CCLIII. THE SMILING PLAINS *. The smiling plains, profusely gay, But ah! Miranda, without thee, I mourn thy absence, charming maid! "These elegant stanzas were written by poor Falconer, the author of the Shipwreck, of whom Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop in the following exquisite strain of tenderness; "Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck, that glorious poem, is no more. After weathering that dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his Poem, and after weathering many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth; but he was the son of obscurity and misfortune. He was one of those daring adventurous spirits, which old Caledonia, beyond any other nation, is remarkable for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scots O soft as love! as honour fair! ballad which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart; Little did my mother think, Or what death I should die!" In addition to these remarks, it will be proper to add, that William Fatconer was born in Edinburgh, about the year 1730, where his father was a barber. William, at an early age, went on board a Leith merchantman, in which he served an apprenticeship. In 1769, we find him purser of the Aurora frigate. This vessel sailed for India the same year, and was never more heard of. Various reports have arisen respecting the fate of the Aurora, which was last heard of at the Cape of Good Hope, in December 1769; but the prevalent opinion is, that she took fire at sea in the night time, and blew up. In his person, Falconer was of the middle size, sparely made, and with a dark weather-beaten countenance, marked by the small pox. No remains of the family are now known to exist in Edinburgh. A sister, who was supposed to be the last surviving, died within these few years in a workhouse there."Edin. ed. of the Shipwreck, 1807. CCLIV. N THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR." Star of the brave!-whose beam hath shed Thou radiant and ador'd deceit ! Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth? Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays, Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, Before thee rose, and with thee grew, Of three bright colours †, each divine, For Freedom's hand had blended them, One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes : Star of the brave! thy ray is pale, And Freedom hallows with her tread The silent cities of the dead, For beautiful in death are they Who proudly fall in her array; The tri-colour. CCLV. SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN, MY LASSIE†. She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She's gane to dwall in heaven: Yere owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, This beautiful specimen of the Caledonian Lyre, was copied from the recitation of a young country girl, and was thought to have been composed about the time of the Reformation, on a daughter of the Laird Maxwell of Cowhill, on the bank of the Nith, who was much celebrated for her beauty and mental acquirements, and was called by the peasantry the lily of Nithsdale. She died at the age of nineteen. The girl observed, that it was a great fave: rite of her mother's, but seldom sung, as its open familiarity with God made it too daring for Presbyterian strictness. They no doubt pass the bounds of simple and natural pathetic, nevertheless, they strongly express the mingled feelings of grief and devotion which follow the loss of some beloved object. There are degrees of affliction corresponding with those of our attachment and regard, and surely the most tender of attachment must be deplored by affliction the most poignant. This may account for, and excuse those expressions in this song which border on extravagance; but it must be confessed, that the first stanza, with every allowance, is reprehensible from its open and daring confidence in the Deity. The rest are written in a strain of solemn and feeling eloquence, which must find an echo in every bosom. The effu. sion is somewhat too serious for a song; it has all the holiness of a psal:n, and would suffer profanation by being set to a common tune.-Cromek. |