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* Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own,
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
T will be another Yarrow !

* If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,–
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
T will soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny Holms of Yarrow on

IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY, AN INvAsion neixo expected, october 1803.

Six thousand Veterans practised in War's game,
Tried Men, at Killicranky were arrayed
Against an equal Host that wore the Plaid,
Shepherds and Herdsmen.—Like a whirlwind came
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;
And Garry, thundering down his mountain road,
Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load
of the dead bodies.—T was a day of shame
For them whom precept and the pedantry
of cold mechanic battle do enslave.
'' for a single hour of that Dundee,
Who on that day the word of onset gave!
Like conquest would the Men of England see;
And her Foes find a like inglorious Grave.

The MAthon OF JFDBUngh AND heir husbANI).

At Jedburgh, my companion and I went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following verses were called forth by the charactor and domestic situation of our Hostess.]

Age twine thy brows with fresh spring slowers,
And call a train of laughing Hours;
And bid them dance, and bid them sing:
And thou, too, mingle in the Ring'
Take to thy heart a new delight;
If not, make merry in despite
That there is One who scorns thy power:—
But dance' for under Jedborough Tower,
A Matron dwells, who though she bears
Our mortal complement of years,
Lives in the light of youthful glee,
And she will dance and sing with thee.

Nay! start not at that Figure—there' Hin who is rooted to his chair! Look at him—look again! for Ile Hath long been of thy Family. with leg. that move not, if they can. And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,

IIe sits, and with a vacant eye;
A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!
Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:
His world is in this single room:
Is this a place for mirthful cheer?
Can merry-making enter here :

The joyous Woman is the Mate Of him in that forlorn estate He breathes a subterraneous daiap ; But bright as Vesper shines her lamp He is as mule as Jedborough Tower; She jocund as it was of yore, With all its bravery on; in times When all alive with merry chimes, Upon a sun-bright mora of May, It roused the Wale to Holiday.

I praise thee, Matron' and thy due Is praise; heroic praise, and true ! With admiration I behold Thy gladness unsubdued and bold: Thy looks, thy gestures, all present The picture of a life well spent: This do I see; and something more; A strength unthought of heretofore' Delighted am I for thy sake; And yet a higher joy partake. Our Iluman-nature throws away Its second Twilight, and looks gay : A land of promise and of pride Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

Ah! see her helpless Charge' enclosed

Within himself as seems, composed;

To fear of loss, and hope of tain,
The strife of happiness and pain,
Utterly dead yet in the guise
Of little Infants, when their eyes
Begin to follow to and fro
The persons that before them go,
He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
Her buoyant Spirit can prevail
where common cheerfulness would fail :
She strikes upon him with the heat
of July Suns; he feels it sweet;
An animal delight, though dim
T is all that now remains for him

The more I looked, I wondered moreAnd, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, A moment gave me to espy A trouble in her strong black eye; A remnant of uneasy light, A flash of something over-bright ! Nor long this mystery did detain My thoughts; she told in pensive strain That she had borne a heavy yoke, Been stricken by a twofold stroke; III health of body; and had pined Beneath worse ailments of the mind.

So be it!—but let praise ascend To him who is our Lord and Friend' who from disease and suffering ilath called for thee a second Spring:

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Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere-dale,
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Glad tidings'—spread them over field and height;
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The happy Kitten bound with frolic might,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:—
And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one Companion Child,
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild,
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

The BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.

A tale told by The fine-side, AFTER RETURNING to The vale of GilasA1 ear.

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest;
This corner is your own.

There ! take your seat, and let me see
That you can listen quietly;
And, as I promised, I will tell
That strange adventure which befel
A poor blind Highland Boy.

A Highland Boy!—why call him so
Because, my Darlings, ye must know,
In land where many a mountain towers,
Far higher hills than these of ours!
He from his birth had lived.

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight;
The sun, the day; the stars, the night;
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined,
Nor had a melancholy mind;
For God took pity on the Boy,
And was his friend; and gave him joy
Of which we nothing know.

His Mother, too, no doubt, above
Her other Children him did love:
For, was she here, or was she there,
She thought of him with constant care,
And more than Mother's love.

And proud she was of heart, when clad
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,
And bonnet with a feather gay,
To Kirk he on the sabbath day
Went hand in hand with her.

A Dog, too, had he: not for need, But one to play with and to feed; Which would have led him, if bereft Of company or friends, and left Without a better guide.

And then the bagpipes he could blow;
And thus from house to house would go.
And all were pleased to hear and see;
For none made sweeter melody
Than did the poor blind Boy.

Yet he had many a restless dream;
Both when he heard the Eagles scream.
And when he heard the torrents roar,
And heard the water beat the shore
Near which their Cottage stood.

Beside a lake their Cottage stood,
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;
But one of mighty size, and strange;
That, rough or smooth, is full of change,
And stirring in its bed.

For to this Lake, by night and day,
The great Sea-water finds its way
Through long, long windings of the hills;
And drinks up all the pretty rills,
And rivers large and strong :

Then hurries back the road it came—
Returns, on errand still the same;
This did it when the earth was new ;
And this for evermore will do,
As long as earth shall last.

And with the coming of the Tide,
Come Boats and Ships that safely ride, :
Between the woods and lofty rocks;
And to the Shepherds with their flocks
Bring tales of distant Lands.

And of those tales, whate'er they were,
The blind Boy always had his share:
Whether of mighty Towns, or Wales
With warmer suns and softer gales,
Or wonders of the Deep.

Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred.
When from the water-side he heard
The shouting, and the jolly cheers,
The bustle of the mariners
In stillness or in storm.

But what do his desires avail?
For He must never handle sail,
Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float
In Sailor's ship, or Fisher's boat
Upon the rocking waves.

His Mother often thought, and said,
What sin would be upon her head
If she should suffer this: « Aly Sou,
Whate'er you do, leave this undone;
The danger is so great.”

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Till they, who saw his outward frame, Quakes—conscious of thy power;
Fixed on him an unhallowed name; The caves reply with hollow moan;
Ilim—free from all malicious taint, And vibrates to its central soone,
And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, Yon time-cemented Tower!

A pen unwearied—to indite,
In his lone Isle, the dreams of night;

- Impassioned dreams, that strove to span
The faded glories of his Clan'

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

Suns that through blood their western harbour -
Thy shelving rocks among.

sought, And stars that in their courses fought, Hence all who love their country, love Towers rent, winds combating with woods— To look on thee—delight to rove Lauds deluged by unbridled floods,- Where they thy voice can hear; t And beast and bird that from the spell And, to the Patriot-warrior's Shade, of sleep took import terrible, Lord of the vale! to Ileroes laid These types mysterious (if the show In dust, that voice is dear!

Of battle and the routed foe
Had failed) would furnish an array
Of matter for the dawning day!

Along thy banks, at dead of night
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;
Or stands in warlike vest,

How disappeard He?—ask the Newt and Toad, Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, Inheritors of his abode ; A Champion worthy of the Stream, The Otter crouching undisturb’d, Yon grey tower's living crest In her dank cleft;-but be thou curb'd, But clouds and envious darkness hide | 0 froward Fancy! 'mid a scene A form not doubtfully descried:— Of aspect winning and serene; Their transient mission o'er, - For those offensive creatures shun O say to what blind region flee The inquisition of the sun' - These Shapes of awful phantasy! | And in this region flowers delight, To what untrodden shore?

A := 1,... he sight.
nd all is lovely to the sight Less than divine command they spurn ; |

Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, But this we from the mountains learn,

When she applies her annual test And this the valleys show,
To dead and living; when her breath That never will they deign to hold l
Quickens, as now, the wither'd heath;- Communion where the heart is cold
Nor slaunting Summer—when he throws To human weal and woe.

His soul into the briar-rose;
Or calls the lily from her sleep;
Prolong d beneath the bordering deep;

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,

Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren
ls warbling near the Baow Nie's Den.

Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot Devoted to the tomb. - In Nysa's isle, the embellish'd Grot; Nor deem that it can aught avail | whither by care of Libyan Jove For such to glide with or or sail o (High Servant of paternal I ove), Beneath the piny wood, Young Bacchus was convey’d—to lie Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake, Safe from his step-dame thea's eye; Ilis vengeful shafts—prepared to slake | where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glow’d, Their thirst in Tyrant's blood. - Close crowding round the Infant God, | All colours, and the liveliest streak EFFUSION, o

A foil to his celestial cheek!
in the PLEASURE- GROUND ON The BANKs of Trip.

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~ MT) wo - - --
COMPOSEi) At CORRA LINN, - The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we must expect

1N sight of wallace's Tower. it. We were first, however, conducted into a small apartment, where the Gardener desired us to look at the 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 To people the steep rocks and river banks, great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being reHer natural sanctuaries, with a local soul flected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against of independence and stern liberty. ins. the walls." – Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Trareller.

– How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name
of Wallace to be found, like a wild slower.

All over his dear Country; left the deeds
of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,

Load of the Walc' astounding Flood! What Ile—who 'mid the kindred thront;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood Of Heroes that inspired his song,

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