Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

My minstrel brother, thou whose soul
Genius delighted to enroll
Upon her wonder-beaming scroll—
A favored token—
Long may with thee life's golden bowl
Remain unbroken!

Your recent gift I value much;
A treasure 't is—and, sir, as such
I'll keep it, tho' old age should clutch
Me, bye and bye,
Tho' groping with a beggar's crutch,
Or blind-man's eye.

Of all the strains that ever flowed
From Music's Helicon abode,
Since Tubal-Cain his fiddle showed
And drew the bow,
Give me the plaintive minor mode,
Soft moving, slow!

Your plaintive airs my mind enthrall,
As once in Israel's kingly hall
Did minstrel notes becalm old Saul,
When he was crazy;—
But China, chief among them all,
How shall I praise thee

187

I wish that raven-tutored wight
Who croaked to death my favorite
Was fastened on, some winter night,
The old French King;
His voice would deepen, that he might
The true bass sing.

He 's pitched it now upon a key
He calls a kind of harmony;
But you and I must disagree,
And make discord;
The tune he sings is new to me,
Upon my word!

Sir, 't is a great, a mighty pity,
One worthy of a mournful ditty,
That some, so overwise and witty—
(Excuse the rhyme)—
Should call the humdrums of a city
Music sublime.

There 's scarce a chorister who dares
Attune those ancient country airs
That in unknown, oblivious lairs
Lie languishing;
Which, when one hears, he feels his cares
Evanishing.

And is it unimportant whether
We lose our main-stays altogether?
We'll take discernment for a tether,
And make them fast;

188

And when again it comes fair weather,
We'll have a mast.

Without a standard which can guide us,
In every thing will wo betide us;
Wisdom will scornfully deride us,
And mock our fate;
And Conscience, too, may often chide us,
But oft too late.

Swan, when within the grave you rest,
You'll leave the world a rich bequest;
Thou oft shalt be the bosom's guest,
In time to come,
For Music in thy tuneful breast
Had sure a home.

I 'm told the Muse is sometimes near
To him whom Music loves so dear;
You need not have the slightest fear
That I dispute it;
The two are twins, and none appear
Who will confute it.

You 've had it, too, in contemplation
To put me under obligation
By showing me your conversation
With her at leisure;
I need not add my approbation
Of such a measure.

An' gif ye hae no gat aboon
Pitting your lallan harp in tune,
Just weave a sang—if but a roon,
The deil-ma-care!
Nae doubt 't will steek my hamely croon,
If naething mair.

189

Leeze me on Scotia, honored isle!
Tho' distant mony a wearie mile,
Tho' ocean's waves atween us boil
Wi' frightfu' roar,
Wi' winged Fancy aft the while
I seek her shore.

Wow! 't is na wholly fancy either!
There is a sort o' kindred tether
That hauds us fast to ane anither,
I maun declare;
She is my carlin great grand-mither—
Her fa' be fair!

Auld frin', I rede ye now take heed
I canna write but I can read
Broad Scottish lallans—so “Gude speed”
Your comin' letter!
An' gif I canna get remead,
I'll be your debtor.

For one to live when hope is dead,
And horrors blacken round his head;
When Reason's brilliant light has fled
Like thawing snow-trails;
And, what is worse, till he has shed
His teeth and toe-nails—

Is living longer, I opine,
Than suits our natural design;
But may you leave life's bound'ry line
Not over fast;

190

And in your first endowments shine
Bright to the last!

Hale be thy ancient harp till then,
Thou one among a host of men!
May heaven for thy future ken
Be music planning!
Meantime, your servant, with the pen—
Josiah Canning.

This gift was a volume of music called “New-England Harmony,” containing a valuable collection of ancient church airs of which Mr. Swan was the composer.

Helicon—a mountain in Bœotia, on which stood a temple dedicated to the Muses; from whence flowed the spring Hippocrene, also sacred to the fabled Nine.

The invention of instrumental music is ascribed to Tubal-Cain.

Some wiseacre has introduced China into a recent collection of music, and undertaken to HARMONIZE it. The tune can hardly be recognized by those who admired it in its old form—the bass staff especially being totally different.

A famous rock in the midst of the Connecticut, a short distance below Templeton's ferry, Gill.

Mr. Swan, who is of Scottish descent, had it in contemplation to answer the author's first epistle, in Scotch verse; but was deterred therefrom, thinking it would be unintelligible.—The reason of the four foregoing verses being in immitation of road lallans (Scotch dialect) will be readily understood by the intelligent reader.