XVI.

THE BROWNIE.

XIX.

HAMILTON PALACE.

In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;
The river glides, the woods before me wave;

Then why repine that now in vain I crave [Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch Needless renewal of an old delight?

Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which Better to thank a dear and long-past day was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual,

For joy its sunny hours were free to give one of the last survivors of the clan of Macfarlane, once

Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost. powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams learned these particulars, and that this person then

obey, living there had acquired the appellation of The Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive: Brownie.' See “ The Brownie's Cell," p. 231, to which

How little that she cherishes is lost !
the following is a sequel.
"How disappeared he?' Ask the newt and toad;
Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell
How he was found, cold as an icicle,
Under an arch of that forlorn abode ;

PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN, at
Where he, unpropp'd, and by the gathering flood
Of years hemm'd round, had dwelt, prepared to try
Privation's worst extremities, and die

AMID a fertile region green with wood
With no one near save the omnipresent God. And fresh with rivers, well did it become
Verily so to live was an awful choice -

The ducal Owner, in his palace-home A choice that wears the aspect of a doom ; To naturalise this tawny Lion brood; But in the mould of mercy all is cast

Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice;

(Couched in their den) with those that roam at large And this forgotten Taper to the last

Over the burning wilderness, and charge
Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom. The wind with terror while they roar for food.

Satiate are these ; and stilled to eye and ear;
Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear!

Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR.

Daunt him—if his Companions, now be-drowsed

Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused : Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save. Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from earth, In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost, Perplexed as if between a splendour lost And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun, The absolute, the world-absorbing One,

THE AVON. Relinquished half his empire to the host

(A FEEDER OF THE ANNAN.) Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star,

Avon—a precious, an immortal name !
Holy as princely, who that looks on thee

Yet is it one that other rivulets bear
Touching, as now, in thy humility
The mountain borders of this seat of care,

Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear

Like this contented, though unknown to Fame: Can question that thy countenance is bright,

For great and sacred is the modest claim Celestial Power, as much with love as light?

Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow;

And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go,
XVIII.

Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame.
But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears,

Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood (PASSED UNSEEN, ON ACCOUNT OF STORMY WEATHER.)

Has mixed its current with the limpid flood, IMMURED in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears : (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn

Never for like distinction may the good The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.

Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and have

XVII.

COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND.

XX.

W

BOTHWELL CASTLE.

3

By a continuous and acknowledged tie
Though unapparent-like those Shapes distinct
That yet survive ensculptured on the walls
Of palaces, or temples, ʼmid the wreck
Of famed Persepolis ; each following each,
As might beseem a stately embassy,
In set array; these bearing in their hands
Ensign of civil power, weapon of war,
Or gift to be presented at the throne
Of the Great King; and others, as they go
In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged,
Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power,
The Spirit of humanity, disdain
A ministration humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse
Its impulse took-that sorrow-stricken door,

Whence, as a current from its fountain-head,
Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed,
Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength
From kindred sources; while around us sighed
(Life's three first seasons having passed away)
Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings

fell
(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights ;
And every day brought with it tidings new
Of rash change, ominous for the public weal.
Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached
Upon that sweet and tender melancholy
Which may itself be cherished and caressed
More than enough; a fault so natural
(Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay)
For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.

EVENING VOLUNTARIES.

1.

1832.

II.

Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more; Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose

One boat there was, but it will touch the shore

With the next dipping of its slackened oar; Day’s grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews.

Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, Look for the stars, you 'll say that there are none;

Might give to serious thought a moment's sway,
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,

As a last token of man's toilsome day!
And wonder how they could elude the sight!
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,
Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers :
Nor does the village Church-clock’s iron tone

ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND. The time's and season's influence disown;

Easter Sunday, April 7.
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound
In drowsy sequence—how unlike the sound
That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear ! Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire,
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,

Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams, Had closed his door before the day was done, Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams. And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep, Look round ;-of all the clouds not one is moving; And joins his little children in their sleep.

'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky, Flits and reflits along the close arcade ;

The boundless plain of waters seems to lie :The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er With burring note, which Industry and Sloth The grass-crowned headland that conceals the Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both. shore? A stream is heard—I see it not, but know

No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea, By its soft music whence the waters flow:

Whispering how meek and gentle he can be !

THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY.

Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest And has restored to view its tender green, The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest, That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath (After a steady flight on home-bound wings,

their dazzling sheen. And a last game of mazy hoverings

-An emblem this of what the sober Hour Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise Can do for minds disposed to feel its power ! Disturb the liquid music's equipoise.

Thus oft, when we in vain have wish'd away

The petty pleasures of the garish day,
O Nightingale ! Who ever heard thy song Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host
Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong

(Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post)
That listening sense is pardonably cheated And leaves the disencumbered spirit free
Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted. To reassume a staid simplicity.
Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands,
Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands, 'Tis well—but what are helps of time and place,
This hour of deepening darkness here would be'

When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace ; As a fresh morning for new harmony ;

Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend, And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of Night: Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to beA dawn she has both beautiful and bright,

friend; When the East kindles with the full moon's light; If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, Not like the rising sun's impatient glow

“I come to open out, for fresh display, Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow

The elastic vanities of yesterday?" Of solemn splendour, in mutation slow.

1834.

VII.

Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led,
For sway profoundly felt as widely spread;
To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear,
And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear;
How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale
Fairer than Tempe! Yet, sweet Nightingale !
From the warm breeze that bears thee on, alight
At will, and stay thy migratory flight ;
Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount,
Who shall complain, or call thee to account?
The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they
That ever walk content with Nature's way,
God's goodness—measuring bounty as it may;
For whom the gravest thought of what they miss,
Chastening the fulness of a present bliss,
Is with that wholesome office satisfied,
While unrepining sadness is allied
In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.

The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill,
And sky that danced among those leaves, are still ;
Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower
Soft shades and dews have shed their blended

power
On drooping eyelid and the closing flower;
Sound is there none at which the faintest heart
Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start;
Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream
Pierces the ethereal vault; and (mid the gleam
Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream,
From the hushed vale's realities, transferred
To the still lake) the imaginative Bird
Seems, ʼmid inverted mountains, not unheard.

1834.

VI.

Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge—the Mere
Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear,
And motionless ; and, to the gazer's eye,
Deeper than ocean, in the immensity
Of its vague mountains and unreal sky!
But, from the process in that still retreat,
Turn to minuter changes at our feet ;
Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn
The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn,

Grave Creature !—whether, while the moon

shines bright
On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight,
Thou art discovered in a roofless tower,
Rising from what may once have been a lady's

bower ;
Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy mew
At the dim centre of a churchyard yew ;
Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod
Deep in a forest, thy secure abode,
Thou giv’st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or shout,
A puzzling notice of thy whereabout-
May the night never come, nor day be seen,
When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien !