Alexander Stephen Wilson was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish of Rayne, Aberdeenshire. His father, who rented a farm, having been killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought up from infancy under the care of his maternal grandfather. In his boyhood he attended school during winter, and in summer was employed as a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a land-surveyor, with whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals. At the close of his apprenticeship, he established a debating club among the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, entitled The Rural Echo, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own compositions, both in prose and poetry, and commanded a wide circulation. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly turned his attention to that department of study. He has likewise been ardent in the pursuit of physical science. An ingenious treatise from his pen on the nature of light, published in 1855, attracted no inconsiderable notice, and is strongly indicative of original power. He has latterly resided in Perth, holding the appointment of assistant civil engineer.
THINGS MUST MEND.
The gloom of dark despondency
At times will cloud the breast;
Hope's eagle eye may shaded be,
'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd;
But while we nurse an honest aim
We shall not break nor bend,
For when things are at the worst
They must mend.
The gentle heart by hardship crush'd
Will sing amid its tears,
And though its voice awhile be hush'd,
'Tis tuned for coming years;
A light from out the future shines
With hope's tear-drops to blend,
And when things are at the worst
They must mend.
Amid life's danger and despair
Still let our deeds be true,
For nought but what is right and fair
Can heal our hopeless view.
The beautiful will soothe us, like
The sunshine of a friend,
And when things are at the worst
They must mend.
Oh, never leave life's morning dream,
'Tis whisper'd down from heaven,
But trace its maze, though sorrow seem
The sole reward that 's given;
The joy is there, or not on earth,
Which with our souls may blend,
And when things are at the worst
They must mend.
THE WEE BLINK THAT SHINES IN A TEAR.
Life's pleasure seems sadness and care,
When dark is the bosom that feels,
Yet mingled wi' shades o' despair
Is the ray which our sorrow reveals;
Though darkly at times flows the stream,
It rows till its waters are clear—
And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dream
Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.
Afar in the wilderness blooms
The flower that spreads beauty around,
And Nature smiles sweet on our tombs
And softens with balm every wound.
Oh, call not our life sad nor vain,
Wi' its joys that can ever endear,
There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain,
Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.
Sweet smiles the last hope in our woe
And fair is the lone desert isle;
Young Flora peeps gay from the snow;
And dearest in grief is a smile;
The dew-drop is bright with a star;
Age glows when young memories appear;
But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by far
Is the wee blink that shines in a tear.
FLOWERS OF MY OWN LOVED CLIME.
Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved,
When my wild heart was careless and free,
But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved,
Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me.
Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves,
Like songs of the dear olden time;
Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breast
Of the home and the friends that were mine,
In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest,
Nor deem'd it should ever repine.
I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been,
And the spell brings the dear olden time
When I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see,
I treasure a life all my own,
And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee,
For like thine half its beauty hath flown.
I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again,
And snatch back the dear olden time,
When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
