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0! while they minister to thee,

Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age,

With Strength, her venturous brother ; And Tiber, and each brook and rill

Renowned in song and story, With unimagined beauty shine,

Nor lose one ray of glory!

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream !

Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant

For simple hearts thy beauty ;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,

Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,

To memory's shadowy moonshine!

For Thou, upon a hundred streams,

By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,

Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,

Wherever they invite Thee, At parent Nature's grateful call,

With gladness must requite Thee.

II.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM

ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES.

A gracious welcome shall be thine,

Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me

When first I gazed upon her; Beheld what I had feared to see,

Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days,

The holy and the tender.

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o’er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe

strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might
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. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope !

And what, for this frail world, were all

That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,

Memorial tribute offer ?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?

Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice

That hourly speaks within us ?

III.

A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.

Nor deem that localised Romance

Plays false with our affections ; Unsanctifies our tears-made sport

For fanciful dejections :
Ah, no! the visions of the past

Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is—our changeful Life,

With friends and kindred dealing.

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep
That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard 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!

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day

In Yarrow's groves were centred ; Who through the silent portal arch

Of mouldering Newark enter'd ;
And clomb the winding stair that once

Too timidly was mounted
By the last Minstrel, (not the last !)

Ere he his Tale recounted.

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ON THE SIGHT OF

OF

A MANSE IN THE SOUTH
SCOTLAND

The pibroch’s note, discountenanced or mute;

The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills

Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy ; Among the happiest-looking homes of men

The target mouldering like ungathered fruit; Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep glen,

The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, On airy upland, and by forest rills,

As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head

All speak of manners withering to the root, His sky-born warblings—does aught meet your ken

And of old honours, too, and passions high : More fit to animate the Poet's pen,

Then may we ask, though pleased that thought Aught that more surely by its aspect fills

Among the conquests of civility,

[should range Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode

Survives imagination—to the change
Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours
To his high charge, and truly serving God,

Superior! Help to virtue does she give?
Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers,

If not, O Mortals, better cease to live!
Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod,
Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.

VIII.

COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE.

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« This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM.

walls, The wind is now thy organist ;—a clank

Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists— (We know not whence) ministers for a bell

Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never To mark some change of service. As the swell

rests Of music reached its height, and even when sank

Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls— The notes, in prelude, Roslin! to a blank Of Mountains varying momently their crests— Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof,

Proud be this Land! whose poorest huts are halls Pillars, and arches,—not in vain time-proof,

Where Fancy entertains becoming guests ; Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank

While native song the heroic Past recals.” Came those live herbs ? by what hand were they Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught,

(unknown?

The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem

Her trophies, Fancy crouch ; the course of pride Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche (grown, Has been diverted, other lessons taught, Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green

That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head Copy their beauty more and more, and preach,

Where the all-conquering Roman feared to tread. Though mute, of all things blending into one.

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IX.

VI.

EAGLES.

THE TROSACHS.

COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY OF OBAN.

There's not a nook within this solemy Pass, DISHONOURED Rock and Ruin ! that, by law
But were an apt confessional for One

Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, Like a lone criminal whose life is spared.
That Life is but a tale of morning grass

Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase Was on the wing ; stooping, he struck with awe That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Man, bird, and beast ; then, with a consort paired, Feed it ʼmid Nature's old felicities,

From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, Light from the fountain of the setting sun. If from a golden perch of aspen spray

Such was this Prisoner once ; and, when his plumes (October's workmanship to rival May)

The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on, The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast

Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, His rank ’mong freeborn creatures that live free, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest ! His power, his beauty, and his majesty.

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IN THE SOUND OF MULL.

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AT THE HEAD OF GLENCROE.

XI.

SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM.

XIV.

HIGHLAND HUT.

REST AND BE THANKFUL !'
TRADition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung

Doubling and doubling with laborious walk,
Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient
On rock and ruin darkening as we go,– (tongue Who, that has gained at length the wished-for

Height,
Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to show
What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have

This brief this simple way-side Call can slight,

And rests not thankful ? Whether cheered by talk sprung ; From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong,

With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk

Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe.

At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine, Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed

Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk By civil arts and labours of the pen,

Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose, Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce Men, Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed

Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep

Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air, For patriarchal occupations, named

And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep, Yon towering Peaks, ‘Shepherds of Etive Glen* ?'

So may the Soul, through powers that Faith bestows,
Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that

Angels share.
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

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, This way or that, or give it even a thought

Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, More than by smoothest pathway may be brought Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray Into a vacant mind. Can written book

Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. Teach what they learn ? Up, hardy Mountaineer!

The limpid mountain rill avoids it not ; And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One

And why shouldst thou!—If rightly trained and bred, Of Nature's privy council, as thou art,

Humanity is humble, finds no spot On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear

Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. To what dread Powers He delegates his part

The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens,

Undressed the pathway leading to the door; alone.

But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor ;
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-

proof, THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MANSION, Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KILLIN.

Belike less happy.-Stand no more aloof * !
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
The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile

THE HIGHLAND BROACH.
With truth, or with each other, decked remains
Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile,

The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, For the departed, built with curious pains

though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to

the Roman Fibula must strike every one, and concurs, And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand

with the plaid and kilt, to recal to mind the communiTogether,—’mid trim walks and artful bowers,

cation which the ancient Romans had with this remote To be looked down upon by ancient hills,

country. That, for the living and the dead, demand And prompt a harmony of genuine powers ;

IF to Tradition faith be due, Concord that elevates the mind, and stills.

And echoes from old verse speak true,

XII.

XV.

* In Gaelic, Buachaill Eite.

* See Note.

One small possession lacked not power,
Provided in a calmer hour,
To meet such need as might befal—
Roof, raiment, bread, or burial :
For woman, even of tears bereft,
The hidden silver Broach was left.

Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore Glad tidings to Iona's shore, No common light of nature blessed The mountain region of the west, A land where gentle manners ruled O’er men in dauntless virtues schooled, That raised, for centuries, a bar Impervious to the tide of war: Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain Where haughty Force had striven in vain; And, 'mid the works of skilful hands, By wanderers brought from foreign lands And various climes, was not unknown The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown; The Fibula, whose shape, I ween, Still in the Highland Broach is seen, The silver Broach of massy frame, Worn at the breast of some grave Dame On road or path, or at the door Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor: But delicate of yore its mould, And the material finest gold; As might beseem the fairest Fair, Whether she graced a royal chair, Or shed, within a vaulted hall, No fancied lustre on the wall Where shields of mighty heroes hung, While Fingal heard what Ossian sung.

As generations come and go,
Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow;
Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away,
And feeble, of themselves, decay ;
What poor abodes the heir-loom hide,
In which the castle once took pride !
Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth,
If saved at all, are saved by stealth.
Lo! ships, from seas by nature barred,
Mount along ways by man prepared ;
And in far-stretching vales, whose streams
Seek other seas, their canvass gleams.
Lo! busy towns spring up, on coasts
Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts;
Soon, like a lingering star forlorn
Among the novelties of morn,
While young delights on old encroach,
Will vanish the last Highland Broach.

But when, from out their viewless bed,
Like vapours, years have rolled and spread ;
And this poor verse, and worthier lays,
Shall yield no light of love or praise ;
Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough,
Or torrent from the mountain's brow,
Or whirlwind, reckless what his might
Entombs, or forces into light;
Blind Chance, a volunteer ally,
That oft befriends Antiquity,
And clears Oblivion from reproach,
May render back the Highland Broach*.

The heroic Age expired-it slept
Deep in its tomb :—the bramble crept
O’er Fingal's hearth ; the grassy sod
Grew on the floors his sons had trod :
Malvina ! where art thou? Their state
The noblest-born must abdicate ;
The fairest, while with fire and sword
Come Spoilers-horde impelling horde,
Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest
By ruder hands in homelier vest.
Yet still the female bosom lent,
And loved to borrow, ornament;
Still was its inner world a place
Reached by the dews of heavenly grace ;
Still pity to this last retreat
Clove fondly; to his favourite seat
Love wound his way by soft approach,
Beneath a massier Highland Broach.

* How much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble stations may be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female friend. She had had an opportunity of benefiting a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter, in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, “ I would give anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for my Broach !" and, uttering these words, she put her hand upon the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she imagined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress.

When alternations came of rage
Yet fiercer, in a darker age;
And feuds, where, clan encountering clan,
The weaker perished to a man;
For maid and mother, when despair
Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer,

XVI.

THE BROWNIE.

In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;
The river glides, the woods before me wave;
Then why repine that now in vain I crave
Needless renewal of an old delight?
Better to thank a dear and long-past day
For joy its sunny hours were free to give
Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost.
Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams

obey,
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive:
How little that she cherishes is lost !

XIX.

[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.' See “ The Brownie's Cell,” p. 231, to which

the following is a sequel. How disappeared he?' Ask the newt and toad; Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell How he was found, cold as an icicle, Under an arch of that forlorn abode; 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 With no one near save the omnipresent God. Verily so to live was an awful choice A choice that wears the aspect of a doom; But in the mould of mercy all is cast For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice; And this forgotten Taper to the last Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom.

PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN, AT

HAMILTON PALACE.

Amid a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well did it become
The ducal Owner, in his palace-home
To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;
Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood
(Couched in their den) with those that roam at large
Over the burning wilderness, and charge
The wind with terror while they roar for food.
Satiate are these ; and stilled to eye and ear;
Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear!
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
Daunt him—if his Companions, now be-drowsed
Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused :
Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.

XVII.

TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR.

COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND.

XX.

THE AVON.

Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth
Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most
To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from earth,
In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost,
Perplexed as if between a splendour lost
And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun,
The absolute, the world-absorbing One,
Relinquished half his empire to the host
Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star,
Holy as princely, who that looks on thee
Touching, as now, in thy humility
The mountain borders of this seat of care,
Can question that thy countenance is bright,
Celestial Power, as much with love as light?

(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

XVIII.

BOTHWELL CASTLE,

(PASSED UNSEEN, ON ACCOUNT OF STORMY WEATHER.) IMMURED in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and have

ears.

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