To a Lady, with some Painted Flowers. Flowers to the fair: to you these flowers I bring, And strive to greet you with an earlier spring. Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you; Emblems of innocence, and beauty too. With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, When eve, her dewy star beneath, Low whispering through the shade. MISS SEWARD. ANNA SEWARD (1747-1809) was the daughter of the Rev. Mr Seward, canon-residentiary of Lichfield, himself a poet, and one of the editors of Beaumont and Fletcher. This lady was early trained to a taste for poetry, and, before she was nine years of age, she could repeat the three first books of Paradise Lost. Even at this time, she says, she was charmed with the numbers of Milton. Miss Seward wrote several elegiac poems-an Elegy to the Memory of Captain Cook, a Monody on the Death of Major André, &c.-which, from the popular nature of the subjects, and the animated though inflated style of the composition, enjoyed great celebrity. Darwin complimented her as 'the inventress of epic elegy;' and she was known by the name of the Swan of Lichfield. A poetical novel, entitled Louisa, was published by Miss Seward in 1782, and passed through several editions. After bandying compliments with the poets of one generation, Miss Seward engaged Sir Walter Scott in a literary correspondence, and bequeathed to him for publication three volumes of her poetry, which he pronounced execrable. At the same time she left her correspondence to Constable, and that publisher gave to the world six volumes of her letters. Both collections were unsuccessful. The applauses of Miss Seward's early admirers were only calculated to excite ridicule, and the vanity and affectation which were her besetting sins, destroyed equally her poetry and prose. Some of her letters, however, are written with spirit and discrimination. SCOTTISH POETS. The highest honours of the Scottish muse belong to this period-the period of Burns. As usual, this great original master had a crowd of imitators, but he was also preceded by native poets of no ordinary degree of talent and popularity. O bonny are our greensward hows, And saft winds rustle, And shepherd lads on sunny knowes Ross died in 1784, at the age of eighty-six. Woo'd, and Married, and a'. And have neither blankets nor sheets; Nor scarce a coverlet too; Woo'd, and married, and a', Married, and woo'd, and a'! That was woo'd, and married, and a'? ALEXANDER ROSS. JOHN LOWE. ALEXANDER Ross, a schoolmaster in Lochlee, in Angus, when nearly seventy years of age, in 1768, JOHN LOWE (1750-1798), a student of divinity, published at Aberdeen, by the advice of Dr Beattie, son of the gardener at Kenmore in Galloway, was a volume entitled Helenore, or the Fortunate Shep-author of the fine pathetic lyric, Mary's Dream, herdess, a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect, to which he wrote on the death of a gentleman named which are added a few Songs by the Author. Ross was Miller, a surgeon at sea, who was attached to a a good descriptive poet, and some of his songs-as Miss M'Ghie, Airds. The poet was tutor in the Woo'd, and Married, and a', The Rock and the Wee family of the lady's father, and was betrothed to her Pickle Tow-are still popular in Scotland. Being sister. He emigrated to America, however, where chiefly written in the Kincardineshire dialect-which he married another female, became dissipated, and differs in many expressions, and in pronunciation, died in great misery near Fredericksburgh. Though from the Lowland Scotch of Burns-Ross is less Lowe wrote numerous other pieces, prompted by known out of his native district than he ought to poetical feeling and the romantic scenery of his be. Beattie took a warm interest in the good-native glen, this ballad only is worthy of preserhumoured, social, happy old man'-who was inde- vation. pendent on £20 a year-and to promote the sale of his volume, he addressed a letter and a poetical epistle in praise of it to the Aberdeen Journal. The epistle is remarkable as Beattie's only attempt in Aberdeenshire Scotch; one verse of it is equal to Burns: Mary's Dream. The moon had climbed the highest hill When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her head, to ask who there might be, "Three stormy nights and stormy days So, Mary, weep no more for me! 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!' Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said: 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' account of the circumstances under which it was written. At the same time, Lady Anne sent two continuations to the ballad, which, like all other continuations-Don Quixote, perhaps, exceptedare greatly inferior to the original. Indeed, the tale of sorrow is so complete in all its parts, that no additions could be made without marring its simplicity or its pathos. Lady Anne was daughter of James Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarres; she was born 8th December 1750, married in 1793 to Mr Andrew Barnard, son of the Bishop of Limerick, and afterwards secretary, under Lord Macartney, to the colony at the Cape of Good Hope. She died, without issue, on the 6th of May 1825. Auld Robin Gray. When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, But saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; me. He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, My mither she fell sick-my Jamie was at sea, My father couldna wark-my mither couldna spin- Said: 'Jeanie, O for their sakes, will ye no marry me?' My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back, My father urged me sair-my mither didna speak, break; They gied him my hand-my heart was in the seaAnd so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa' I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die, For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae I is me! gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin, But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, MISS JANE ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN. Two versions of the national ballad, The Flowers of the Forest, continue to divide the favour of all lovers of song, and both are the composition of ladies. In minute observation of domestic life, traits of character and manners, and the softer language of the heart, ladies have often excelled the 'lords of the creation,' and in music their triumphs are manifold. The first copy of verses, bewailing the losses sustained at Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, sister to Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto. The second song, which appears to be on the same subject, but was in reality occasioned by the bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford of Fernilie, who was afterwards married to Mr Patrick Cockburn, advocate, and died in Edinburgh in 1794. We agree with Mr Allan Cunningham in preferring Miss Elliot's song; but both are beautiful, and in singing, the second is the most effective. The Flowers of the Forest. [By Miss Jane Elliot.] I've heard the lilting at our ewe-milking, At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! We hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. The Flowers of the Forest. [By Mrs Cockburn.] I've seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing; But now 'tis fled-fled far away. I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; Sae bonny was their blooming! But now they are withered and weeded away. I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day, I've seen Tweed's silver streams, Shining in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. He took the gray mair, and rade cannily- Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine : And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, Dumbfoundered he was-nae sigh did he gie; And now that the Laird his exit had made, Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen, ROBERT FERGUSSON. ROBERT FERGUSSON was the poet of Scottish city-life, or rather the laureate of Edinburgh. A happy talent in portraying the peculiarities of local Robert Fergusson. manners, a keen perception of the ludicrous, a vein of original comic humour, and language at once copious and expressive, form his chief merits as a poet. He had not the invention or picturesque fancy of Allan Ramsay, nor the energy and passion of Burns. His mind was a light warm soil, that threw up early its native products, sown by chance or little exertion; but it had not strength and tenacity to nurture any great or valuable production. A few short years, however, comprised his span of literature and of life; and criticism would be ill employed in scrutinising with severity the occasional poems of a youth of twenty-three, written from momentary feelings and impulses, amidst professional drudgery or midnight dissipation. That compositions produced under such circumstances should still exist and be read with pleasure, is sufficient to shew that Fergusson must have had the eye and fancy of a true poet. His observation, too, for one so young, is as remarkable as his genius: he was an accurate painter of scenes of real life, and traits of Scottish character, and his pictures are valuable for their truth, as well as for their liveliness and humour. If his habits had been different, we might have possessed more agreeable delineations, but none more graphic or faithful. Fergusson was born in Edinburgh on the 17th of October 1751. His father, who was an accountant in the British Linen Company's bank, died early; but the poet received a university education, having obtained a bursary in St Andrews, where he continued from his thirteenth to his seventeenth year. On quitting college, he seems to have been truly unfitted with an aim,' and he was glad to take employment as a copying-clerk in a lawyer's office. In this mechanical and irksome duty his days were spent. His evenings were devoted to the tavern, where, over 'cafler oysters,' with ale or whisky, the choice spirits of Edinburgh used to assemble. Fergusson had dangerous qualifications for such a life. His conversational powers were of a very superior description, and he could adapt them at will to humour, pathos, or sarcasm, as the occasion might require. He was well educated, had a fund of youthful gaiety, and sung Scottish songs with taste and effect. To these qualifications he soon added the reputation of a poet. Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine had been commenced in 1768, and was the chosen receptacle for the floating literature of that period in Scotland, particularly in Edinburgh. During the last two years of his life, Fergusson was a constant contributor to this miscellany, and in 1773 he collected and published his pieces in one volume. Of the success of the publication, in a pecuniary point of view, we have no information; but that it was well received by the public, there can be no doubt, from the popularity and fame of its author. His dissipations, however, were always on the increase. His tavernlife and boon-companions were hastening him on to a premature and painful death. His reason first gave way, and his widowed mother being unable to maintain him at home, he was sent to an asylum for the insane. The religious impressions of his youth returned at times to overwhelm him with dread, but his gentle and affectionate nature was easily soothed by the attentions of his relatives and friends. His recovery was anticipated, but after about two months' confinement, he died in his cell on the 16th of October 1774. His remains were interred in the Canongate churchyard, where they lay unnoticed for many years, till Burns erected a simple stone to mark the poet's grave. The heartlessness of convivial friendships is well known: they literally 'wither and die in a day.' It is related, however, that a youthful companion of Fergusson, named Burnet, having gone to the East Indies, and made some money, invited over the poet, sending at the same time a draft for £100 to defray his expenses. This instance of generosity came too late: the poor poet had died before the letter arrived. |