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How disappeared He?-ask the newt and toad, Inheritors of his abode;
The otter crouching undisturbed,
In her dank cleft;-but be thou curbed,
O froward Fancy! 'mid a scene
Of aspect winning and serene;
For those offensive creatures shun
The inquisition of the sun!
And in this region flowers delight,
Spring finds not here a melancholy breast,
Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot
COMPOSED AT CORA LINN,
IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER.
-How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name
LORD of the vale! astounding Flood;
And yet how fair the rural scene!
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee-delight to rove
Along thy banks, at dead of night
But clouds and envious darkness hide
O say to what blind region flee
Less than divine command they spurn;
That never will they deign to hold
The man of abject soul in vain
And let no Slave his head incline,
Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land,
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 middle-flying asunder as by the touch of magio-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 FellowTraveller.
WHAT He—who, mid the kindred throng
Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,
The stars dim-twinkling through their forms!
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 ;
Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars,
Of Spirits, and the undying Lay,
*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,
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,
* On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough,