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Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth
Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth.
O pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign
Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine;
Not like an outcast with himself at strife;
The slave of business, time, or care for life.
But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part,
Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;
To cull contentment upon wildest shores,
And luxuries extract from bleakest moors;
With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold,
And having rights in all that we behold.
—Then why these lingering steps : A bright adieu,
For a brief absence, proves that love is true;
Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn,
That winds into itself, for sweet return.

TO THE SONS OF BURNS,

AFTER visiting the Gnave of theirl FAtheft.

- The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at it with melancholy und painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses— Is there a man whose judgment clear, etc." Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-traveller.

Mid crowded Obelisks and Urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;
And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!

Through Twilight shades of good and ill

Ye now are panting up life 's hill,

And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display,

If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware l
But if the Poet's wit ye share,
Like him can speed
The social hour—for tenfold care
There will be need.

Even honest Men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you, -and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;
And of your Father's name will make
A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the quire
That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;
There seek the genius of your Sire,
His spirit greet;

Or where, mid a lonely heights and hows,” He paid to Nature tuneful vows;

Or wiped his honourable brows
Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay
Let faith be given;
Nor deem that “ light which leads astray,
Is light from Ileaven.”

Let no mean hope your souls enslave:
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,
And such revere;
But be admonished by his grave,
And think, and fear !

ELLEN IRWIN, OR THE BRAES OF KIRTLE,

FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the Braes of Kirtle,"
Was lovely as a Grecian Maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle.
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay;
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many Knights and many Squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth !
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordon's beauteous face,
And what are Gordon's crosses,
To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes
Upon the verdant mosses 1
Alas that ever he was born
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,
And, starting up, to Bruce's heart
He launched a deadly javelin!
Fair Ellen saw it when it came,
And, stepping forth to meet the same,
Did with her body cover
The Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.

* The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on who banks the events here related took place.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish Crescent.

But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,
This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing :
So coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
Add its forlorn Hic jackt'

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

[at INVERSNEY DE, UPoN LOCH LoMond.)

Swtit Highland Girl, a very shower
of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey Rocks; this household Lawn;
These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent Lake;
This little Bay, a quiet Road
That holds in shelter thy Abode;
In truth together, do ye seem

Like something fashioned in a dream;
Soon forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep
Yet, dream and vision as thou art,
| Hess thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Jorther know thee northy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray for thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, in which more plainly I could trace benignity and home-bred sense *Pening in perfect innocence. Here scattered like a random seed, homote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wearst upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer. A face with gladness overspread Soft smiles, by human kindness bred And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs from quick and eager visitings

Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech:
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull
For thee, who art so beautiful?
0 happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea: and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder Brother I would be,
Thy Father, any thing to thee!

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 recompense. 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!

GLEN-ALMAIN, OR THE NARROW GLEN.

In this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the NAarow Glen ;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek Streamlet, only one:
He sang of battles, and the breath
of stormy war, and violent death;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;
where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And every thing unreconciled;
In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be
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

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Was moved; and in such way expressed
Their motion of its perfect rest.
A Convent, even a hermit's Cell
Would break the silence of this Dell:
It is not quiet; is not ease;
But something deeper far than these:
The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
Yet happy feelings of the dead:
And, therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race!
Lies buried in this lonely place.

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 7-)

* What' you are stepping westward?”—“ Yea.”
—T would 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;
Behind, all gloomy to behold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny:
I liked the greeting; 't was a sound
Of something without place or bound;
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native Lake :
The salutation had to me
The very sound of courtesy:
Its power was felt; and while my eye
Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
The echo of the voice cnwrought
A human sweetness with the thought
of travelling through the world that lay
Before me in my endless way.

The SOLITARY reaper.

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overtlowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands

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Save when the winds sweep by and sounds are caught

Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.
Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
Cast off—abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner Hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
To reverence suspends his own; submitting
All that the God of Nature hath conferred,
All that he has in common with the Stars,
To the memorial majesty of Time
Impersonated in thy calm decay!

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved"
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,
Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene

Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite
To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
In willing admiration and respect,
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called
Youthful as Spring. Shade of departed Power,
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,
The Chronicle were welcome that should call
Into the compass of distinct regard
The toils and struggles of thy infancy!
Yon foaming flood seems inotionless as Ice;
its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
To the perception of this Age, appear
Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued
And quieted in character; the strife,
The pride, the fury uncontrollable,
Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!'

ROB ROY'S GRAVE.

rhe history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the lead of Loch Reuerine, in one of those small pinsold-like Burialgrounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traweller meets with in the ilighlands of Scotland.

A famous Man is Robin Ilood,
The English Itallad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a Thief as good,
An Outlaw of as daring mood;
She has her brave Rob Ito Y .
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chant a passing Stave
In honour of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart,

And wondrous length and strength of arm:

Nor craved he more to quell his Foes,
Or keep his Friends from harm.

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.

Said generous Rob, a 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 tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady during the -o-nce of her Lord in Palestine.

“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

Sufficeth them, the simple Plan,

That they should take, who have the power, And they should keep who can.

• A lesson that is quickly learned,

A signal this which all can see!

Thus nothing here provokes the Strong To wanton cruelty.

« All freakishness of mind is checked;

He tamed, who foolishly aspires;

While to the measure of his might
Each fashions his desires.

w All kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall

By strength of prowess or of wit:

T is God's appointment who must sway And who is to submit.

• Since, then, the rule of right is plain,

And longest life is but a day;

To have my ends, maintain my rights, I'll take the shortest way.”

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,

To these few meagre Wales confined;

But thought how wide the world, the times Ilow fairly to his mind!

And to his Sword he would have said,

a Do Thou my sovereign will enact

From land to land through half the earth' Judge thou of law and fact!

* T is fit that we should do our part;

Becoming, that mankind should learn

That we are not to be surpassed
In fatherly concern.

« Of old things all are over old,

Of good things none are good enough :

We'll slew 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 mot;

I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!

Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all Here standing by thy Grave.

For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,

Wild Chieftain of a Savage Clan!

Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
The liberty of Man.

And, had it been thy lot to live

with us who now behold the light,

Thou wouldst have nobly stirred thyself, And battled for the Right.

For thou wert still the poor Man's stay,

The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;

And all the oppressed, who wanted strength, Had thine at their command.

Bear witness many a pensive sigh

Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays

Alone upon Loch Veol's Heights,
And by Loch Lomond's Braes!

And, far and near, through vale and hill,
Are faces that attest the same;
The proud heart flashing through the eyes,
At sound of Rob Roy's name.

COMPOSED AT — CASTLE.

Degenen Are Douglas' ob, the unworthy Lord!
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
And love of havoc (for with such disease
Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde,
A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these,
Beggared and outraged!—Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
The Traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

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' See Hamilton's Ballad, as above

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