Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringing
The feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell,
I will charm each cloud from my soul by singing
Of all I have left and lov'd so well.
Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease,
But the dearest hope we on earth can gain
Is to come, after long sad years, in peace,
And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.
THOMAS BRYDSON.
Thomas Brydson was born in Glasgow in 1806. On completing the usual course of study at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, he became a licentiate of the Established Church. He assisted in the Middle Church, Greenock, and in the parish of Kilmalcolm, Renfrewshire, and was, in 1839, ordained minister of Levern Chapel, near Paisley. In 1842, he was translated to the full charge of Kilmalcolm, where he continued to minister with much acceptance till his death, which took place suddenly on the 28th January 1855.
A man of fine fancy and correct taste, Mr Brydson was, in early life, much devoted to poetical composition. In 1829, he published a duodecimo volume of "Poems;" and a more matured collection of his poetical pieces in 1832, under the title of "Pictures of the Past." He contributed, in prose and verse, to the Edinburgh Literary Journal; the Republic of Letters, a Glasgow publication; and some of the London annuals. Though fond of correspondence with his literary friends, and abundantly hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great measure, confined himself to his secluded parish of Kilmalcolm. Among his parishioners he was highly esteemed for the unction and fervour which distinguished his public ministrations, as well as for the gentleness of his manners and the generosity of his heart. Of domestic animals he was devotedly fond. He took delight in pastoral scenery, and in solitary musings among the hills. His poetry is pervaded by elegance of sentiment and no inconsiderable vigour of expression.
ALL LOVELY AND BRIGHT.
All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time,
Seem the days when I wander'd with you,
Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime,
On the deeps that are trackless and blue.
And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill,
And the howl of the forest is drear,
I think of the lapse of our own native rill—
I think of thy voice with a tear.
The light of my taper is fading away,
It hovers, and trembles, and dies;
The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray,
But sleep will not come to mine eyes.