The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems," a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the Dundee Advertiser, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of £300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.
By Niagara's flood
Antoinette stood,
And watch'd the wild waves rush on,
As they leapt below
Into vapoury snow,
Or fell into flakes of foam.
The sun's last beams
Fell in golden gleams
On water and wave-girt isle,
And in tinge all fair
Dipp'd the girl's bright hair
And heighten'd her happy smile.
Away—away!
In wild ecstasy
She threads the abyss's brink,
Where waters—black—
Of the cataract
Into drifted snow-waves sink.
A father's eye
Looketh anxiously
On the freaks of his favour'd child,
Till her spirit appals
His soul, and he calls
"Antoinette" in accents wild.
A bolder heart
Loves the girl's free sport,
And he grasps her by the gown,
Then tosseth her high
In the twilight sky—
But, heavens! she falleth down!
She sinks in the wave;
He swimmeth to save!
Oh, never was mortal arm
More manfully braced,
As it grasps her slim waist,
And struggles in frantic alarm!
In vain does he strike—
The fresh waves break,
And the doom'd ones are downward borne!
Yet the swimmer's eye
Seemeth still to defy
The might of the merciless storm.
More loud than before
Is the cataract's roar,
And the furrow'd wave is bright
With many a pearl
From the shining swirl
Of the water's lucid light.
And down below
Is the woolly snow
Of Niagara's wrathful bed,
But the lip of the bold
Hath never told
The secrets that there lie hid.
A strong arm, press'd
Round a maiden's waist
On the doleful morrow is seen,
And her oozy hair
Laves his forehead bare
With the waft of the wavy stream.
