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Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war ;
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ;

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ;*
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,

As daily I strode through the pine-cover d glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
“Shades of the dead! bave I not heard your voices

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?”
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,

Winter presides in his cold icy car :
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
“Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions forebodingt

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?”
Ah! were you destined to die at Čulloden, I

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause :
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ;S
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud uumber,

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Years have rolld on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,

Years must elapse ere I tread you again ;
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar!
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic !

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.

PARENT of golden dreams, Romance !

Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys ; . This word is erroneously pronounced plad: the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.

+ I allude here to my maternal ancestors," the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of Scotland. By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

# Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain ; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, " pars pro toto."

§ A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle of Braemar.

At length, in spells no longer bound,

I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,

But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy bolds her boundless reign,

And all assume a varied hue;
When virgins seem no longer vain,

And even woman's smiles are true.
And must we own thee but a name,

And from thy hall of clouds descend ?
Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pylades* in every friend ?
But leave at once thy realms of air

To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman 's false as fair,

And friends have feeling for-themselves !
With shame I own I've felt thy sway

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er:
No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar.
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,

And think that eye to truth was dear ;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
Romance ! disgusted with deceit,

Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,

And sickly Sensibility ;
Whose silly tears can never flow

For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ;
And call thy sylvan female choir,

To mourn a swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,

But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears,

On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,

With fancied flames and phrensy glow; . It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist.

Say, will you mourn my absent name,

Apostate from your gentle train ?
An infant bard at least may claim

From you a sympathetic strain.
Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu !

The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,

Where unlamented you must lie :
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather;
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,

Alas! must perish altogether.



“ But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madame Squintum my work should abuse,

May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ?"--New Bath Guide.
CANDOUR compels me, Becher! to commend
The verse which blends the censor with the friend.
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon, --must I sue in vain ?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart :
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind :
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstripp'd and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love :
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove :
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.

Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know !
The artless Helicon I boast is youth ;-
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be't from me the “virgin's mind” to “taint:"
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the want leer,
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe

She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
Will ne'er be “ tainted” by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ;
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.

November 26th, 1806.


It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds."

OSSIAN NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once resplendent dome !

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's pride ! +
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb,

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide.
Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall,

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. No mail-clad serfs, I obedient to their lord,

In grim array the crimson cross demand ;8 Or gay assemble round the festive board

Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye

Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,

A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime.
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;

His feudal realm in other regions lay ;
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,

Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,

The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found,

Or innocence from stern oppression flew.

* As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author had, originally, no intention of inserting this piece. It is now added at the particular request of some triends.

Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder or Thomas à Becket.

This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, " The Wild Huntsman;" synony. mous with vassal. $ The red cross was the badge of the crusaders.

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,

Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl,
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,

The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,

Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,

Soon as the gloaming* spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their

mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.
Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield ;

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed ;
Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls,

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another Henry the kind gift recalls, I

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;

He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world in deep despair-

No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.
Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,

Shakes with the martial music's novel din !
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,

High-crested banners wave thy walls within.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum,

Unite in concert with increased alarms.
An abbey once, a regal fortress now,

Encircled by insulting rebel powers,
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow,

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers.
Ah, vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,

Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.
Not unavenged the raging baron yields;

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ;
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields,

And days of glory yet for him remain.

• As “gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have veutured to use it on account of its harmony.

The priory was dedicated to the Virgin,

At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII, bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.

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