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O blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a

Band;
I am glad for him, blind as he is ! —all the while
If they speak ’tis to praise, and they praise with a

smile.

That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

.

There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch ; like a

Tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after

hour! -
A Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.

Now, Coaches and Chariots ! roar on like a stream ; Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream : They are deaf to your murmurs — they care not

for you, Nor what ye are Aying, nor what ye pursue !

XVII.

STEPPING WESTWARD.

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of

Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, " What you are stepping westward.”

What you are stepping westward?” — “ Yea.”
- 'Twould 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 ; 'twas a sound
Of something without place or bound;
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native Lake :
The salutation had to me
The very sound of courtesy :
Its power was felt; and while my eye
Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
The echo of the voice enwrought
A human sweetness with the thought
Of travelling through the world that lay
Before me in my endless way.

XVIII.

GLEN-ALMAIN,

OR

THE NARROW GLEN.

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 :
He 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 Was moved; and in this way expressed Their notion of its perfect rest. A Convent, even a hermit’s Cell Would break the silence of this Dell : « It is not quiet, is not ease ; But something deeper far than these : The separation that is here Is of the grave; and of austere And happy feelings of the dead : And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race ! Lies buried in this lonely place,

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