To see him maisthan' drave us wud, It's a' your wite; I tauld ye sae; Ye're a' wrang to the last: And a'thegither a' wrang; But's a'thegither a' wrang. TIME AND TIDE. As I was walkin' on the strand, I spied ane auld man sit On ane auld black rock; and aye the waves His lips they gaed as gin they wad lilt, An' it was but an owercome, waesome and O' the words he had nae mae: "What can the auld man mean," quo' I, A deid thing floatin' aboot in his brain, 'At the tide will no lat gang." "Robbie and Jeannie war twa bonnie bairns: They played thegither i' the gloamin's hush: Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns, And pairtit the twa wi' a glint an' a gush.' "Hoo pairtit it them, auld man?" I said; Or was ane ta'en, and the ither left— It's unco sair to be sae bereft But there's ither tides at yer feet.” "Robbie and Jeannie war twa bonnie bairns, And they played thegither i' the gloamin's hush: Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns, And pairtit the twa wi' a glint an' a gush.” "Was't the sea o' space wi' its tide o' time? Sic droonin''s waur to bide; "May be, auld man, 'twas the tide o' change An' ower him I croont his ain sang: "Robbie and Jeannie war twa bonnie bairns, And they played thegither upo' the shore: Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns, And souft them awa' throu a mirksome door!" "And what comes next?"-"A lonely moor, Without one beaten way; And slow clouds drifting dull before "And then?"-"Dark rocks and yellow sand, Blue sea and a moaning tide." And then?"-"More sea, more sea, more land, With rivers deep and wide." "And then?"-"Oh-rock and mountain and vale, Ocean and shores and men, "And is that all? From day to day- But go round and round and round?" "No, no; I have not told the best- "Built of all colours of lovely stones- Where no one is weary, and no one moans, Or wants to be laid by.” "Is it far away?" "I do not know. "All day, though you never see it shine, And mist and darkness wide." "When I am older." "Nay, not so." "I have hardly opened my eyes!" "He who to the old sunset would go, Starts best with the young sunrise." "But the stair-is it very very steep?" "Too steep for you to climb; You must lie at the foot of the glorious heap, And patient wait your time.' "How long?" "Nay, that I cannot tell." "Yea, travellers many on you will stand." ANDREW J. SYMINGTON. literature and antiquities, he visited Iceland, and afterwards published the results of his travels in " Pen and Pencil Sketches of Farõe and Iceland, with an appendix containing translations from the Icelandic, and fifty-one illustrations by Linton, from drawings by the author." In 1862 a second edition of Harebell Chimes appeared, containing many additional poems; and in 1870 his latest volume was ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON was born in Paisley, July 27, 1825. His father, Robert Brown Symington, was a merchant, and three of his father's brothers were clergymen. His mother's name was Margaret Macalaster, a woman of sterling worth and refined taste. On leaving the grammar school where he was educated Andrew joined the firm of his father, which business he and an elder brother conducted in Glasgow until recently, when he re-issued, entitled "The Reasonableness of Faith: tired from the firm. with an Appendix containing Hymns and Verses of Consolation and Hope." In 1851 Mr. Symington travelled in France, Germany, Switzerland, and the north of Italy. He also spent some time in the United States during the years 1874-75, when he contri From an early period Mr. Symington has been devoted to literary and artistic studies, and during leisure hours has enjoyed the personal intercourse and correspondence of many eminent scientific men, artists, and men of letters. In 1848 he published a volume of poems en-buted to some of the leading magazines and titled Harebell Chimes, or Summer Memories and Musings. In 1855 a volume entitled Geneviere and other Poems was printed for private circulation. This was followed in 1857 by two volumes entitled The Beautiful in Nature, Art, and Life, on which the author was engaged for the greater part of ten years. In 1859, induced by an ardent love of northern journals. In 1863 he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, Copenhagen. His poetry has found many admirers. Harebell Chimes, when first published, was highly praised by Samuel Rogers; and another eminent critic has said, “Every line in the volume is in fullest sympathy with what is lovely and honest, and of good report." ON HEARING JESSICA PLAY SWEET MUSIC. Shapes of loveliness, like angel-dreams, Float before my all-entranced sense: Every passion o'er the heart doth sweep, Love-Hope-Fear-or Patriotic fire. Hark! Beethoven wields his potent wand- Sweet andante! passionate and low, Wail of saddest, plaintive loveliness: For a gentle love-lorn maid's distress. Now, a dazzling wild chromatic run Lowering, gathers fast the thunder cloud- Lightnings glimmer on the darkling sea. Now, in lonely depth of forest drear, Weird-like-horrible-witch, kobold, sprite; Dream-like riseth many a changeful scene-- Now, I hear brave Körner's prayer rise, Weary sun sinks slowly in the west; Like a minster-window stainèd bright: Seemeth all, like old cathedral pile Shook by sound of mighty instrument Pealing hallelujahs: through each aisle Rolls the murmuring accompaniment. Dying now, in wild Eolian swells, Gently floating, on the fitful breeze, When, in robe of sheeny gossamer, Cometh forth the gentle faery Queen: Rainbow of sweet sounds o'er-arching her: Dapper elves light tripping o'er the green. Sparkling notes, a brilliant starry shower! Child-like, here, the laughing dancing brook Music! how the witching spell doth sweep O'er my soul with more than magic sway: Waking thoughts, long hid in memory deep, Urging now towards the far away! Lost in deep "abyssmal agonies:" Yearning ever-ah! it is not given Here to fathom soul-like harmonies Music's power shall be revealed in Heaven! THE DREAM HARP. Methought I was alone, and feelings strange Nor inner light was there whereby to read Now quivering in the brook which crossed my path Could no-wise dissipate. Now, dreamy sounds, As from Eolian harp, faint, sweet and low, From the far distance, trembled into being, Aye waxing nearer, clearer, in the air, Swelling in dulcet, breezy, murmuring chords. Angels, descending, bore with them a harpThe waving of their pinions pulsing waves Of sound in ripples through the summer airAnd, to my trancèd ear its heavenly tones Were tones of peace. The nearing harp itself Was of rare beauty-the device was this:On either side, an alabaster cross Of snowy whiteness twined with dew-sprent flowers, Roses of Sharon-Lilics of the vale: Above a rainbow spanned from cross to cross, As if through furnace bars, a dull blood-red Above the rainbow, in the deep serene- Its tones all fading in ethereal beauty, Till lost in dreamy moriendos. Rapt, I there stood gazing upward, after it Had long ceased to be heard: The heavy cloud Was lifted from my spirit; all shone clear, For, through the chords and colours Seven, had streamed Into my tranced soul one ray of light And, sister, spirits may, For aught we know, surround us everywhere, In heavenly sheen; Sphere-music-like, with presence pure and rare, Aye watching though unseen. Yon dream-like moon becomes, Upsailing in the blue, more bright and clear; And mark the wake From the Seventh Heavens: and therein vibrate Left by that little boat, whose oar we hear, still The echoes of that heavenly harmony, Even though the dream has long since passed away! SUMMER EVENING. How sweet this summer eve, ' To sit amidst the golden furze and broom, Sister, with thee! To hear at once the insects' drowsy hum, And murmur of the sea! Shore-like those purple hills Seem to that boundless flood of golden light Yon roseate clouds, so pure, so peaceful, might The butterfly and the bee Still light upon the flowers; that mellow note Is sweet to hear, Which floateth warbled from the mavis' throat In tones wild, rich, and clear. The sun-glare falling on The sea, then streams along this fragrant bank Where tufted stems Of spiry sorrel-sced, translucent, rank, Show bright as ruby gems. Wild Goatfell's rocky peaks Rise clear-defined against the glowing sky, Though dim and gray: A vapour, floating from its summits high, De-films, and melts away! On Kelburne's woody heights, The sunbeams slant their parting golden rays Of mellow light: Around, now falls a thin empurpled hazeThe spirit veil of night Through which one star alone, O'er Bute's fair isle, is trembling on the deep The star of love;— All nature seemeth lulled in balmy sleep, While spirits watch above! As in a placid lake. |