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Shot lightning through this lonely isle !
No right had he but what he made
To this small spot, his leafy shade;
But the ground lay within that ring
To which he only dared to cling;
Renouncing here, as worse than dead,
The craven few who bowed the head
Beneath the change, who heard a claim
How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.

From year to year this shaggy mortal went
(So seemed it) down a strange descent;
Till they, who saw his outward frame,
Fixed on him an unhallowed name;
Him-free from all malicious taint,
And guiding, like the Patmos saint,
A pen unwearied-to indite,

In his lone isle, the dreams of night;
Impassioned dreams, that strove to span
The faded glories of his clan!

Suns that through blood their western harbour sought,

And stars that in their courses fought,—
Towers rent, winds combating with woods-
Lands deluged by unbridled floods,-
And beast and bird that from the spell
Of sleep took import terrible,
These types mysterious (if the show
Of battle and the routed foe
Had failed) would furnish an array
Of matter for the dawning day!

How disappeared he?-ask the newt and
Inheritors of his abode;

[toad,

The otter crouching undisturbed,
In her dank cleft ;-but be thou curbed,
O froward fancy! 'mid a scene
Of aspect winning and serene ;

For those offensive creatures shun
The inquisition of the sun!
And in this region flowers delight,
And all is lovely to the sight.

Spring finds not here a melancholy breast,
When she applies her annual test
To dead and living; when her breath
Quickens, as now, the withered heath ;-
Nor flaunting summer-when he throws
His soul into the briar-rose;
Or calls the lily from her sleep;
Prolonged beneath the bordering deep:
Nor autumn, when the viewless wren
Is warbling near the Brownie's den.

Wild relique! beauteous as the chosen spot
In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot;
Whither by care of Libyan Jove
(High servant of paternal love),
Young Bacchus was conveyed-to lie
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye;
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage,
glowed,

Close crowding round the infant god,
All colours, and the liveliest streak
A foil to his celestial cheek!

COMPOSED AT CORRA LINN,

IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER. "How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the

name

Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty."-MS.
LORD of the vale! astounding flood!
The dullest leaf in this thick wood
Quakes-conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented tower !

And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;

Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.

Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee-delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the patriot warrior's shade,
Lord of the vale! to heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!

Along thy banks, at dead of night
Sweeps visibly the Wallace wight;

Or stands in warlike vest,

Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, A champion worthy of the stream, Yon gray tower's living crest !

But clouds and envious darkness hide
A form not doubtfully descried :-
Their transient mission o'er,
Oh, say to what blind region flee
These shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?

Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show,

That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.

The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom,
That still invests the guardian pass,
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas,
Devoted to the tomb.

Nor deem that it can aught avail
For such to glide with oar or sail
Beneath the piny wood,

Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake,
His vengeful shafts-prepared to slake
Their thirst in tyrant's blood.

EFFUSION,

What! Ossian here-a painted thrall,
Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;
To serve, an unsuspected screen
For show that must not yet be seen :
And, when the moment comes, to part
And vanish by mysterious art;
Head, harp, and body, split asunder,
For ingress to a world of wonder;
A gay saloon, with waters dancing
Upon the sight wherever glancing;
One loud cascade in front, and lo!
A thousand like it, white as snow-
Streams on the walls, and torrents foam
As active round the hollow dome,
Illusive cataracts! of their terrors
Not stript, nor voiceless in the mirrors,
That catch the pageant from the flood
Thundering adown a rocky wood!
Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy
As ever made a maniac dizzy,
When disenchanted from the mood
That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!

O nature, in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions, Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime, Ever averse to pantomime,

Thee neither do they know nor us
Thy servants, who can trifle thus ;
Else surely had the sober powers
Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars,
Exalted by congenial sway

Of spirits, and the undying lay,
And names that moulder not away,
Awakened some redeeming thought
More worthy of this favoured spot;
Recalled some feeling-to set free
The bard from such indignity!

IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD. "The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we must expect it. We were first, however, conducted into a small apartment, where the gardener desired us to look at the picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the young artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middle-But flying asunder as by the touch of magic-and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; the great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls.". Extract from the Journal of my Fellow

Traveller.

WHAT he who 'mid the kindred throng
Of heroes that inspired his song,
Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,
The stars dim-twinkling through their
forms!

The effigies of a valiant wight* I once beheld, a Templar knight; Not prostrate, not like those that rest On tombs, with palms together pressed, sculptured out of living stone, And standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employed in setting his sword free From its dull sheath-stern sentinel Intent to guard St. Robert's cell; As if with memory of the affray Far distant, when, as legends say, The monks of Fountains thronged to force

From its dear home the hermit's corse,

* On the banks of the river Nid, near Knares borough,

That in their keeping it might lie,
To crown their abbey's sanctity.
So had they rushed into the grot
Of sense despised, a world forgot,
And torn him from his loved retreat,
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat
Still hint that quiet best is found,
Even by the living, under ground;
But a bold knight, the selfish aim
Defeating, put the monks to shame,
There where you see his image stand
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand
Which lingering Nid is proud to show
Reflected in the pool below.

Thus, like the men of earliest days, Our sires set forth their grateful praise; Uncouth the workmanship, and rude! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring artist dare To seize whate'er, through misty air, A ghost, by glimpses, may present Of imitable lineament,

And give the phantom such array

As less should scorn the abandoned clay;
Then let him hew, with patient stroke,
An Ossian out of mural rock,
And leave the figurative man
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran !
Fixed, liked the Templar of the steep,
An everlasting watch to keep;
With local sanctities in trust;
More precious than a hermit's dust;
And virtues through the mass infused,
Which old idolatry abused.

What though the granite would deny
All fervour to the sightless eye;
And touch from rising suns in vain
Solicit a Memnonian strain;

Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,

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A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused,

The wind might force the deep-grooved harp A tender hazy brightness;

To utter melancholy moans

Not unconnected with the tones
Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones;
While grove and river notes would lend,
Less deeply sad, with these to blend !

Vain pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds ; When will your hapless patrons learn To watch and ponder-to discern The freshness, the eternal youth, Of admiration sprung from truth;

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection;

Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous flower
Of Yarrow vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The water-wraith ascended thrice--
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,

The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And pity sanctifies the verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !

But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation :

Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;

The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,

With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;

And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a ruin hoary!

The shattered front of Newark's towers,
Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for chi dhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in ;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in !

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection

Of tender thoughts that nestle there,
The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my true love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;
The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see-but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee!
A ray of fancy still survives-
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
According to the measure.

The vapours linger round the heights,
They melt-and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, no more is mine-
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow !
Will dwell with me to heightened joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.

Poems on the Naming of Places.

ADVERTISEMENT.

By persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little incidents must have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will

have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such incidents, or renew the gratification of such feelings, names have been given to places by the author and some of his friends, and the following poems written in consequence.

IT was an April morning: fresh and clear.
The rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man's speed; and yet
the voice

Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,

And hopes and wishes, from all living things

Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves appeared as if in haste To spur the steps of June; as if their shades

Of various green were hindrances that stood

Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,

There was such deep contentment in the air,
That every naked ash and tardy tree
Yet leafless, seemed as though the counte-

nance

With which it looked on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.-Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appeared the
voice
[lamb,

Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush

Vied with this waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth

Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;

But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,

With hanging islands of resplendent furze :
And on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
"Our thoughts at least are ours; and this
wild nook,

My Emma, I will dedicate to thee."
Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the shepherds who have seen me
there,

To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild
place,

May call it by the name of Emma's Dell.

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Is slow towards the syrapathics of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams
and groves.

Yet we, who are trangressors in this kind,
Dwelling retired in our simplicity
Among the woods and fields, we love you
well,

Joanna and I guess, since you have been
So distant from us now for two long years,
That you will gladly listen to discourse
However trivial, if you thence are taught
That they, with whom you once
happy, talk

Familiarly of you and of old times.

were

While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple tower,

The vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, [maid' "How fares Joanna; that wild-hearted And when will she return to us?" he paused;

And, after short exchange of village news. He with grave looks demanded, for what

cause,

Reviving obsolete idolatry,

I, like a Runic priest, in characters
Of formidable size had chiselled out
Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
Above the Rotha, by the forest side.
Now by those dear immunities of heart
Engendered betwixt malice and true love,
I was not loth to be so catechised,
And this was my reply :-"As it befel,
One summer morning we had walked
abroad

At break of day, Joanna and myself.
'Twas that delightful season when the
broom,

Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
Along the copses runs in veins of gold.
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;
And when we came in front of that tall rock
Which looks toward the east, I there stopped
short,

And traced the lofty barrier with my eye
From base to summit; such delight I found
To note in shrub and tree, in stone and
flower,

That intermixture of delicious hues,
Along so vast a surface, all at once,
In one impression, by connecting force
Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart,

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