ST. ANDREW'S MESSAGE TO THE SCOTSMEN

IN LIVERPOOL.

THE star-studded pinions of night waved their last,
And the day of St. Andrew was joined to the past;
When sleep had resumed o'er my eyelids its sway,
And unconscious the soul of her burden of clay-
Methought through the far fields of light's sunny blue,
On a chariot of beams of the morning I flew ;
And the sound of earth's cities and ocean had died,
Like the voice of a song on the aërial tide.

Again, I beheld, and earth's cities were gone

Of her domes, and her temples, and towers there were

none;

Not one lofty mountain had ventured to bear
Its crest of lone pride in the empire of air;
And far, far away, like the bright star of e'en,
The sun-gilded breast of the ocean was seen.

Again, I beheld, and lo! distance had thrown
Her pall over all that on earth I had known;
And o'er sun, and o'er moon, and the bright milky way
I passed, 'neath the beams of a ne'er setting day;
Till that city celestial, of gems and of gold,
That St. John first beheld in a vision of old,

In splendour o'erwhelming burst full on my view;
The portals revolved, and methought I passed through,
And stood on the shore of the great crystal sea,
And heard of the ransomed the sweet melody.

There, entranced as I listened, and dazzled beheld,
A form slow approached that in beauty excelled,
All lovely as Mercy and Truth, when they bear
Their boon to the deathbed of Guilt and Despair.

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And he smiled as he gently on mine laid his hand, Saying, Listen young bard, and my words understand;

"By grace, here, through great tribulation I came ; "The patron of Scotland, St. Andrew my name; "While on earth I through faith communed daily with God,

"And the sweet paths of virtue and wisdom I trode; "And sowed thus the seed that a harvest has given "Of fruit everlasting-the bounty of heaven; "And hence, 'mong the great and the mighty, my name“Is blazoned in light by the finger of Fame.

"Thy countrymen long have the day of my birth "Distinguished and welcomed with gladness and mirth; "But lately on banks of the Mersey I've seen

"What if honour designed me, no honour has been. "When the deep bowl is drained until Reason's watchlight

"Is extinguished-and desperate and dark to the fight,

"Unmarshalled, the armies of Passion arise, "And love drops a tear, and sweet Harmony flies; "And man's guardian angels recoil from the sight, "While fiends on dark errands look on with delight : "Such scenes may give joy to the base god of wine, "And add to his honours, but never to mine.

"Go, bard of the Irwine, and ere thou again

"Shalt mark that fair stream mix its waves with the

main,

"To men of the north who sojourn in this land, "Disclose thou my counsel, and this my

command:

"When Time's hoary pinions again bring the day "That closes November's cloud-mantled array, "And far from the face of each well-cherished scene, "The children of dear Caledonia convene;

"Let Temperance and Wisdom preside at their boards, "Love rule all their actions, and dictate their words ; "And thus by kind heaven shall their efforts be blest, "And with joy shall I hear in those mansions of rest." I awoke all bewildered-long musing I lay, And eyed the dawn roll its deep shadows away; My trust is discharged to the Saint-and to you, Ye Scotsmen, that dwell by the Mersey-adieu !

LIVERPOOL, Dec., 1842.

EPISTLE TO MR CHARLES CLARK,

COTTAGE-HILL,

LANARK.

AUTHOR OF "THE SPINNING WHEEL," ETC.

WHAT, in the name of all divine,
Apollo, and the glorious nine,
Parnassus' mount, Castalia's stream,
And all the ancient classic dream,
Has ta'en the bard of Cottage-hill,
And set a silence on his quill?

Is he away with fate and chance
To pay his court to Queen Romance,
On some fantastic, witching theme,
Involved in everlasting dream,
Peopling the tower, all rent and

grey,

That threatening hangs on steep and brae,
And linking every hill and dale
With some event of stirring tale?
Or, has old Isaac Walton's art
Assumed the empire of his heart;
That, spite of years, amphibious grown,
He's only to the Naiads known?

By fancy's power, I've sometimes seen
The aged bard with pensive mien,
By some tall rock upon the side
Of winding Mouss, or dashing Clyde,
Courting the ardent, holy power
Of poesy at evening's hour,

While hung the mist upon the vale,
And told the thrush his amorous tale,
And high o'er-head, in crevice wild,
On scanty soil, the primrose smiled,
As heaven-taught virtue fair to see,
Victorious o'er adversity.

The dream would change, when far and wide,
The snow appeared on every side ;

And winter sang in leafless bower
His triumph over plant and flower;
And round thy cot all sadly dumb,
The feathered pensioners would come.

When loneliness her couch hath spread
Upon the mountain's barren head,
When howls the tempest o'er the heath,
And the deep vale is dark as death,
Nor sound comes from its bosom lone,
But the spent torrent's bubbling moan,

* My friend is very attentive to the wants of the winged tribe during the severities of winter. I have been much amused, on a frosty morning, to see them hopping about the windows with wistful and expectant looks.