Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous potentate.
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope!
A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND
PART fenced by man, part by a rugged steep
That curbs a foaming brook, a graveyard lies;
The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep;
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes,
Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties,
No vestige now remains; yet thither creep
Bereft ones, and in lowly anguish weep
Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.
Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured knights,
By humble choice of plain old times, are seen
Level with earth, among the hillocks green :
Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites
The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring
With jubilate from the choirs of spring!
ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND
SAY, ye far-travell'd clouds, far-seeing hills,
Among the happiest-looking homes of men
Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen,
On airy upland, and by forest rills,
And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills
His sky-born warblings, does aught meet your ken
More fit to animate the poet's pen,
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills
Pure minds with sinless envy, than the abode
Of the good priest: who, faithful through all hours
To his high charge, and truly serving God,
Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers,
Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod,
Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.
COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL DURING A STORM
THE wind is now thy organist; a clank
(We know not whence) ministers for a bell
To mark some change of service. As the swell
Of music reached its height, and even when sank
The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN! to a blank
Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof,
Pillars, and arches,-not in vain time-proof,
Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank
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
Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown,
Copy their beauty more and more, and preach,
Though mute, of all things blending into one.
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 which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
"THE PIBROCH'S NOTE, DISCOUNTENANCED OR MUTE"
THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute;
The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy
Of quaint apparel for a half-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 of old honours, too, and passions high:
Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should
range
Among the conquests of civility,
Survives imagination-to the change
Superior? Help to virtue does she give?
If not, O mortals, better cease to live!
COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE
THIS land of rainbows spanning glens whose walls, Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists, Of far-stretched meres whose salt flood never rests, Of tuneful caves and playful waterfalls,
Of mountains varying momently their crests,
Proud be this land! whose poorest huts are halls
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
Where the all-conquering Roman feared to tread.
Composed at Dunollie Castle in the bay of Oban.
DISHONOURED rock and ruin that, by law
Tyrannic, keep the bird of Jove embarred
Like a lone criminal whose life is spared.
Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw
Was on the wing; stooping, he struck with awe
Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort paired,
From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard,
Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw
Light from the fountain of the setting sun.
Such was this prisoner once; and when his plumes
The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on,
Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes
His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free,
His power, his beauty, and his majesty.
IN THE SOUND OF MULL
TRADITION, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung
Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient
tongue
On rock and ruin darkening as we go,
Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to show What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have
From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong,
What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe.
Yet, though a wild vindictive race, untamed
By civil arts and labours of the pen,
Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce men,
Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed
For patriarchal occupations, named
Yon towering peaks, "Shepherds of Etive Glen ? "1
SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM
ENOUGH of garlands, of the Arcadian crook,
And all that Greece and Italy have sung
Of swains reposing myrtle groves among !
Ours couch on naked rocks, will cross a brook
Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look
This way or that, or give it even a thought
More than by smoothest pathway may be brought
Into a vacant mind. Can written book
Teach what they learn? Up, hardy mountaineer!
And guide the bard, ambitious to be one
Of Nature's privy council, as thou art,
On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear
To what dread powers He delegates his part
On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, alone.
THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED
WELL sang the bard who called the grave, in strains
Thoughtful and sad, the "narrow house." No style
Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile
Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where he detains
1 In Gaelic, Buachaill Eitive.
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