THE TROSACHS.

HERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass.
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

WEL

ADMONITION.

ELL may'st thou halt, and gaze with brightening eye!
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook

Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

But covet not the Abode;-forbear to sigh,

As many do, repining while they look;

Intruders who would tear from Nature's book

This precious leaf with harsh impiety.

Think what the home must be if it were thine,

Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

The roses to the porch which they intwine;

Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day

On which it should be touched, would melt away.

HE 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,
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;
The feudal Warrior-chief a Ghost unlaid,

Hath still his castle, though a skeleton,

That he may watch by night, and lessons con
Of power that perishes, and rights that fade.

AS it to disenchant, and to undo,

WAS

That we approached the seat of Charlemaine ?

To sweep from many an old romantic strain

That faith which no devotion may renew!

Why does this puny Church present to view

Her feeble columns? and that scanty chair!

This sword that one of our weak times might wear!
Objects of false pretence, or meanly true!

If from a traveller's fortune I might claim

A palpable memorial of that day,

Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach

That ROLAND clove with huge two-handed sway,

And to the enormous labour left his name,

Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach.

BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE.

HAT lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose? Is this the stream whose cities, heights, and plains, War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews?

The Morn, that now, along the silver MEUSE,
Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains
To tend their silent boats and ringing wains,
Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews.
The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes
Turn from the fortified and threatening hill,
How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade,
With its gray rocks clustering in pensive shade-
That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise

From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still!