RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.-THOMAS PRINGLE. Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd: SONG. 'Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being, Thomas Pringle. 407 Pringle (1788-1834) was a native of Roxburghshire, Scotland. He was the author of "Scenes of Teviotdale, Ephemerides, and other Poems," all showing fine feeling and a cultivated taste. In 1820 he emigrated to the Cape of Good Hope with his father and several brothers; but from lameness, caused by an accident when young, Thomas was ill fitted for a life of hardship. He returned to England, and got a living by his pen. He edited a literary annual, entitled "Friendship's Offering," and wrote a series of "African Sketches," containing an interesting personal narrative. His poem, "Afar in the Desert," was much admired by Coleridge. It was repeatedly altered. Pringle's "Poetical Works," with a memoir by Leitch Ritchie, appeared in 1839. AFAR IN THE DESERT. Afar in the desert I love to ride, new; Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;- My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, With that sadness of heart which no stranger may She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness; I fly to the desert, afar from man! Ah, yet awhile, blessed shade, thy flight delaying, Yet, yet remain! till freed like thee, delighted, Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen; By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild vine; In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; Afar in the desert I love to ride, Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread-void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. Our native land-our native valeA long and last adieu! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot's mountains blue. Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes, Where thyme and harebells growFarewell, ye hoary haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe! The battle-mound, the Border tower, The martyr's grave, the lover's bower- Home of our hearts! our father's home! We seek a wild and distant shore, But may dishonor blight our fame, And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name, Green island of our sires! Our native land--our native vale-- And Scotland's mountains blue! WILLIAM THOM.-JAMES ABRAHAM HILLHOUSE. 409 William Thom. Among the uneducated poets Thom (1789-1848) deserves an honorable mention. He was a native of Aberdeen, Scotland, and learned to read and write before he was ten years old. His life thenceforth was one of labor and vicissitude. His occupation was first that of a weaver; he married, and took up that of a peddler. In this he incurred penury and suffering, so that he often had to find his lodgings in cold barns; and on one of these occasions a child of his own perished from starvation and exposure. In 1840 he removed to Inverury, and while there began to write poetry, which attracted public attention. He was enabled to go to London, and in 1844 published "Rhymes and Recollections of a Handloom Weaver." The volume was well received; and, on a second visit to London, he was entertained at a public dinner. Returning to Scotland, he took up his abode in Dundee; and, after a period of poverty and distress, died there at the age of fifty-nine. Some of his poems are remarkable for tenderness and grace, combined with strong religious convictions. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn. You sister, that sang o'er his saftly-rocked bed, Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na' the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Oh, speak him na harshly: he trembles the while; He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile: In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn! DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED. The morning breaks bonny o'er mountain anʼstream, Oh, come, spirit-mother! discourse of the hours An' then, shrouded loveliness! soul-winning Jean, Tho' dark be our dwallin', our happin' tho' bare, James Abraham Hillhouse. AMERICAN. Hillhouse (1789-1841) was a native of New Haven, and a graduate of Yale, of the class of 1808. He passed three years in Boston, preparing for a mercantile career. The war checked his enterprises, and he betook himself to dramatic composition. After the peace he engaged in commerce in New York. He visited England in 1819; and Zachary Macaulay, father of Lord Macaulay, spoke of him as "the most accomplished young man with whom he was acquainted." Withdrawing from business, he married, and removed to a country-seat near New Haven, where the remainder of his life was passed in elegant leisure. There he produced the drama of "Hadad," published in 1825. It is written with considerable power, and shows great refinement of taste and purity of diction. In it the machinery of the supernatural is introduced. INTERVIEW OF HADAD AND TAMAR. The garden of ABSALOM's house on Mount Zion, near the palace overlooking the city. TAMAR sitting by a fountain. Tamar. How aromatic evening grows! The flowers And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha; Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets. Blessed hour! which He, who fashioned it so fair, So softly glowing, so contemplative, Hath set, and sanctified to look on man. And lo! the smoke of evening sacrifice Ascends from out the tabernacle.-Heaven Accept the expiation, and forgive This day's offences!-Ha! the wonted strain, Precursor of his coming!-Whence can this? It seems to flow from some unearthly handEnter HADAD. Hadad. Does beauteous Tamar view in this clear fount The goddess of these shades, rejoiced in thee, Tam. How like my fancy! When these strains precede Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming; Tam. But how delicious are the pensive dreams That steal upon the fancy at their call! Had. Delicious to behold the world at rest! hark! What merry strains they send from Olivet! The jar of life is still; the city speaks and In gentle murmurs; voices chime with lutes William Knox. Knox (1789-1825) was a young Scottish poet of considerable talent, who died in Edinburgh, and was the author of "The Lonely Hearth," "Songs of Zion," "The Harp of Zion," etc. Sir Walter Scott thus mentions him in his diary: "His father was a respectable yeoman, and he himself succeeding to good farms under the Duke of Buccleuch, became too soon his own master, and plunged into dissipation and ruin. His talent then showed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry." The piece we quote was a favorite with Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States. He often referred to it. There are several versions of the poem. We have given the most authentic. OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL |