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The voyage.

-Scenes sung by him who sings no more! His bright and brief career is o'er,

And mute his tuneful strains ; Quenched is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour ; A distant and a deadly shore

Has LEYDEN's cold remains !

Ever the breeze blows merrily,
But the galley ploughs no more the sea.
Lest, rounding wild Cantire, they meet
The Southern foemen's watchful fleet,

They held unwonted way ;-
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore,
Then dragged their bark the isthmus o'er,
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore,

Upon the eastern bay.
It was a wondrous sight to see
Topmast and pennon glitter free,
High raised above the greenwood tree,
As on dry land the galley moves,
By cliff and copse and alder groves.
Deep import from that selcouth sign,
Did many a mountain Seer divine,

For ancient legends told the Gael,
That when a royal bark should sail

O'er Kilmaconnel moss,

The Foyage.

Old Albyn should in fight prevail,
And every foe should faint and quail

Before her silver Cross.

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Now launched once more, the inland sea They furrow with fair augury,

And steer for Arran's isle ; The sun, ere yet he sunk behind Ben Ghoil, The Mountain of the Wind," Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind,

And bade Loch Ranza smile.

Jn arran.

Thither their destined course they drew; It seemed the Isle her Monarch knew, So brilliant was the landward view,

The ocean so serene ; Each puny wave in diamonds rolled O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold

With azure strove and green. The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, Glowed with the tints of evening's hour, ,

The beach was silver sheen ; The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh, And, oft renewed, seemed oft to die,

With breathless pause between. Oh, who, with speech of war and woes, Would wish to break the soft repose

Of such enchanting scene!


autumn on the Tweed.

AUTUMN departs—but still his mantle's fold

Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, Beneath a shroud of russet dropped with gold

Tweed and his tributaries mingle still ;
Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill,

Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell,
The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill ;

And yet some tints of summer splendour tell
When the broad sun sinks down on Ettricke's western fell.

Autumn departs—from Gala's fields no more

Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer; Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er,

No more the distant reapers' mirth we hear. The lasi blithe shout hath died upon our ear,

And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain, On the waste hill no forms of life appear,

Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain. autumn on the Tweed.

Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still,

Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower withered on the hill,

To listen to the woods' expiring lay,
To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,

To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,
On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way,

And moralise on mortal joy and pain ? Oh, if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain !

No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note

Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie, Though faint its beauties as the tints remote

That gleam through mist in Autumn's evening sky, And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry,

When wild November hath his bugle wound; Nor mock my toil—a lonely gleaner 1,

Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound, Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found.

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