The embarrassed look of shy distress, What hand but would a garland cull Of the wild sea; and I would have Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompence. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part: For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And Thee, the Spirit of them all! VII. GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN. In this still place, remote from men, Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, In some complaining, dim retreat, A more entire tranquillity. Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? Or is it but a groundless creed? What matters it?-I blame them not Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot Was moved; and in such way expressed A convent, even a hermit's cell, But something deeper far than these : Is of the grave; and of austere VIII. STEPPING WESTWARD. While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward?" “WHAT, you are stepping westward ?”—“ Yea.” —"Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of Chance : Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on? The dewy ground was dark and cold; I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound The voice was soft, and she who spake The very sound of courtesy: Its power was felt; and while my eye IX. THE SOLITARY REAPER. BEHOLD her, single in the field, Alone she cuts and binds the grain, No Nightingale did ever chaunt A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard Will no one tell me what she sings?— Or is it some more humble lay, Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang X. ADDRESS ΤΟ KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE. From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened 'upon our view,-a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, 'down which came a foaming stream. The Castle 'occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, 'appearing to rise out of the water,-mists rested upon 'the mountain side, with spots of sunshine; there was a 'mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately'not dismantled of turrets-nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin.'-Extract from the Journal of my Companion. CHILD of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved! Over the pomp and beauty of a scene Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called The chronicle were welcome that should call The toils and struggles of thy infant years! Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades* ! XI. ROB ROY'S GRAVE. The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small pinfold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland. A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave; Forgive me if the phrase be strong;A Poet worthy of Rob Roy Must scorn a timid song. Say, then, that he was wise as brave; As wise in thought as bold in deed: For in the principles of things He sought his moral creed. * The tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady during the absence of her Lord in Palestine. Said generous Rob, " What need of books? Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves. We have a passion—make a law, Too false to guide us or control! And for the law itself we fight In bitterness of soul. And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose Distinctions that are plain and few: These find I graven on my heart: That tells me what to do. The creatures see of flood and field, And those that travel on the wind! With them no strife can last; they live In peace, and peace of mind. For why?—because the good old rule A lesson that is quickly learned, All freakishness of mind is checked; He tamed, who foolishly aspires; While to the measure of his might Each fashions his desires. All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall Since, then, the rule of right is plain, And thus among these rocks he lived, Through summer heat and winter snow: The Eagle, he was lord above, And Rob was lord below. So was it would, at least, have been But through untowardness of fate; For Polity was then too strong- He came an age too late; Or shall we say an age too soon! For, were the bold Man living now, How might he flourish in his pride, With buds on every bough! Then rents and factors, rights of chase, Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, Would all have seemed but paltry things, Not worth a moment's pains. Rob Roy had never lingered here, And to his Sword he would have said, "Tis fit that we should do our part, Of old things all are over old, Of good things none are good enough :We'll shew that we can help to frame A world of other stuff. I, too, will have my kings that take From me the sign of life and death: Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, Obedient to my breath." And, if the word had been fulfilled, As might have been, then, thought of joy! France would have had her present Boast, And we our own Rob Roy! Oh! say not so; compare them not; Here standing by thy grave. For Thou, although with some wild thoughts, The liberty of man. And, had it been thy lot to live For thou wert still the poor man's stay, Bear witness many a pensive sigh And by Loch Lomond's braes! And, far and near, through vale and hill, XII. SONNET. COMPOSED AT CASTLE. DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord! -Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road, My True-love sighed for sorrow; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock*, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open Strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. Let beeves and home-bred kine partake Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it: The treasured dreams of times long past, *See Hamilton's Ballad as above. Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load Of the dead bodies.-"Twas a day of shame For them whom precept and the pedantry Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. O for a single hour of that Dundee, Who on that day the word of onset gave! XV. THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND. At Jedborough, my companion and I went into private lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character and domestic situation of our Hostess. AGE! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, That there is one who scorns thy power:- |