 | Poems and Essays of a Miscellaneous Character on Subjects of General Interest |  |
94
REMINISCENCES OF THE “HIE TOON” OF HAMILTON SIXTY YEARS AGO.
Fair Hamiltonia! when a happy child
I roamed thy charming precincts free and wild.
Led by a father's hand, beyond thy bounds
I strayed delighted through the beauteous grounds
That skirt the Ducal pile, to where thy tide,
Brown Avon, mingles with the silver Clyde.
There I had been content each day to roam,
Till twilight turned my wandering footsteps home.
Home of my youth, thy place, thy name is gone!
Nought meets the eye but lofty walls of stone;
Within no children gambol on the street,
No hum of voices—tread of busy feet;
The sounds of hammer, axe, and rattling loom,
Are heard no more (no Plebeian feet presume
To tread where pampered steeds are duly stalled),
Nor memories of homes and hearths recalled.
Yet there a scene was writ on memory's page,
That record neither time, nor change, nor age
Effaces:—In a small and lonesome room,
Where death and sickness shed a solemn gloom,
An aged man lay on the bed of death—
Labouring and fitful came his struggling breath—
His sunken eyes were dim in death's eclipse:
No hand to raise his head, or wet his lips;
For in that room, upon a bed of pain,
A daughter lay—no being but the twain
Was there—she in her weakness vainly strove
To rise, and tend the father of her love:
At last, on hands and knees, her painful way
She crept to where the dying Christian lay—
“My father, death is near! your hour is come!”
“I know it, daughter—I am going home!
My path is light—no darkness clouds my way:
Farewell!” he ceased, and calmly slept away,
And she, the daughter, trod for many years
The vale of life—to her a vale of tears—
The vale of death in faith and hope she passed;
Her faith grew bright, still brighter to the last.
Farewell, my mother! thou art gone to rest,
Where sleep in peace the oppressor and oppressed.
I roamed thy charming precincts free and wild.
Led by a father's hand, beyond thy bounds
I strayed delighted through the beauteous grounds
That skirt the Ducal pile, to where thy tide,
Brown Avon, mingles with the silver Clyde.
There I had been content each day to roam,
Till twilight turned my wandering footsteps home.
Home of my youth, thy place, thy name is gone!
Nought meets the eye but lofty walls of stone;
Within no children gambol on the street,
No hum of voices—tread of busy feet;
The sounds of hammer, axe, and rattling loom,
Are heard no more (no Plebeian feet presume
To tread where pampered steeds are duly stalled),
Nor memories of homes and hearths recalled.
Yet there a scene was writ on memory's page,
That record neither time, nor change, nor age
Effaces:—In a small and lonesome room,
Where death and sickness shed a solemn gloom,
95
Labouring and fitful came his struggling breath—
His sunken eyes were dim in death's eclipse:
No hand to raise his head, or wet his lips;
For in that room, upon a bed of pain,
A daughter lay—no being but the twain
Was there—she in her weakness vainly strove
To rise, and tend the father of her love:
At last, on hands and knees, her painful way
She crept to where the dying Christian lay—
“My father, death is near! your hour is come!”
“I know it, daughter—I am going home!
My path is light—no darkness clouds my way:
Farewell!” he ceased, and calmly slept away,
And she, the daughter, trod for many years
The vale of life—to her a vale of tears—
The vale of death in faith and hope she passed;
Her faith grew bright, still brighter to the last.
Farewell, my mother! thou art gone to rest,
Where sleep in peace the oppressor and oppressed.
96
A Scene witnessed by the Writer in 1799, during the Last Illness of DOUGLAS, EIGHTH DUKE OF HAMILTON.
Ah! there are times, and there are places;
And there are scenes, and there are faces
That Memory ever more embraces,
And on her tablets deeply traces.
And there are scenes, and there are faces
That Memory ever more embraces,
And on her tablets deeply traces.
'Twas summer-tide—the rose was blushing,
The songs of birds and streams were gushing,
Young zeyphr's wing the leaves was brushing,
That slept beneath its slumb'rous hushing.
The songs of birds and streams were gushing,
Young zeyphr's wing the leaves was brushing,
That slept beneath its slumb'rous hushing.
Came through the “toon” a pageant fair,
Tall flowers, wreathed figures, quaint and rare,
Rich music thrilling through the air,
And streaming banners—all were there.
Tall flowers, wreathed figures, quaint and rare,
Rich music thrilling through the air,
And streaming banners—all were there.
I saw the broad-leaved gates expand,
With circling sweep—that goodly band,
Before the gorgeous portals stand
Of that fair palace, huge and grand.
With circling sweep—that goodly band,
Before the gorgeous portals stand
Of that fair palace, huge and grand.
97
Why all this proud and bright display
Of music, flowers, and banners gay?
We honour thus his natal day,
Whose life now passes fast away.
Of music, flowers, and banners gay?
We honour thus his natal day,
Whose life now passes fast away.
Lo! at the open sash appears
A form bowed down—but not with years—
Hushed be the music, stilled the cheers,
So deathly pale his Grace appears.
A form bowed down—but not with years—
Hushed be the music, stilled the cheers,
So deathly pale his Grace appears.
His feeble steps, on either side,
A lady and physician guide;
He bows;—faint gleams of wonted pride,
Like shadows o'er his features glide.
A lady and physician guide;
He bows;—faint gleams of wonted pride,
Like shadows o'er his features glide.
I gazed into his open tomb—
A low-browed vault of charnel gloom—
Where his ancestors' dust had room—
No high mausolic sculptured tomb.
A low-browed vault of charnel gloom—
Where his ancestors' dust had room—
No high mausolic sculptured tomb.
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