Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, Backward coil'd, and crouching low, Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, Its jetty tip is seen to glide; Till, from thy centre starting fair, Like madam in her tantrums high: The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, For then beneath some urchin's hand, While softly from thy whisker'd cheek But not alone by cottage fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles with alter'd air To see thee climb his elbow-chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slipper'd toc. The widow'd dame, or lonely maid, Whence hast thou, then, thou witless Puss, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, Nor, when thy span of life is past, MORNING SONG. Up! quit thy bower; late wears the hour; Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower; On flower and tree loud hums the bee; The wilding kid sports merrily: A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, Showeth when good fortune's near. Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair, And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, Up! time will tell: the friar's bell MY LOVE IS ON HER WAY. Oh welcome bat and owlet gray, Thus winging low your airy way! And welcome moth and drowsy fly, That to mine ear come humming by! And welcome shadows dim and deep, And stars that through the pale sky peep; Oh welcome all! to me ye say My woodland love is on her way. Upon the soft wind floats her hair, FAME. Oh! who shall lightly say, that Fame As, thinking of the mighty dead, The young from slothful couch will start, And vow, with lifted hands outspread, Like them to act a noble part? Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame A desert bare, a shipless sea? To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye A BATTLE-FIELD. So thus ye lie, who, with the morning sun, With all the vigor, and capacity, And comeliness of strong and youthful men. Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane, With grizzled pates, from mates, whose wither'd hands For some good thirty years had smoothed your couch: Did give you the similitude of men Ere your fond mothers ceased to tend you still, As nurselings of their care, ye lie together. Oh! there be some Whose writhed features, fix'd in all the strength With their dead eyes half open'd. And there be some struck through with bristling darts, Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very sand. Some shreds of life more horrible than death. Elhwald. DAVID MACBETH MOIR, 1798-1851. To few writers of the present century has English poetry been more indebted than to David Macbeth Moir, not only for his own productions, but for his genial and discriminating criticism on the poetry of others. He was born at Musselburg, about six miles south-cast of Edinburgh, on the 5th of January, 1798. From the schools of his native town, he passed to the University of Edinburgh, where he pursued his medical studies with diligence and success. Having received the diploma of a surgeon, he established himself in that capacity in his native place, where he soon acquired an extensive practice. Dr. Moir was but about nineteen years of age when he committed his first verses to the press in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine, under the signature of the Greek letter, (A,) and hence the title of "Delta" was usually given to him in the literary world. Mr. Blackwood at once saw the great merits of his new contributor, and earnestly desired a continuance of his favors; and accordingly, for the period of more than thirty years, he continued to enrich the pages of that Magazine with a series of poems, which would be remarkable, were it for nothing but the profusion with which they were poured forth. But they possessed many and high qualities-a great command of language and numbers, a delicate and graceful fancy, and a sweet, pure vein of tenderness and pathos. "Delta," wrote Professor Wilson, "has produced many original pieces, which will possess a permanent place in the poetry of Scotland. Delicacy and grace characterize his happiest compositions; some of them are beautiful, and others breathe the simplest and purest pathos." Not less decisive is the praise of Lord Jeffrey :-"I cannot," he writes to our author, "resist the impulse of thanking you with all my heart for the deep gratification you have afforded me, and the soothing, and I hope 'bettering,' emotions which you have excited. I am sure that what you have written is more genuine pathos than any thing, almost, I have ever read in verse, and is so tender and true, so sweet and natural, as to make all lower recommendations indifferent." Though often urged to remove to Edinburgh to practise his profession, Dr. Moir could not bring himself to forsake his native place, where he felt that the poor had a special claim upon him. Of his profession he took a high estimate, regarding it less as the means for securing competency for himself than as an art which he was privileged to practise for the good of his fellow-men, and for the alleviation of their sufferings; and numerous sacrifices did he make, and many dangers did he incur, to carry aid and consolation to those who had no other claim upon him except their common humanity. In 1831, Dr. Moir published his "Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine, being a view of the Progress of the Healing Art among the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, and Arabians," a work of great research and diversified erudition. In 1843, he published his "Domestic Verses," which were received with great favor and passed through numerous editions. In 1851, he delivered a course of "Six Lectures at the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution on the Poetical Literature of the Past Half Century," which were soon after published. It would be difficult to speak of these in terms of too high praise, for I know not where, in so small a compass, may be found so much sound criticism and judicious reflections upon the Poets of Great Britain of the Nineteenth Century.' In July, 1851, appeared the "Lament of Selim," Delta's last contribution to Blackwood's Maga I am happy to acknowledge my obligations to these "Lectures" in this revised edition of my English Literature. |