AN ITALIAN SONG. 1782. DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, With my loved lute's romantic sound; The shepherd's horn at break of day, Shall bind me to my native vale. TO THE BUTTERFLY. CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, -Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 2, 1812. BLUE was the loch, the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze Bore me from thy silver sands, Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, Where, gray with age, the dial stands ; -Tho' many a shadow it had shed, The legend on the stone was read. Tarbat,* thy shore I climbed at last; And, thy shady region passed, Upon another shore I stood, And looked upon another flood ;† * Signifying in the Gaelic language an Isthmus. Where many an elf was playing round, Night fell; and dark and darker grew. That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ; The shattered fortress, whence the Dane Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain, All into midnight-shadow sweep When day springs upward from the deep!* Kindling the waters in its flight, The prow wakes splendour; and the oar, That rose and fell unseen before, Flashes in a sea of light! * A phenomenon described by many navigators. Glad sign and sure! for now we hail And crosses decked thy summits blue. AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIMEA. SHEPHERD, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arched, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse, This iron cup chained for the general use, And these rude seats of Earth within the grove, |