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For fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be 15
A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
Was moved; and in such way expressed
But something deeper far than these:
That Ossian, last of all Ms race!
While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, 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, byway 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,
The dewy ground was dark and cold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native lake:
The salutation had to me
The very sound of courtesy: 20
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 25
Before me in my endless way.
THE SOLITAET REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field,
0 listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands 10
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas 15
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings ?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 25
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill, 30
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
ADDRESS TO KILCHUEN CASTLE,
"From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view,—a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water,— mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine; there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately—not dismantled of turrets—nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin."—Extract from the Journal of my Companion.
Child of loud-throated War! the mountain
Stream Eoars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest Is come, and thou art silent ifl thy age; Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are
caught Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 5 Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers
there are That touch each other to the quick in modes Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care Cast off—abandoned by thy rugged Sire, 10 Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills Might crush, nor know that it had suffered
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
Impersonated in thy calm decay!
Youthful as Spring.—Shade of departed Power,
1 The tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady during the absence of her Lord in Palestine.