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When alternations came of rage

Yet fiercer, in a darker age; 50

And feuds, where, clan encountering clan,

The weaker perished to a man;

For maid and mother, when despair

Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer,

One small possession lacked not power, 55

Provided in a calmer hour,

To meet such need as might befall—

Roof, raiment, bread, or burial:

For woman, even of tears bereft,

The hidden silver Broach was left. 60

As generations come and go,

Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow;

Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away,

And feeble, of themselves, decay;

What poor abodes the heir-loom hide, 65

In which the castle once took pride!

Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth,

If saved at all, are saved by stealth.

Lo! ships, from seas by nature barred,

Mount along ways by man prepared; 70

And in far-stretching vales, whose streams

Seek other seas, their canvass gleams.

Lo! busy towns spring up, on coasts

Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts;

Soon, like a lingering star forlorn 75

Among the novelties of morn,

While young delights on old encroach,

Will vanish the last Highland Broach.

But when, from out their viewless bed,
Like vapours, years have rolled and spread; 80
And this poor verse, and worthier lays,
Shall yield no light of love or praise;
Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough,

Or torrent from the mountain's brow,

Or whirlwind, reckless what his might 85

Entombs, or forces into light;

Blind Chance, a volunteer ally,

That oft befriends Antiquity,

And clears Oblivion from reproach,

May render back the Highland Broach.1 90


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," to which the following is a seque1.

"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 6

1 How much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble stations may be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female friend. She had had an opportunity of benefiting a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, "I would give anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for my Broach!" and, uttering these words, she put her hand upon the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she imagined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress.

Privation's worst extremities, and die

With no one near save the omnipresent God.

Verily so to live was an awful choice—

A choice that wears the aspect of a doom; 10

But in the mould of mercy all is cast

For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice;

And this forgotten Taper to the last

Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom.


Composed at Loch Lomond.

Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth

Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most

To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from

earth, In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost, Perplexed as if between a splendour lost 5

And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun,
The absolute, the world-absorbing One,
Relinquished half his empire to the host
Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star,
Holy as princely, who that looks on thee 10
Touching, as now, in thy humility
The mountain borders of this seat of care,
Can question that thy countenance is bright,
Celestial Power, as much with love as light?


(Passed unseen, on account of stormy weather.)

Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the

(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn

The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.

Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and

have In mind the landscape, as if still in sight; 5 The river glides, the woods before me wave; Then why repine that now in vain I crave Needless renewal of an old delight? Better to thank a dear and long-past day For joy its sunny hours were free to give 10 Than blame the present, that our wish hath

crost. Memory, like sleep, ha,to powers which dreams

obey, Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive; How little that she cherishes is lost!


Amid a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well did it become
The ducal Owner, in his palace-home
To naturalise this tawny Lion brood; 4

Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood
(Couched in their den) with those that roam at

large Over the burning wilderness, and charge The wind with terror while they roar for food. Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and ear; Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear! 10 Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave Daunt him—if his Companions, now be-drowsed O utstretched and listless, were by hunger roused: Man placed him here, and G-od, he knows, can




(A feeder of the Annan.)

Avon—a precious, an immortal name!
Yet is it one that other rivulets bear
Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear
Like this contented, though unknown to Fame:
For great and sacred is the modest claim 5

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 10

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 Kill, with unpleased




The forest huge of ancient Caledon

Is but a name, no more is Inglewood,

That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood:

On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone;

Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none, 5

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. Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade His church with monumental wreck bestrown; 10

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