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.”—MS.

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 gray 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 wh 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.

Nor deem that it can aught avail
For such to glide with oar or sail
Beneath the piny wood,

Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake,
His vengeful shafts - prepared to slake
Their thirst in Tyrants' blood.

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 intr & small apart. ment 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 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 Mirrors,
That catch the pageant from the Flood
Thundering adown a rocky wood!
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 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;

On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough.

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 such array

As 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 abused.

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

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 eternal 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.

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:

AND

PART FIRST.

I.

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 crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem; and shoulds't wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, it is England; there it 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.

II.

CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.

Is it a Reed that's shaken by the wind,

Or what is it that ye go forth to see?

Lords, Lawyers, Statesmen, Squires of low degree,

And now, sole register that these things were,
Two solitary greetings have I heard,
"Good morrow, Citizen !" a hollow word,
As if a dead Man spake it! Yet despair
Touches me not, though pensive as a Bird
Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare.

IV. 1801.

I GRIEVED for Buonaparté, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! for, who aspires
To genuine greatness but from just desires,
And knowledge such as he could never gain?
"T is not in battles that from youth we train
The Governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and weak as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk

Post forward all, like Creatures of one kind,

With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee

In France, before the new-born Majesty.

By which true sway doth mount; this is the stalk True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.

"T is ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind!

A seemly reverence may be paid to power;

But that's a loyal virtue never sown

In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:
When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown,
What hardship had it been to wait an hour?
Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!

III.

TO A FRIEND.

COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD LEADING TO
ANDRES, AUGUST 7, 1802.

JONES! while from Calais southward you and I
Urged our accordant steps this public Way
Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,*

*14th July, 1790.

V.

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 proclaims 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.

VI.

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN

REPUBLIC.

ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee;
And was the safeguard of the West: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a Maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when She took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.

IX.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1802.

Among the capricious acts of Tyranny that disgraced these times, was the chasing of all Negroes from France by decree of the Government: we had a Fellow-passenger who was one of the expelled. DRIVEN from the soil of France, a Female came From Calais with us, brilliant in array,— A Negro Woman, like a Lady gay, Yet downcast as a Woman fearing blame; Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim She sate, from notice turning not away, But on all proffered intercourse did lay A weight of languid speech, or at the same Was silent, motionless in eyes and face. Meanwhile those eyes retained their tropic fire, Which, burning independent of the mind, Joined with the lustre of her rich attire To mock the Outcast - O ye Heavens, be kind! And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race!

VII.

THE KING OF SWEDEN.

THE Voice of Song from distant lands shall call
To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth
Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth,
By one example hath set forth to all
How they with dignity may stand; or fall,

If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend?
And what to him and his shall be the end?
That thought is one which neither can appal
Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede hath done
The thing which ought to be: He stands above
All consequences: work he hath begun
Of fortitude, and piety, and love

Which all his glorious Ancestors approve:
The Heroes bless him, him their rightful Son.

X.

COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY, NEAR DOVER ON THE DAY OF LANDING.

HERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more.
The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound
Of Bells, those Boys who in yon meadow-ground
In white-sleeved shirts are playing, and the roar
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore,—
All, all are English. Oft have I looked round
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
Myself so satisfied in heart before.
Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass,
Thought for another moment. Thou art free,
My country! and 't is joy enough and pride
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Of England once again, and hear and see,
With such a dear Companion at my side.

VIII.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy Man of Men! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; O miserable Chieftain! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow: Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies; There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and Man's anconquerable mind.

XI.

SEPTEMBER, 1802.

INLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood;

And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
The Coast of France, the Coast of France how near:
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.

I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood
Was like a Lake, or River bright and fair,
A span of waters; yet what power is there!
What mightiness for evil and for good!
Even so doth God protect us, if we be