The salutation had to me XVII. GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN. In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;" Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, And everything unreconciled; In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be Does then the bard sleep here indeed? Was moved; and in this way expressed But something deeper far than these: XVIIL TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. (AT INVERSNAID UPON LOCH LOMOND). And these grey rocks; this household lawn; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay, a quiet road, With earnest feeling I shall pray Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here, scattered like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness; Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer, A face with gladness overspread! Sweet looks, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech; A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest loving-kind, Thus beating up against the wind What hand but would a garland cull Thy father, anything to thee! Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes; Then, why should I be loath to stir ? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And thee, the spirit of them all! Or is it some more humble lay, Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang XX. WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. THE Cock is crowing, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, On the top of the bare hill; The plough-boy is whooping-anon-anon : There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains: Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! XXI. GIPSIES. YET are they here-the same unbroken knot |