Her lark's loved warblings; does aught Untouched, unbreathed upon. Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown? Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche happy quest, Thrice If from a golden perch of aspen spray VI. THE Pibroch's note, discountenanced or The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy mute; Of quaint apparel for a haif-spoilt boy; The target mouldering like ungathered fruit; The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head All speak of manners withering to the root, And some old honours, too, and passions high: Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should range Among the conquests of civility, VII. COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE. Share with their sculptured fellows, that, THIS Land of Rainbows, spanning glens green-grown, Copy their beauty more and more, and preach, Though mute, of all things blending into one V. THE TROSSACHS. THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass, Withered at eve. From scenes of art that chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, whose walls, Where Fancy entertains becoming guests; While native song the heroic Past recalls. Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide Her trophies, Fancy crouch; - the course of pride Has been diverted, other lessons taught, That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear Where the all-conquering Roman feared to than glass tread. VIII. COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE, IN THE Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look Into a vacant mind. Can written book And guide the Bard, ambitious to be one hear DISHONOURED Rock and Ruin! that, by law his plumes The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on, His power, his beauty, and his majesty. XI. MANSION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, WELL sang the Bard who called the Grave, SEE what gay wild flowers deck this earthbuilt Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, Shines in the greeting of the Sun's first ray Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. The limpid mountain rill avoids it not; And why shouldst thou? If rightly trained and bred, Humanity is humble,-finds no spot Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, Undressed the pathway leading to the door; But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, Belike less happy.-Stand no more aloof! XIV. THE BROWNIE. [Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual, one of the last survivors of the Clan of Macfarlane, once powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author learned these particulars, and that this person then living there had acquired the appellation of "The Brownie." The following Sonnet is a sequel to the Brownie's Cell, p. 156.] "How disappeared he?" Ask the newt and toad; Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell Where he, unpropp'd, and by the gathering flood Of years hemm'd round, had dwelt, prepared to try Privation's worst extremities, and die XV. TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR. COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND. THOUGH joy attend thee orient at the birth In the grey sky hath left his lingering ghost, The absolute, the world-absorbing One, XVII. PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN AT HAMILTON PALACE. AMID a fertile region green with wood Couched in their Den, with those that roam at large Over the burning wilderness, and charge Yawning and listless, were by hunger roused: can save. XVIII. THE AVON (a feeder of the Annan). AVON-a precious, an immortal name! Yet is it one that other Rivulets bear Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear Like this contented, though unknown to Fame: For great and sacred is the modest claim Of streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow; And ne'er did genius slight them, as they go, Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame. But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears, Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood Has mixed its current with the limpid flood, Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears; Never for like distinction may the good Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased ears! XIX. SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMI- THE forest huge of ancient Caledon On her last thorn the nightly Moon has shone; Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none, [On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with the following inscription: This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c., for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2nd of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 47. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2nd day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo !"] WHILE the Poor gather round, till the end of time May this bright flower of Charity display Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day; Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime Nor will the Muse condemn, or treat with Lovelier-transplanted from heaven s purest clime! No more the end is sudden and abrupt, That yet survive ensculptured on the walls Scorn Our ministration, humble but sincere, Whence, as a current from its fountainhead, Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed, Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength From kindred sources; while around us sighed (Life's three first seasons having passed away) Leaf-scattering winds, and hoar-frost sprinklings fell, Foretaste of winter, on the moorland heights; And every day brought with it tidings new Of rash change, ominous for the public weal. Hence, if dejection have too oft encroached Upon that sweet and tender melancholy Which may itself be cherished and caressed More than enough, a fault so natural, Even with the young the hopeful or the gay, For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain. THE HIGHLAND BROACH. IF to Tradition faith be due, And echoes from old verse speak true, Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore LL |