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O blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand
That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch ; like a
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 !
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.”
The dewy ground was dark and cold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
The voice was soft, and she who spake
THE NARROW GLEN.
In this still place, remote from men,
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,