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THE SETTING SUN.

WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF IONA,

IN 1800.

FAIR light of heaven! where is thy couch of rest?
That thy departing beams so sweetly smile:
Thou sleepest calm in that green happy isle

That rises mid the waters of the west.
Sweet are thy tidings from the land of hills

To spirits of the dead who round thee throng, And chaunt in concert shrill thine evening song, Whose magic sound the murmuring ocean stills: Calm is thy rest amid these fields so green,

Where never breathes the deep heart-rending sigh, Nor tears of sorrow dim the sufferer's eye.

Then why revisit this unhappy scene,

Like the lone lamp that lights the sullen tomb,
To add new horrors to sepulchral gloom?

SERENITY OF CHILDHOOD..

In the sweet morn of life, when health and joy
Laugh in the eye, and o'er each sunny plain
A mild celestial softness seems to reign,
Ah! who could dream what woes the heart annoy?
No saddening sighs disturb the vernal gale

Which fans the wild-wood music on the ear;
Unbath'd the sparkling eye with pity's tear,

Save listening to the aged soldier's tale.

The heart's slow grief, which wastes the child of woe,
And lovely injur'd woman's cruel wrong,
We hear not in the sky-lark's morning song,
We hear not in the gales that o'er us blow.
Visions devoid of woe which childhood drew,
How oft shall my sad heart your soothing scenes
renew!

THE MEMORY OF THE PAST.

ALAS, that fancy's pencil still pourtrays

A fairer scene than ever nature drew! Alas, that ne'er to reason's placid view Arise the charms of youth's delusive days! For still the memory of our tender years,

By contrast vain, impairs our present joys; Of greener fields we dream and purer skies, And softer tints than ever nature wears.

Lo! now, to fancy, Teviot's vale appears

Adorn'd with flowers of more enchanting hue
And fairer bloom than ever Eden knew,

With all the charms that infancy endears.

Dear scenes! which grateful memory still employ, Why should you strive to blast the present joy?

MACGREGOR.

WRITTEN IN GLENORCHY, NEAR THE SCENE OF
THE MASSACRE OF THE MACGREGORS.

In the vale of Glenorchy the night-breeze was sighing
O'er the tombs where the ancient Macgregors are lying:
Green are their graves by their soft murm'ring river,
But the name of Macgregor has perish'd for ever. -
On a red stream of light, from his gray mountains
glancing,

The form of a spirit seem'd sternly advancing;
Slow o'er the heath of the dead was its motion,

As the shadow of mist o'er the foam of the ocean;

Like the sound of a stream thro' the still evening dying.

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Stranger, who tread'st where Macgregor is lying! "Dar'st thou to walk unappall'd and firm-hearted "Midst the shadowy steps of the mighty departed? "See, round thee the cairns of the dead are disclosing "The shades that have long been in silence reposing!

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Through their form dimly twinkles the moon-beam descending,

"As their red eye of wrath on a stranger are bending. "Our gray stones of fame though the heath-blossoms

cover,

"Round the hills of our battles our spirits still hover; "But dark are our forms by our blue native fountains, "For we ne'er see the streams running red from the mountains.

"Our fame fades away like the foam of the river,

"That shines in the sun ere it vanish for ever; "And no maid hangs in tears of regret o'er the story, "When the minstrel relates the decline of our glory. "The hunter of red deer now ceases to number "The lonely gray stones on the fields of our slumber. "Fly stranger, and let not thine eye be reverted !--"Ah! why should'st thou see that our fame is departed?”