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Or wiped his honourable brows

Bedewed with toil, While reapers sirove, or busy ploughs

Uplurned 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 Heaven.»

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!


Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the Bracs of Kircle,'
Was lovely as a Grecian Maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrule.
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 poble Youth !
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
Jf 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 verdapt mosses ?
Alas that ever he was boro!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sces 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 arins,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.

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.



* The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at

it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses

Is there a man whose judgment clear, etc.

Extract from the Journal of my Pellow-traveller.

Mid crowded Obelisks and Urns
I sought the untimely grave of Buros;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns

With sorrow true;
And more would grieve, but that it turns

Trembling to you !

Throngh Twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life 's hill,
And more than common strength and skill


ye display,
If ye would give the better will

Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
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 latter 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 « lonely heights and hows,»
He paid to Nature tuneful vows;

"The Kirile is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, oa share banks the events here related 100k 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 be was wooing :
So coming his last help to crave,
Beart-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,
And its forlorn Hıc JacET !



(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.) Stret Righland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Iwice 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 litte Bay, a quiet Road Thar holds in shelter thy Abode ; In truth together, do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Sach Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are Jaid asleep! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart : God shield thee to thy latest years ! I Beither know thee nor thy peers ; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away :
For dever saw I mien, or face,
la which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, Thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness :
Thou wearist upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a Mountaineer.
A face with gladness overspread !
Soft smiles, by human kinddess bred !
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about tbee plays ;
Will 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?
O 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 bear 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!

In this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW Glen;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek Streamlet, only one:

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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« 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 Wirs a sound
Of something without place or bound;
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.

- From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon car

view,-a ruined Castle on an Island at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Graacban, down -Lidl came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the Na ter, --mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sas- ! shine; there was a mild desolation in the low-grounds, a sin lemn grandeur in tbe mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately-not dismantled of Turrets-Dor the walls broken dos, though obviously a ruin.o-Extruct from the Journal of sy Com panion.

The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native Lake:
The salutation had to me
The very sound of courtesy:
Ils 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


Cbild of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;
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 louch 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; thougli, 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!

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

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

No Nightingale did ever chaunt Plore welcome notes to weary bands

«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.

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 untleshed humanity, The Chronicle were welcome that should call loto the compass of distinct regard The toils and struggles of iliy infancy! Yon fouming flood seems motionless 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 quicted in character; the strife, The pride, the fury uncontrollable, lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!

«For why ?-because the good old Rule
Sufficethi 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.


The History of Rob Roy is sufticiently known; his Grave is near the

bead of Loch hetteride, in one of those small pin fold-like Burialbraods, of neglected and desolale appearance, wbich the Traeller moets with in the lighlands of Scotlaod.

« 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.

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« Oh! green,» said I, « are Yarrow's llolms,
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.


CASTLE. DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, 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 Twecd, And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

« Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still St Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow !
We will not see them ; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.

Seo Jamilton's Ballad, as above.

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