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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 10

The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on,
Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes
His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live

His power, his beauty, and his majesty.



Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung
Sound strath and mountain, stamped by the

ancient tongue On rock and ruin darkening as we go,— Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to

show 5

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 Eace, untamed By civil arts and labours of the pen, 10

Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce

Men, Who, to spread wide the reverence they

claimed For patriarchal occupations, named Yon towering Peaks, •' Shepherds of Etive


1 In Gaelic, Buachaill Eite.


Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook,
And all that Greece and Italy have sung
Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among!
Ours couch on naked rocks,—will cross a brook
Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 5
This way or that, or give it even a thought
More than by smoothest pathway may be

Into a vacant mind. Can written book
Teach what they learn? Up, hardy Mountaineer!
And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One 10
Of Nature's privy council, as thou art,
On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear
To what dread Powers He delegates his part
On Earth, who works in the heaven of heavens,



Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in

strains Thoughtful and sad, the "narrow house." No

style Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where he detains The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile 5 With truth, or with each other, decked remains Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile, For the departed, built with curious pains And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand 9 Together,—'mid trim walks and artful bowers,

To be looked down upon by ancient hills,
That, for the living and the dead, demand
And prompt a harmony of genuine powers;
Concord that elevates the mind, and stills.


At the Head of Glencroe.

Doubling and doubling with laborious walk,
Who, that has gained at length the wished-for

Height, This brief this simple way-side Call can slight, And rests not thankful? Whether cheered by

talk With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that

shine 6

At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine,
Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk
Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose,
Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep 10
Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air,
Andfishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep,—
So may the Soul, through powers that Faith

bestows, Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that

Angels share.


See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built

Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it


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; 5

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; 10 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!l



The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must strike every one, and concurs with the plaid and kilt, to recall to mind the communication which the ancient Romans had with this remote country.

If to Tradition faith be due,

And echoes from old verse speak true,

Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore

Glad tidings to lona's shore,

No common light of nature blessed 5

The mountain region of the west,

A land where gentle manners ruled

O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled

That raised, for centuries, a bar

Impervious to the tide of war: 10

Tet peaceful Arts did entrance gain

1 See Note.

Where haughty Force had striven in vain;

And, 'mid the works of skilful hands,

By wanderers brought from foreign lands

And various climes, was not unknown 15

The clasp that fixed the Eoman Grown;

The Fibula, whose shape, I ween,

Still in the Highland Broach is seen,

The silver Broach of massy frame,

Worn at the breast of some grave Dame 20

On road or path, or at the door

Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor:

But delicate of yore its mould,

And the material finest gold;

As might beseem the fairest Fair, 25

Whether she graced a royal chair,

Or shed, within a vaulted hall,

No fancied lustre on the wall

Where shields of mighty heroes hung,

While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. 30

The heroic Age expired—it slept

Deep in its tomb:—the bramble crept

O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod

Grew on the floors his sons had trod:

Malvina! where art thou? Their state 35

The noblest-born must abdicate;

The fairest, while with fire and sword

Come Spoilers—horde impelling horde,

Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest

By ruder hands in homelier vest. 40

Yet still the female bosom lent,

And loved to borrow, ornament;

Still was its inner world a place

Beached by the dews of heavenly grace

Still pity to this last retreat 45

Clove fondly; to his favourite seat

Love wound his way by soft approach,

Beneath a massier Highland Broach.

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