WILD-FLOWERS FROM ALLOWAY AND DOON.

By Alexander Anderson.

No book to-night; but let me sit

And watch the firelight change and flit,

And let me think of other lays

Than those that shake our modern days.

Outside, the tread of passing feet

Along the unsympathetic street

Is naught to me; I sit and hear

Far other music in my ear,

That, keeping perfect time and tune,

Whispers of Alloway and Doon.

The scent of withered flowers has brought

A fresher atmosphere of thought,

In which I make a realm, and see

A fairer world unfold to me;

For grew they not upon that spot

Of sacred soil that loses naught

Of sanctity by all the years

That come and pass like human fears?

They grew beneath the light of June,

And blossomed on the Banks of Doon;

The waving woods are rich with green,

And sweet the Doon flows on between;

The winds tread light upon the grass,

That shakes with joy to feel them pass;

The sky, in its expanse of blue,

Has but a single cloud or two;

The lark, in raptures clear and long,

Shakes out his little soul in song.

But far above his notes, I hear

Another song within my ear,

Rich, soft, and sweet, and deep by turns—

The quick, wild passion-throbs of Burns.

Ah! were it not that he has flung

A sunshine by the songs he sung

On fields and woods of ‘Bonnie Doon,’

These simple flowers had been a boon

Less dear to me; but since they grew

On sacred spots which once he knew,

They breathe, though crushed and shorn of bloom,

To-night within this lonely room,

Such perfumes, that to me prolong

The passionate sweetness of his song.

The glory of an early death

Was his; and the immortal wreath

Was woven round brows that had not felt

The furrows that are roughly dealt

To age; nor had the heart grown cold

With haunting fears that, taking hold,

Cast shadows downward from their wing,

Until we doubt the songs we sing.

But his was lighter doom of pain,

To pass in youth, and to remain

For ever fair and fresh and young,

Encircled by the youth he sung.

And so to me these simple flowers

Have sent through all my dreaming hours

His songs again, which, when a boy,

Made day and night a double joy.

Nor did they sink and die away

When manhood came with sterner day,

But still, amid the jar and strife,

The rush and clang of railway life,

They rose up, and at all their words

I felt my spirit’s inner chords

Thrill with their old sweet touch, as now,

Though middle manhood shades my brow;

For though I hear the tread of feet

Along the unsympathetic street,

And all the city’s din to-night,

My heart warms with that old delight,

In which I sit and, dreaming, hear

Singing to all the inner ear,

Rich, clear, and soft, and sweet by turns,

The deep, wild passion-throbs of Burns.

The Conductor of Chambers’s Journal begs to direct the attention of Contributors to the following notice:

1st. All communications should be addressed to the ‘Editor, 339 High Street, Edinburgh.’

2d. For its return in case of ineligibility, postage-stamps should accompany every manuscript.

3d. Manuscripts should bear the author’s full Christian name, Surname, and Address, legibly written; and should be written on white (not blue) paper, and on one side of the leaf only.

4th. Offerings of Verse should invariably be accompanied by a stamped and directed envelope.

If the above rules are complied with, the Editor will do his best to insure the safe return of ineligible papers.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.