A son of genius and of misfortune, John Wright was born on the 1st September 1805, at the farm-house of Auchincloigh, in the parish of Sorn, Ayrshire. From his mother, a woman of much originality and shrewdness, he inherited a strong inclination towards intellectual culture. His school education was circumscribed, but he experienced delight in improving his mind, by solitary musings amidst the amenities of the vicinity of Galston, a village to which his father had removed. At the age of seven, he began to assist his father in his occupation of a coal driver; and in his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the loom. His master supplied him with books, which he perused with avidity, and he took an active part in the weekly meetings of apprentices for mutual literary improvement; but his chief happiness was still experienced in lonely rambles amidst the interesting scenes of the neighbourhood, which, often celebrated by the poets, were especially calculated to foment his own rapidly developing fancy. He fell in love, was accepted, and ultimately cast off—incidents which afforded him opportunities of celebrating the charms, and deploring the inconstancy of the fair. He composed a poem, of fifteen hundred lines, entitled "Mahomet, or the Hegira," and performed the extraordinary mental effort of retaining the whole on his memory, at the period being unable to write. "The Retrospect," a poem of more matured power, was announced in 1824. At the recommendation of friends, having proceeded to Edinburgh to seek the counsel of men of letters, he submitted the MS. of his poem to Professor Wilson, Dr M'Crie, Mr Glassford Bell, and others, who severally expressed their approval, and commended a publication. "The Retrospect," accordingly, appeared with a numerous list of subscribers, and was well received by the press. The poet now removed to Cambuslang, near Glasgow, where he continued to prosecute his occupation of weaving. He entered into the married state by espousing Margaret Chalmers, a young woman of respectable connexions and considerable literary tastes. The desire of obtaining funds to afford change of climate to his wife, who was suffering from impaired health, induced him to propose a second edition of his poems, to be published by subscription. During the course of his canvass, he unfortunately contracted those habits of intemperance which have proved the bane of so many of the sons of genius. Returning to the loom at Cambuslang, he began to exchange the pleasures of the family hearth for the boisterous excitement of the tavern. He separated from his wife and children, and became the victim of dissipation. In 1853, some of his literary friends published the whole of his poetical works in a duodecimo volume, in the hope of procuring the means of extricating him from his painful condition. The attempt did not succeed. He died in an hospital in Glasgow, of fever, contracted by intemperance. As a poet, he was possessed of a rich fancy, with strong descriptive powers. His "Retrospect" abounds with beautiful passages; and some of his shorter poems and songs are destined to survive.
AN AUTUMNAL CLOUD.
Oh! would I were throned on yon glossy golden cloud,
Soaring to heaven with the eagle so proud,
Floating o'er the sky
Like a spirit, to descry
Each bright realm,—and, when I die,
May it be my shroud!
I would skim afar o'er ocean, and drink of bliss my fill,
O'er the thunders of Ni'gara and cataracts of Nile,—
With rising rainbows wreathed,
In mist and darkness sheathed,
Where nought but spirits breathed
Around me the while.
Above the mighty Alps (o'er the tempest's angry god
Careering on the avalanche) should be my bless'd abode.
There, where Nature lowers more wild
Than her most uncultured child,
Revels beauty—as one smiled
O'er life's darkest mood.
Our aerial flight should be where eye hath never been,
O'er the stormy Polar deep, where the icy Alps are seen,
Where Death sits, crested high,
As he would invade the sky,
Whilst the living valleys lie
In their beautiful green!
Spirit of the peaceful autumnal eve!
Child of enchantment! behind thee leave
Thy semblance mantled o'er me;
Too full thy tide of glory
For Fancy to restore thee,
Or Memory give!
THE MAIDEN FAIR.
The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood,
The greenwood o'er the mossy stream,
That roll'd in rapture's wildest mood,
And flutter'd in the fairy beam.
Through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam
O'er hill and dell,—all Nature lay
Wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream
Of her that charm'd my homeward way!
Long had I mark'd thee, maiden fair!
And drunk of bliss from thy dark eye,
And still, to feed my fond despair,
Bless'd thy approach, and, passing by,
I turn'd me round to gaze and sigh,
In worship wild, and wish'd thee mine,
On that fair breast to live and die,
O'er-power'd with transport so divine!
Still sacred be that hour to love,
And dear the season of its birth,
And fair the glade, and green the grove,
Its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth
Of melody and woodland mirth!—
The hour, the spot, so dear to me!
That wean'd my soul from all on earth,
To be for ever bless'd in thee.
THE OLD BLIGHTED THORN.
All night, by the pathway that crosses the moor,
I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn,
Yet thought her not false—she had ever been true
To her tryst by the old blighted thorn.
I had heard of Love lighting to darken the heart,
Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn;
Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long,
And wept 'neath the old blighted thorn.
The snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread,
I mark'd as footprints far below by the burn;
I sped to the valley—I found her deep sunk,
On her way to the old blighted thorn!
I whisper'd, "My Mary!"—she spoke not: I caught
Her hand, press'd her pale cheek—'twas icy and cold;
Then sunk on her bosom—its throbbings were o'er—
Nor knew how I quitted my hold.
THE WRECKED MARINER.
Stay, proud bird of the shore!
Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff,
Where waits our shatter'd skiff—
One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.
Fan with thy plumage bright
Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine;
And, gently to divine
The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.
Again swoop out to sea,
With lone and lingering wail—then lay thy head,
As thou thyself wert dead,
Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.
Now let her bid false Hope
For ever hide her beam, nor trust again
The peace-bereaving strain—
Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.
Oh! bid not her repine,
And deem my loss too bitter to be borne,
Yet all of passion scorn
But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.
Thou art away, sweet wind!
Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing,
And o'er her bosom fling
The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!
