star,

Of glory to those that in victory's hour
Lie cold on the fields of war!

But ye mock the exile's heart when ye tell
Of aught out the home where it pines to dwell.

MEXICO.

And we dreamt of the "banks and bonny braes" I have come from the south, where the free That had gladden'd our childhood's careless days.

And he, the friend by my side that sate,
Was a boy, whose path had gone

'Mid the fields and the flowers of joy, that Fate, Like a mother, had smiled upon.

But, alas! for the time when our hopes have wings,
And when memory to grief, like a syren, sings!

His home had been on the stormy shore
Of Albyn's mountain land:

His ear was tuned to the breakers' roar,
And he loved the bleak sea-sand;

And the torrent's din, and the howling breeze,
Had all his soul's wild sympathies.

They had told him tales of the sunny lands
That rose over Indian seas,
Where gold shone glancing from river sands,
And strange fruit bent the trees.
They had wiled him away from his father's hearth,
With its voice of peace, and its light of mirth.

Now, that fruit and the river gems were near,
And he strayed 'neath the tropic sun;
But the voice of promise that thrilled in his ear
At that joyous time was gone:

streams flow

'Mid the scented valleys of Mexico;

I have come from the vines and the tamarind bowers

With their wild festoons and their sunny flowers,
And wonder not that I turned to part
From that land of sweets with an aching heart.

I have come from the south, where the landward breeze

Comes laden with spices, to roam on the seas,
And mingle its spells with the sea-boy's lay-
As he carols aloft to the billows' sway,
And wonder not that I come with sighs
To this colder clime and these dreary skies.

I have roamed through those Indian wild woods oft
When the hot day glare fell shadowed and soft,
And nought in their green retreats was heard,
But the notes of the hermit humming-bird,
Or the wayward murmurs of some old song,
That stole through my reverie, sad and long.

I have stood by those shaded streams at night,
And dreamt of the past, when the sweet starlight
And the sound of the water came over my soul,
And its joys lay hushed in their deep control;

And the hope he had chased 'mid the wilds of And the dead and the severed on memory crept,

night,

Had melted away like a firefly's light.

Oh! I have watched him gazing long

Where the homeward vessels lay, Cheating sad thoughts with some old song, And wiping his tears away!

And well I knew that that weary breast, Like the dove of the deluge, pined for rest!

With a tale of my youth, and I wept-I wept!

Oh! could my footstep but wander now
Where those wood paths wind and those dark
streams flow!

Oh, could I but feel on my brow once more
The fragrant winds of that golden shore,
How my heart would bound as it hailed thee mine,
Oh Mexico! land of the olive and vine!

ROBERT WHITE.

ROBERT WHITE was born at Yetholm, Roxburghshire, in 1802. His youth was spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, Northumberland, where his father cultivated a small farm. Robert was fond of reading, and their landlord, who had a good library, kindly allowed him the use of his books, and in 1825 obtained a clerk's situation for him with a tradesman in Newcastle. In 1850 his employer, who was a bachelor, died, and left his whole estate in Mr. White's hands as executor on behalf of his sister. Being a high-minded and honourable man, the lady reposed her entire confidence in him, and at her death, in the latter part of 1864,"she made me her executor, and left me quite independent. I live in a fine house of my own, situated in the best part of the town. I possess the best private library in the district, and after forty years' faithful work I have at my command more capital than I shall ever require."

Mr. White, soon after his removal to Newcastle, became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse to the Newcastle Magazine. In 1829 the Typographical Society of Newcastle printed at their own cost his poem of "The Tynemouth Nun." In 1853 Mr. White printed

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| for private circulation The Wind," another poem; and in 1856 he printed, also privately, England," a poem, which he dedicated to his generous benefactress. In 1857, having drawn up a full and authentic account of the Battle of Otterburn, it was published in a volume of 188 pages. In the same year he contributed to the Archæologia Æliana, issued by the Newcastle Society of Antiquaries, a full account of the battle of Neville's Cross, near Durham. In 1859 he contributed to the same work a sketch of the Battle of Flodden, with a list of all the noblemen and gentlemen of Scotland who fell in that memorable engagement. Mr. White in 1867 collected his poems, songs, and metrical tales, which were published at Kelso. Many of his lyrics are deservedly popular, and have obtained a place in numerous collections of Scottish song. He is well known as an enthusiastic antiquary, and has contributed both prose and verse to Richardson's Local Historian's Table-Book of Northumberland and Durham, and other works of an antiquarian character. In 1858 an edition of the poems and ballads of Dr. John Leyden was published, edited by Mr. White.

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"This jewell'd chaplet ye'll put on, That broider'd necklace gay; For we maun hae ye buskit weel On this, your bridal day."

"Oh! Ellen, ye would think it hard To wed against your will!

I never loo'd Lord Dacre yet;
I dinna like him still.

"He kens, though oft he sued for love
Upon his bended knee,
Ae tender word, ae kindly look,
He never gat frae me.

"And he has gained my mother's ear,

My father's stern command; Yet this fond heart can ne'er be his, Altho' he claim my hand.

"Oh! Ellen, softly list to me!

I still may 'scape the snare; When morning raise o'er Otterburne, The tidings would be there.

"And hurrying on comes Umfreville,-
His spur is sharp at need;
There's nane in a' Northumberland
Can mount a fleeter steed.

"Ah! weel I ken his heart is true,

He will he must be here: Aboon the garden wa' he'll wave

The pennon o' his spear."

"Far is the gate, the burns are deep,

The broken muirs are wide; Fair lady, ere your true love come, Ye'll be Lord Dacre's bride.

"Wi' stately, solemn step the priest Climbs up the chapel stair: Alas! alas! for Umfreville

His heart may weel be sair!

"Keep back! keep back! Lord Dacre's steed:
Ye maunna trot, but gang.
And haste ye! haste ye! Umfreville!
Your lady thinks ye lang."-

in velvet sheen she wadna dress;

Nae pearls o'er her shone;

Nor broider'd necklace, sparkling bright,
Would Lady Jean put on.

Up raise she frae her cushion'd seat,
And totter'd like to fa';

Her cheek grew like the rose, and then
Turned whiter than the snaw.

"O Ellen! throw the casement up,
Let in the air to me:
Look down within the castle-yard,
And tell me what ye see.

"Your father's stan'in' on the steps,
Your mother's at the door;

Out thro' the gateway comes the train, Lord Dacre rides before.

"Fu' yauld and gracefu' lichts he doun,
Sae does his gallant band;
And low he doffs his bonnet plume,
And shakes your father's hand.

"List! lady, list a bugle note!

It sounds not loud but clear;Up! up! I see aboon the wa'

Your true love's pennon'd spear!"-
An' up fu' quick gat Lady Jean;-
Nae ailment had she mair:
Blythe was her look, and firm her step,
As she ran doun the stair.

An' thro' amang the apple trees,
An' up the walk she flew;
Until she reach'd her true love's side
Her breath she scarcely drew.

Lord Dacre fain would see the bride,

He sought her bower alane;
But dowf and blunkit grew his look
When Lady Jean was gane.

Sair did her father stamp an' rage,
Sair did her mother mourn;
She's up and aff wi' Umfreville
To bonnie Otterburne.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Fair Scotland, dear as life to me

Are thy majestic hills;

And sweet as purest melody

The music of thy rills.

The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,
Within thy rocky strand,
Possess o'er me a living spell,—
Thou art my native land!

I breathed in youth thy bracing air
For many a summer tide;
And saw with joy thy valleys fair
Beneath me stretching wide.
Amid thy classic haunts I found
My glowing heart expand;

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Ah! precious is the dust of those
Who, by such heroes led,
For sake of thee, against thy focs,
In fiercest conflict bled!
All unremember'd though they be,

With steadfast heart and hand
They sold their lives to make thee free,
Thou spirit-rousing land!

Nor less thy martyrs I revere,

Who spent their latest breath

To seal the cause they held so dear,
And conquer'd even in death:
Their graves proclaim o'er hill and plain,
No bigot's stern command

Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,
My dear, devoted land!

And thou hast ties around my heart—
Attraction stronger stili,-
The gifted poet's sacred art,

The minstrel's matchless skill:
Yea, every scene that Burns and Scott
Have touch'd, with magic hand,
Is in my sight a hallow'd spot,-

Mine own distinguished land!

Due reverenced be thy bards each one,
Whose lays of impulse deep
Abroad upon the world have gone

Far as the wind may sweep.
Be mine to linger where they moved-
Where once they stood to stand,
And muse on all they knew and loved
In thy romantic land!

O, when I wander'd far from thee,
I saw thee in my dreams,-

I mark'd thy forests waving free-
I heard thy rushing streams;
Thy mighty dead in life came forth:

I knew the honour'd band: We spoke of thee-thy fame-thy worth, Thou high-exalted land!

What feelings through my bosom rush
To hear thy favour'd name!
And when I breathe an ardent wish,
'Tis mingled with thy fame.

If prayer of mine prevail on high,
Thou shalt for ever stand
The noblest realm beneath the sky,
My dearly-cherish'd land!

MORNING.

Awake, my love! the shades of night
Depart before the rising light;
The lovely sky, all dappled gray,
Gives welcome to the god of day;
Yet fair and brightly though he shine,
His radiance cannot equal thine!

Arise, my dearest! come away!
To mark the morning let us stray:
The genial air, so mild and calm,
Is fresher than the purest balm,
Where sweets from every shrub combine
To emulate that breath of thine!

O come, my gentlest! come with me!
The deep-green earth in splendour see;
But, gazing on her gorgeous dress
Throughout those vales of loveliness,
To where the distant hills decline,
Her beauty cannot vie with thine!

Come forth, my love, the sky is blue:
Both blade and flower are gemm'd with dew!
The rich unfolding rose appears
Blushing amid its pearly tears,
And with the lily would entwine,
As if to match that hue of thine!

Welcome, my love! both land and sky
Resound with vocal harmony;
Yet all the strains that warblers sing,
Of melting music, cannot bring
Such pure delight to ear of mine
As those mellifluous words of thine!

Come, let us go! the brightest flower,
The liveliest bird in forest bower,
Exult not in the season's pride
As I, when thou art by my side;

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