George Dalziel.
From another issue of the "Annual" we make a few extracts from some verses which are entitled:
MY BOOKS.
My books! my friends, my dear companions all!
My never-failing—ever true and fair!
There standing round, come ready to my call,
And talk, and sing, and tell their wonders rare.
If I am sad, they give me joyous song;
Or if I wish for pleasant talk the while,
My friends are there, and will for short or long,
Just as I please, the ling'ring hour beguile.
With them at ease I play the conjurers part,—
They bring for me the stores of other times,—
Oh, rare the grace!—oh, rare the cunning art
That stirs the sluggish heart with ringing rhymes!
I see the patriot rear his banner high;
The troops march gaily through the busy town;
Methinks I hear the trembling maiden sigh
As her true knight goes forth to seek renown.
King Arthur, with his warriors brave and good,
Comes forth, the dauntless flower of chivalry;
And there be priests in monkish garb and hood,
As well as motley fools of revelry.
'Neath walls of Troy I see the valiant Greek,
Brave Ajax, and the mighty Hector there;
In fancy hear the aged Priam speak,
And see fair Helen with the golden hair;
The war-like braves in single combat stand,
The ponderous spear each doughty hero hurled,—
Fair Beatrice takes Dante by the hand,
And shows the myst'ries of the hidden world.
* * * * * * *
Sweet scenes of peace! here in my native land
These loving friends will each a posie bring,
With wooing words they take my ready hand,
And lead, where meadows smile and brooklets sing;
Where scented flow'rs cling round the cottage home,
Sweet new-mown hay, and fields of ripening corn,—
The broad smooth lake, the gorge where waters foam,
The shady grove, or by the scented thorn.
I see the fairies in the woody dells,
I join their midnight revels on the green;
The tower where the Enchanted Princess dwells,
Embowered in a blaze of golden sheen.
With them I travel o'er the arid plain,—
And wander where the palm and plantain grow,—
Through citron groves—or vine-clad summit gain,
Climb mountains clad with thousand years of snow,
The heathy moor, and o'er the high hill top,
And seem to breathe the cold crisp frosty air,
As from the lofty Alpine icy slope
I see the fertile valleys stretching there.
'Mong lofty pines, or where the olives grow;
Through far-off lands with Livingstone I roam,
Or loiter where the mighty rivers flow,
While sitting in my easy chair at home.
There is no land in all the world we know,
There is no mighty lake or frozen sea,
No hidden depth where foot of man can go,
But my true friends will find and show to me.
For some will sing, and some will tell a tale,
A simple story full of jocund glee,—
And anecdote with point that cannot fail
To cheer the heart with true hilarity;
Kind jovial friends that merry songs can sing,
Or with a touch of pathos bring the tear;
Anon I hear the wedding bells out-ring,
And now for gallant deeds the sounding cheer.