For those offensive creatures shun
The inquisition of the sun!
And in this region flowers delight,
And all is lovely to the sight.

IX.

Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, When she applies her annual test

To dead and living; when her breath
Quickens, as now, the withered heath;-
Nor flaunting Summer-when he throws
His soul into the briar-rose:

Or calls the lily from her sleep
Prolonged beneath the bordering deep;
Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren
Is warbling near the BROWNIE'S Den.

xX.

Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot
In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot;
Whither, by care of Libyan Jove,
(High Servant of paternal Love)
Young Bacchus was conveyed-to lie
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye;

Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,
Close-crowding round the infant-god;
All colours, and the liveliest streak
A foil to his celestial cheek!

II.

COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER.

"-How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the

name

Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear Country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty."

LORD of the vale! astounding Flood;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood
Quakes-conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates, to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented Tower!

And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;

Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.

Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee-delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade,
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight:
Or stands, in warlike vest,

Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A Champion worthy of the stream,
Yon grey tower's living crest!

But clouds and envious darkness hide
A Form not doubtfully descried :—
Their transient mission o'er,
O say to what blind region flee
These Shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?

MS.

IN THE PLEASURE GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD.

"The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we must expect it. We were first, however, conducted into a small apartment, where the Gardener desired us to look at a picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the young Artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middleflying asunder as by the touch of magic- and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; the great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls."-Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.

WHAT He-who, mid the kindred throng
Of Heroes that inspired his song,
Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,
The stars dim-twinkling through their forms!
What! Ossian here-a painted Thrall,
Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;
To serve an unsuspected screen
For show that must not yet be seen;
And, when the moment comes, to part
And vanish by mysterious art;
Head, harp, and body, split asunder,
For ingress to a world of wonder;
A gay saloon, with waters dancing
Upon the sight wherever glancing;
One loud cascade in front, and lo!
A thousand like it, white as snow-
Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam
As active round the hollow dome,
Illusive cataracts! of their terrors
Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirror:
That catch the pageant from the flood
Thundering adown a rocky wood.
What pains to dazzle and confound!
What strife of colour, shape and sound
In this quaint medley. that might seem
Devised out of a sick man's dream!
Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy
As ever made a maniac dizzy,
When disenchanted from the mood
That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!

O Nature-in thy changeful visions,
Through all thy most abrupt transitions
Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime-
Ever averse to pantomime,

Thee neither do they know nor us
Thy servants, who can trifle thus ;
Else verily the sober powers

Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars,
Exalted by congenial sway

Of Spirits, and the undying Lay,
And Names that moulder not away,
Had wakened some redeeming thought
More worthy of this favoured Spot;
Recalled some feeling-to set free
The Bard from such indignity!

*The Effigies of a valiant Wight
I once beheld, a Templar Knight;
Not prostrate, not like those that rest
On tombs, with palms together prest,
But sculptured out of living stone,
And standing upright and alone,
Both hands with rival energy
Employed in setting his sword free
From its dull sheath-stern sentinel
Intent to guard St Robert's cell;
As if with memory of the affray
Far distant, when, as legends say,

The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force
From its dear home the Hermit's corse,
That in their keeping it might lie,
To crown their abbey's sanctity.
So had they rushed into the grot
Of sense despised, a world forgot,
And torn him from his loved retreat,
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat
Still hint that quiet best is found,
Even by the Living, under ground;
But a bold Knight, the selfish aim
Defeating, put the Monks to shame,
There where you see his Image stand
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand
Which lingering NID is proud to show
Reflected in the pool below.

Thus, like the men of earliest days,
Our sires set forth their grateful praise:
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude!
But, nursed in mountain solitude,
Might some aspiring artist dare
To seize whate'er, through misty air,
A ghost, by glimpses, may present
Of imitable lineament,

And give the phantom an array

That less should scorn the abandoned clay; Then let him hew with patient stroke

An Ossian out of mural rock,

And leave the figurative Man

Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!—

Fixed, like the Templar of the steep,

An everlasting watch to keep:
With local sanctities in trust,
More precious than a hermit's dust;
And virtues through the mass infused,
Which old idolatry bused.

What though the Granite would deny
All fervour to the sightless eye;
And touch from rising suns in vain
Solicit a Memnonian strain;

*On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough.

Yet, 'in some fit of anger sharp,

The wind might force the deep-grooved harp To utter melancholy moans

Not unconnected with the tones

Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones:

While grove and river notes would lend,
Less deeply sad, with these to blend !

Vain pleasures of luxurious life,
For ever with yourselves at strife;
Through town and country both deranged
By affectations interchanged,
And all the perishable gauds
That heaven-deserted man applauds :
When will your hapless patrons learn
To watch and ponder-to discern
The freshness, the everlasting youth,
Of admiration sprung from truth;
From beauty infinitely growing
Upon a mind with love o'erflowing-
To sound the depths of every Art
That seeks its wisdom through the heart?

Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced
With baubles of theatric taste,
O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers
On motley bands of alien flowers
In stiff confusion set or sown,
Till Nature cannot find her own,
Or keep a remnant of the sod
Which Caledonian Heroes trod)
I mused; and, thirsting for redress,
Recoiled into the wilderness.

IV.

YARROW VISITED, SEPTEMBER, 1814.

(See page 177).

AND is this-Yarrow?- This the Stream
Of which my fancy cherished,

So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!

O that some Minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why?-a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings:
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted:

For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,

Save where that pearly whiteness

Is round the rising sun diffused,

A tender hazy brightness;

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection:

Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:

And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,

The Water-wraith ascended thrice-
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings

The haunts of happy Lovers,

The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And Pity sanctifies the Verse

That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day

Her delicate creation:

Meek loveliness is round thee spread,

A softness still and holy;

The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,

With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;

And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!

The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in:
For manhood to enjoy his strength:
And age to wear away in!

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there-
The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
"Twere no offence to reason;

The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee:
A ray of fancy still survives-
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure:
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me-to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.

PART I. I.

COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.

FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country!-on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious cres Conspicuous to the Nations." Thou, I think, Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,

Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest

In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory !-I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.

CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802.
FESTIVALS have I seen that were not names:
This is young Buonaparte's natal day,
And his is henceforth an established sway-
Consul for life. With worship France pro-
claims

Her approbation, and with pomps and games.
Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!
Calais is not: and I have bent my way
To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames
His business as he likes. Far other show
My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time;
The senselessness of joy was then sublime!
Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know
The destiny of Man, and live in hope.