LOCH NA GARR.

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses !

In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war ; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing foun

tains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ;

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; 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, though brave, did no visions foreboding

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have rollid 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!

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.

Well! thou art happy, and I feel

That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal

Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest—and 'twill impart

Some pangs to view his happier lot :
But let them pass—Oh! how my heart

Would hate him, if he loved thee not !

When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled,

I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it,—and repressed my sighs

Its father in its face to see ; But then it had its mother's eyes,

And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu ! I must away :

While thou art blest I'll not repine ; But near thee I can never stay ;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride

Had quench'd at length my boyish flame : Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all, -save hope,—the same.

Yet was I calm : I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look ; But now to tremble were a crime

We met,--and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet met with no confusion there : One only feeling could'st thou trace ;

The sullen calmness of despair.

Away ! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake; Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream !

My foolish heart be still, or break.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR

TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO BANISH CARE.

66

“Oh ! banish care”-such ever be

The motto of thy revelry !
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the Children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and “banish care.”
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought—but let them pass—
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou would'st hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of any thing but love.

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear ;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'Twould suit philosophy to tell.

I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child ;-
Have seen her eyes in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain ;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave ;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas ! in each caress,
Time had not made me love the less.

But let this pass—I'll whine no more, Nor seek again an eastern shore ; The world befits a busy brain,I'll hie me to its haunts again. But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain's “ May is in the sere,” Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times, Of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, One, who in stern ambition's pride, Perchance not blood shall turn aside, One rank'd in some recording page With the worst anarchs of the age, Him wilt thou know—and knowing pause, Nor with the effect forget the cause.