Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ;(1) On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade⚫ I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.

Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds there encircle the forms of my

fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr

"Illstarr'd, (2) though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell that fate had forsaken your cause?"

you

Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, (3)
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:

(1) This word is erroneously pronounced plad: the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.

(2) I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of Scotland. By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

(3) Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain ; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, pars pro toto."

60

Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; (1)
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved on the mountains afar :
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na
Garr! (2)

(1) A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle of Braemar.

(2) In the “Island," a poem written a year or two before Lord Byron's death, we have these lines

"He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue,

Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,

And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace.

Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mine,
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apeninne,

Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep :
But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall;
The infant rapture still survived the boy,
And Loch na Garr with Ida look'd o'er Troy,
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount,
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount."

"When very young," (he adds in a note) "about eight years of age, after an attack of the scarlet fever at Aberdeen, I was removed, by medical advice, into the Highlands, and from this period I date my love of mountainous countries. I can never forget the effect, a few years afterwards, in England, of the only thing I had long seen, even in miniature, of a moun

TO ROMANCE.

PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;

When virgins seem no longer vain,
And even woman's smiles are true.

And must we own thee but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pylades (1) in every friend?

tain, in the Malvern Hills. After I returned to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon, at sunset, with a sensation which I cannot describe."- E.

(1) It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist.

But leave at once thy realms of air
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,

And friends have feeling for-themselves?

With shame I own I've felt thy sway
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er:
No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar.
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eve.
And think that eye to truth was dear;

To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear!

Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;

And call thy sylvan female choir,

To mourn a swain for ever gone,

Who once could glow with equal fire,

But bends not now before thy throne.

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;

Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrensy glow;
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant bard at least may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!

The hour of fate is hovering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view,

Where unlamented you must lie: Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether.

ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT
BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAIN-
ING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS
RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.

"But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?"

New Bath Guide.

CANDOUR compels me, BECHER! (1) to commend The verse which blends the censor with the friend

(1) The Rev. John Becher, prebendary of Southwell, the well-known author of several philanthropic plans for the amelioration of the condition of the poor. In this gentleman the youthful poet found not only an honest