VIII.

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,
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.

X.

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!

MS.

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?

Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;

That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.

The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom,
That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas
Devoted to the tomb.

And let no Slave his head incline,
Or kneel, before the votive shrine
By Uri's lake, where Tell

Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land,
Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand
That day the Tyrant fell.

III.

EFFUSION,

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
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 mirrors,
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,

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