STANZAS ON VISITING THE VITRIFIED FORT IN GLEN NEVIS.* I BEND in wonder o'er the living fountains, Or gaze athwart Lochaber's savage mountains, Or with the hawk, high in these shadowy regions. Of sunny clouds that, ranged in glorious legions, Fondly I list the far and wild commotion Of the strong wind, as o'er the hill he skiffs; And the eternal mountains rise and whiten But, ah! the song is hush'd along the meadow And time moves o'er our mountains like a shadow And silence, like the robe of death or slumber, Yes, men of hardihood-the boast of story- * This is one of those mysterious ramparts of the gray times of tradition which are sprinkled over the wildest districts of the Highlands. It stands about three miles up the gleu, crowning a high and steep ridge, and within a gunshot of Ben Nevis, which, rising sheer from the valley to the height of 4500 feet, overlooks it like a range of naked and gigantic battlements, whose pinnacles are often hid in the clouds. The above desultory thoughts were suggested to the author during a tour which he made with a few of his friends through that romantic region, in the summer of 1831. Gone are our sheilings, and our towers are hoary; No more the hunters gather in the hall, To rouse the red deer in the misty corrie, Or hit the eagle o'er the water-fall. The rising beams of hope may come and gather The gray stone looking through the silent heather, Fortalice couldst thou tell thy story, Where the flowers of fame did wave, Many a warrior has been foster'd All their names-and all their doing- All the sights and signs they saw on Here, perchance, some seer of Rona Sang the tales of other days; Fingal, when the minstrel's measure To the Bard's undying song. Here the heroes oft have revell'd In the carnage of the foe; Here the dark boar has been levell'd Here a thousand trumps were sounding When they spread the snowy sail, Riders of the blue sea, bounding To the aid of Innisfail. Daylight still is spread in glory Hawk and eagle have their nest; They had cares and griefs bewildering Like their sires, they quaff'd life's chalice, Mingle without grudge or frown. Sorrow changed in them each feature, Stern necessity which nature Binds upon the human race. They had hours of storm and meekness, Hours of trial, pain, and sickness, They have pass'd, and left their ashes Long lost pearls from the seas. Time shall spread his wings asunder, To Jehovah's trump of thunder D. M. TWO SCENES FROM THE CIVIL WAR. BY THE AUTHOR OF "RICHELIEU."* It was late on the night of an early day in spring--perhaps about two hours past midnight-and yet the inhabitants of a small lonely dwelling on the edge of a large piece of common-ground, lying about ten miles from Faringdon House, were all awake and up, and, with anxious eyes, gazing from the small long windows upon the blank darkness that hung over the world. A single candle stood upon a plain oaken table in the midst of the room, by the light of which might be seen, at one of the windows, a small finely-formed female figure, which still preserved all the lines of exquisite beauty, though a certain degree of stiffness, corresponding well with some deep wrinkles on the cheek, and the white hair that was braided from the forehead, spoke the passing of many years under the petrifying power of time since that form had been in its prime, and that beauty, which still lingered, had known its first expansion. Leaning over her shoulder was another figure so like the first, but with every grace which time had nipped in it just blown-with the cheek unwithered and the brow unseared-that it seemed a living picture of what the other had been some twenty years before-a portrait in a family picture-gallery, where human loveliness may see and moralize on all the graces that the eternal reaper has gathered as he flew. At the second window was a somewhat untidy maid-servant, contrasting strongly, in her slatternly disarray, with the plain neatness which decked the two other figures, whose garb I shall not pause to describe: let it suffice that it was of white, and fashioned in the mode of the time, A. D. 164-, though either poverty, simplicity of taste, or deference to the puritanical mania of the day, had deprived it of every extraneous ornament. The night upon which the whole party looked out, was dark and sad; for the moon had gone down, and the clouds over head, though not particularly heavy, were quite sufficiently so to hide every star, and cast a deep grey shadow over the wide extent of undulating moorland which stretched away for many a mile within view in the day time. A few faint streaks of pale light upon the sky separated the darkness of the heavens from the darkness of the earth, and marked where the prospect ended; and thitherward were turned the eyes of all, watching, with straining and anxious From The Amulet.' 1832. gaze, a particular point on the dim horizon, where, every now and then, bright red flashes, sudden and sharp, but circumscribed and momentary, broke upon the night, followed by a distant report as quick and transitory. No one spoke while those flashes continued ; but the silence itself seemed to show the intense anxiety which was felt, by the tenants of that chamber, in regard to the events of which they obtained so dim and unsatisfactory a view. At the end of five minutes, howthe sudden bursts of light entirely ceased; the reports were no longer heard ; and the elder of the two ladies, turning away from the window, said, in a low voice, “It is over; God's will is wrought by this time!" ever, The younger said nothing; but, clasping her fair hands together, raised her eyes towards the dark heavens, while her full sweet lips moved silently, offering up a petition to that never-closed ear which hears the still voice of the heart's thoughts as plainly as the loudesttongued appeal. In a moment after, the clattering sound of horses' feet was heard coming quickly down the road. At first it was faint and distantthe dull heavy tramp of several fleet steeds galloping over moist ground; but soon it came nearer and nearer-left the turf of the common-clanged over the firm and stony road-came close to the house-passed it-and died away in the distance. They are flying!" said the younger lady, "Oh, my mother, they are flying! Surely some of the dark powers of the air must assist those blood-thirsty fanatics. They are flying: do you not hear the horses galloping on!" 66 Nay, nay, Margaret," replied the other, "it may be the roundheads who fly. Though Goring and his cavaliers marched by here, we cannot tell what way the struggle may have turned, or on what side he attacked the rebels. So it may well be the traitors that fly themselves. But look out, look out: your eyes are younger than mine, and less dimmed with tears, perchance you may catch a passing glimpse that will give us glad news." The younger lady pressed her eyes close to the window; and though, by this time, the first party of fugitives had passed the house, yet the distant sound of others coming nigh met her ear; and she continued to gaze upon the faint line of the road to the spot where the yellow glare of the gravel, which distinguished it from the ground about it, was lost in the general darkness of the common. At length three dark figures came forward with tremendous speed; at first so near together, and so hidden by the night, that she could hardly distinguish them from each other; but gradually the forms became more and more clear; and as they darted past the |