And the lambs on the lea Are in playfulness bounding, And the voice of the sea Is in harmony sounding; And the streamlet on high In the morning beam dances, For all Nature is joy As sweet summer advances.

Then, my Mary, let 's stray Where the wild-flowers are glowing, By the banks of the Tay In its melody flowing; Thou shalt bathe in May-dew, Like a sweet mountain blossom, For 'tis bright like thy brow, And 'tis pure as thy bosom!

SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.

Oh! the sunny peaches glow, And the grapes in cl.u.s.ters blush; And the cooling silver streams From their sylvan fountains rush; There is music in the grove, And there 's fragrance on the gale; But there 's nought so dear to me As my own Highland vale.

Oh! the queen-like virgin rose, Of the dew and sunlight born, And the azure violet, Spread their beauties to the morn; So does the hyacinth, And the lily pure and pale; But I love the daisy best In my own Highland vale.

Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!

'Tis the nightingale complains; Oh! the soul of music breathes In those more than plaintive strains; But they 're not so dear to me As the murmur of the rill, And the bleating of the lambs On my own Highland hill.

Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow, And the juicy fruits may blush, And the beauteous birds may sing, And the crystal streamlets rush; And the verdant meads may smile, And the cloudless sun may beam, But there 's nought beneath the skies Like my own Highland home.

THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.

AIR--_"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."_

The tempest is raging And rending the shrouds; The ocean is waging A war with the clouds; The cordage is breaking, The canvas is torn, The timbers are creaking-- The seamen forlorn.

The water is gushing Through hatches and seams; 'Tis roaring and rushing O'er keelson and beams; And nought save the lightning On mainmast or boom, At intervals brightening The palpable gloom.

Though horrors beset me, And hurricanes howl, I may not forget thee, Beloved of my soul!

Though soon I must perish In ocean beneath, Thine image I 'll cherish, Adored one! in death.

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]

Talk not of temples--there is one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven; Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair; The dome is vast immensity-- All nature worships there!

The Alps array'd in stainless snow, The Andean ranges yet untrod, At sunrise and at sunset glow Like altar-fires to G.o.d.

A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze, As if with hallow'd victims rare; And thunder lifts its voice in praise-- All nature worships there!

The ocean heaves resistlessly, And pours his glittering treasure forth; His waves--the priesthood of the sea-- Kneel on the sh.e.l.l-gemm'd earth, And there emit a hollow sound, As if they murmur'd praise and prayer; On every side 'tis holy ground-- All nature worships there!

The grateful earth her odours yield In homage, Mighty One! to thee; From herbs and flowers in every field, From fruit on every tree, The balmy dew at morn and even Seems like the penitential tear, Shed only in the sight of heaven-- All nature worships there!

The cedar and the mountain pine, The willow on the fountain's brim, The tulip and the eglantine, In reverence bend to Him; The song-birds pour their sweetest lays, From tower, and tree, and middle air; The rushing river murmurs praise-- All nature worships there!

Then talk not of a fane, save one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven.

Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair, The dome is vast immensity-- All nature worships there!

[40] This admirable composition was an especial favourite of Dr Thomas Chalmers, who was in the habit of quoting it to his students in the course of his theological prelections.

JOHN M'DIARMID.

The son of the Rev. Hugh M'Diarmid, minister of the Gaelic church, Glasgow, John M'Diarmid was born in 1790. He received in Edinburgh a respectable elementary education; but, deprived of his father at an early age, he was left unaided to push his fortune in life. For some time he acted as clerk in connexion with a bleachfield at Roslin, and subsequently held a situation in the Commercial Bank in Edinburgh. He now attended some cla.s.ses in the University, while his other spare time was devoted to reading and composition. During two years he was employed in the evenings as amanuensis to Professor Playfair. At one of the College debating societies he improved himself as a public speaker, and subsequently took an active part in the discussions of the "Forum." Fond of verse-making, he composed some spirited lines on the battle of Waterloo, when the first tidings of the victory inspired a thrilling interest in the public mind; the consequence was, the immediate establishment of his reputation. His services were sought by several of the leading publishers, and the accomplished editor of the _Edinburgh Review_ offered to receive contributions from his pen. In 1816 he compiled some works for the bookselling firm of Oliver and Boyd, and towards the end of the same year, in concert with his friends Charles Maclaren and William Ritchie, originated the _Scotsman_ newspaper. In January 1817, he accepted the editorship of the _Dumfries and Galloway Courier_--a journal which, established in 1809 by Dr Duncan of Ruthwell, chiefly with the view of advocating his scheme of savings' banks, had hitherto been conducted by that ingenious and philanthropic individual.

As editor of a provincial newspaper, M'Diarmid was possessed of the prompt.i.tude and business-habits which, in connexion with literary ability, are essential for such an office. The _Dumfries Courier_, which had formerly occupied a neutrality in politics, became, under his management, a powerful organ of the liberal party. But the editor was more than a politician; the columns of his journal were enriched with ill.u.s.trations of the natural history of the district, and sent forth stirring appeals on subjects of social reformation and agricultural improvement. Devoted to his duties as a journalist, he continued to cherish his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published an edition of Cowper, with an elegant memoir of the poet's life. "The Sc.r.a.p-Book," a work of selections and original contributions in prose and verse, appeared in 1820, and was speedily followed by a second volume. In 1823 he composed a memoir of Goldsmith for an edition of the "Vicar of Wakefield," which was published in Edinburgh. The _Dumfries Magazine_ was originated under his auspices in 1825, and during the three years of its existence was adorned with contributions from his pen. In 1830 he published "Sketches from Nature," a volume chiefly devoted to the ill.u.s.tration of scenery and character in the districts of Dumfries and Galloway. "The Picture of Dumfries," an ill.u.s.trated work, appeared in 1832. A description of Moffat, and a life of Nicholson, the Galloway poet, complete the catalogue of his publications. In 1820 he was offered the editorship of the _Caledonian Mercury_, the first established of the Scottish newspapers, but preferred to remain in Dumfries. He ultimately became sole proprietor of the _Courier_, which, under his superintendence, acquired a celebrity rarely attained by a provincial newspaper. In 1847 he was entertained at a public dinner by his fellow-townsmen. His death took place at Dumfries, on the 18th November 1852, in his sixty-third year.

A man of social and generous dispositions, M'Diarmid was esteemed among a wide circle of friends; he was in habits of intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, Jeffrey, Wilson, Lockhart, the Ettrick Shepherd, Dr Thomas Gillespie, and many others of his distinguished contemporaries. To his kindly patronage, many young men of genius were indebted for positions of honour and emolument. An elegant prose-writer, his compositions in verse are pervaded by a graceful smoothness and lively fancy.

NITHSIDE.

AIR--_"There 's a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard."_

When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree, The b.u.t.terfly disporting beside the hummel bee; The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied, How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!

When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown, And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown, To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride, How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!

When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue, And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue; While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide, Surpa.s.sing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!

When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee, And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea; And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride, How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!

When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear, The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year; And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide, Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside!

And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow, And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below, You still may share the curler's joys, and find at even-tide, Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside!

EVENING.

Hush, ye songsters! day is done, See how sweet the setting sun Gilds the welkin's boundless breast, Smiling as he sinks to rest; Now the swallow down the dell, Issuing from her noontide cell, Mocks the deftest marksman's aim Jumbling in fantastic game: Sweet inhabitant of air, Sure thy bosom holds no care; Not the fowler full of wrath, Skilful in the deeds of death-- Not the darting hawk on high (Ruthless tyrant of the sky!) Owns one art of cruelty Fit to fell or fetter thee, Gayest, freest of the free!

Ruling, whistling shrill on high, Where yon turrets kiss the sky, Teasing with thy idle din Drowsy daws at rest within; Long thou lov'st to sport and spring On thy never-wearying wing.

Lower now 'midst foliage cool Swift thou skimm'st the peaceful pool, Where the speckled trout at play, Rising, shares thy dancing prey, While the treach'rous circles swell Wide and wider where it fell, Guiding sure the angler's arm Where to find the puny swarm; And with artificial fly, Best to lure the victim's eye, Till, emerging from the brook, Brisk it bites the barbed hook; Struggling in the unequal strife, With its death, disguised as life, Till it breathless beats the sh.o.r.e Ne'er to cleave the current more!