I heard the evening linnet’s voice.
[John Finlay.—Mr. Finlay was a native of Glasgow, and is well known by his poem entitled, "Wallace, or the Vale of Ellerslie." He died in 1810, at the age of 28.]
I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among,
Yet sweeter were the tender notes of Isabella's song!
So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul,
The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control.
I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade,
And mingled in the melody that Isabella made;
Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart!
Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art.
I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky,
Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye!
Ne'er softer fell the rain drop of the first relenting year,
Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear.
All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow prov'd
How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I lov'd!
Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more,
As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore.
The Home of my Fathers.
Subdued by misfortunes, and bow'd down with pain,
I sought on the bosom of peace to recline;
I hied to the home of my fathers again,
But the home of my fathers no longer was mine!
The look that spoke gladness and welcome was gone;
The blaze that shone bright in the hall was no more.
A stranger was there with a bosom of stone,
And cold was his eye as I enter'd his door.
'Twas his, deaf to pity, to tenderness dead,
The fallen to crush, and the humble to spurn;
But I staid not his scorn,—from his mansion I fled,
And my beating heart vow'd never more to return.
When home shall receive me, one home yet I know,
O'er its gloomy recess see the pine branches wave;
'Tis the tomb of my fathers!—The world is my foe,
And all my inheritance now is a grave.
'Tis the tomb of my fathers, the grey-moisten'd walls
Declining to earth, speak emphatic, decay;
The gate off its hinges, and half-opening, calls
"Approach, most unhappy, thy dwelling of clay."
Alas! thou sole dwelling of all I hold dear,
How little this meeting once augur'd my breast!
From a wand'rer accept, oh, my fathers! this tear;
Receive him, the last of your race, to your rest!
