Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown? Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown, Copy their beauty more and more, and preach, The target mouldering like ungathered fruit; The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head All speak of manners withering to the root, Among the conquests of civility, Though mute, of all things blending into Superior? Help to virtue does she give? one. VI THE TROSACHS As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first seen the Trosachs in her and Coleridge's company. The sentiment that runs through this Sonnet was natural to the season in which I again saw this beautiful spot; but this and some other sonnets that follow were coloured by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he was going. THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful If not, O Mortals, better cease to live! VIII COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE "That make the Patriot-spirit." It was mortifying to have frequent occasions to observe the bitter hatred of the lower orders of the Highlanders to their superiors; love of country seemed to have passed into its opposite. Emigration was the only relief looked to with hope. "THIS Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls, Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never rests Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls— Of Mountains varying momently their crests Proud be this Land! whose poorest huts are halls Where Fancy entertains becoming guests; While native song the heroic Past recalls." Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide Her trophies, Fancy crouch; the course of pride Has been diverted, other lessons taught, That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head Where the all-conquering Roman feared to tread. IX EAGLES VII THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute; The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE "The last I saw was on the wing," off the promontory of Fairhead, county of Antrim. I men tion this because, though my tour in Ireland with Mr. Marshall and his son was made many years ago, this allusion to the eagle is the only image supplied by it to the poetry I have since written. We travelled through that country in October, and to the shortness of the days and the speed with which we travelled (in a carriage and four) may be ascribed this want of notices, in my verse, of a country so interesting. The deficiency I am somewhat ashamed of, and it is the more remarkable as contrasted with my Scotch and Continental tours, of which are to be found in this volume so many memorials. DISHONOURED Rock and Ruin! that, by law Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw Was on the wing; stooping, he struck with awe Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort paired, From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard, Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw Light from the fountain of the setting sun. Such was this Prisoner once; and, when his plumes The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on, Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free, His power, his beauty, and his majesty. X IN THE SOUND OF MULL Touring late in the season in Scotland is an uncertain speculation. We were detained a week by rain at Bunaw on Loch Etive in a vain hope that the weather would clear up and allow me to show my daughter the beauties of Glencoe. Two days we were at the isle of Mull, on a visit to Major Campbell; but it rained incessantly, and we were obliged to give up our intention of going to Staffa. The rain pursued us to Tyndrum, where the Eleventh Sonnet was composed in a storm. TRADITION, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient tongue On rock and ruin darkening as we go,Spots where a word, ghostlike, survives to show What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have sprung; From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong, What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe. Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed By civil arts and labours of the pen, Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed For patriarchal occupations, named XI SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM ENOUGH of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, And all that Greece and Italy have sung Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look brought Into a vacant mind. Can written book And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One hear To what dread Powers He delegates his part On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, alone. XII THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MANSION AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KILLIN WELL sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains 1 In Gaelic, Buachaill Eite. XIV HIGHLAND HUT SEE what gay wild flowers deck this earthbuilt Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. The limpid mountain rill avoids it not; And why shouldst thou ?—If rightly trained and bred, Humanity is humble, finds no spot Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, Undressed the pathway leading to the door; But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, Belike less happy. -Stand no more aloof!1 XV THE BROWNIE Upon a small island, not far from the head of Loch Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual, one of the last survivors of the clan of Macfarlane, once powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author learned these particulars, and that this person then living there had acquired the appellation of "The Brownie." See "The Brownie's Cell," p. 534, to which 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; Where he, unpropped, and by the gathering flood Of years hemmed round, had dwelt, prepared to try Privation's worst extremities, and die With no one near save the omnipresent God. 1 See Note. Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow; And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go, 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 Has mixed its current with the limpid flood, Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears: Never for like distinction may the good Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased ears. XX SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN INGLEWOOD FOREST The extensive forest of Inglewood has been enclosed within my memory. I was well acquainted with it in its ancient state. The Hart's-horn tree mentioned in the next Sonnet was one of its remarkable objects, as well as another tree that grew upon an eminence not far from Penrith it was single and conspicuous; and being of a round shape, though it was universally known to be a Sycamore, it was always called the "Round Thorn," so difficult is it to chain fancy down to fact. THE forest huge of ancient Caledon On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone; Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none, Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again, To kill for merry feast their venison. strown; The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid, Hath still his castle, though a skeleton, That he may watch by night, and lessons con Of power that perishes, and rights that fade. XXI HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH HERE stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art, Among its withering topmost branches mixed, The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart, Whom the Dog Hercules pursued his part Each desperately sustaining, till at last Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased And chaser bursting here with one dire smart. Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat! High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride; Say, rather, with that generous sympathy That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat; And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide Verse that would guard thy memory, HART'S-HORN TREE !1 XXII FANCY AND TRADITION THE Lovers took within this ancient grove Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove, Not mute, where now the linnet only sings: XXIII COUNTESS'S PILLAR Suggested by the recollection of Julian's Bower and other traditions connected with this ancient forest. 1 See Note. |