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In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
loved lute's romantic sound;
The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent green-wood shade; These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.
TO THE BUTTERFLY.
CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!
-Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept.
And such is man; soon from his cell of clay
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!
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
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,
That dial so well-known to me!
-Tho' many a shadow it had shed,
The legend on the stone was read.
That with its woods and uplands green,
songs are heard at close of day; That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the asylum of the dead:
Much of ROB ROY the boat-man told;
His arm that fell below his knee,
His cattle-ford and mountain-hold.
Tarbat, thy shore I climbed at last;
And, thy shady region passed,
Upon another shore I stood,
And looked upon another flood;† Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He who fills That vast and awful depth of hills ;) Where many an elf was playing round, Who treads unshod his classic ground; And speaks, his native rocks among, AS FINGAL spoke, and OSSIAN sung.
Night fell; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ; The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus,
Black and huge above the tide;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare;
* Signifying in the Gaelic language an Isthmus.
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!*
The prow wakes splendour; and the oar,
Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale;
And bright indeed the path should be,
Oh blest retreat, and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of
Tolled duly on the desert air,
And crosses decked thy summits blue.
Oft, like some loved romantic tale,
A phenomenon described by many navigators.