From Fraser's Magazine.

RHYMES OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.

I.

THE HAUNTED TARN ON THE MOOR.

THERE lies a lonely mountain tarn

On Albyn's wildest ground, Scarce known but to the heather bee On homeward errand bound, Or to the wearied shepherd boy Who seeks his charge around.

It is a solitary moor,

Girt by a giant band
Schihallion throned, like Jove on high,
With his thunders in his hand;
While a hundred lesser mighty ones
In glory 'neath him stand.

From either side, below the tarn,

Two vales together blend;

Loch Tummel and Loch Rannoch stretch
Their arms from end to end;
Down to their margins from the steep

The yellow birches bend.

Hamlets and wooded knolls are there,
And fields of plumy grain,
And troops of happy villagers
Work busy in the plain;
But tillage on this mountain moor
Were all bestowed in vain.

No plough has torn its clotted moss,
No foliage waves in sight,

Save one dark clump of ragged pines
On a small barren height-
A fearful place it were to pass
On a gusty winter night!

LV.

A tale is told of battle fought

'Twixt clans a feud that bare:
The Robertsons, by Stewarts chased
From Rannoch's forest lair,
Turned by the lonely tarn at bay,
And took them unaware.

Then had the Robertsons revenge,
Their foes were rash and few;
The waters gurgled red with blood
Their mossy basin through,
Nor was a Stewart left to tell

What hand his clansmen slew.

Down in the vale beside her fire,
The wife of one there slain
Sang to the babe was at her breast
That could not sleep for pain;
When, hush! a sound is at her door
Of neither wind nor rain.

Nor sound of foot, though shape of man,
Pale, shadowy, blood-defiled,
Withouten latch or turn of hinge
Stood by her and her child,
Then glided back with hand outstretch'd
Towards the gloomy wild.

She sprang and call'd her sister dear,
A maiden fresh and young,
"I pray thee tend my little child,
I shall be back ere long;

I fear me lest the Robertsons
Have done my husband wrong."

LIVING AGE.

VOL. V.

26

She kissed the babe whose downy limbs Lay folded in her breast,

She gave it to her sister's charge

From its maternal nest;

Then, with her plaid about her clasp'd,
Unto the moorland press'd.

The shadowy wraith beside her stood
Soon as she closed the door,

And, as she pass'd by kirk and wood,
Still flitted on before,
Guiding her steps across the burn,
Up, up, unto the moor.

The moon was hid in weeds of white,
The night was damp and cold,
The wanderer stumbled in the moss,
Bewildered on the wold,

Till suddenly the clouds were rent,
The tarn before her roll'd.

The heather with strange burdens swell'd

On every tuft a corse,

On every stunted juniper,

On every faded gorse;

The woman sank, and on her lids
Her weak hands press'd with force.
Again she was constrain'd to gaze,—
Lo! on each dead man's brow,
A tongue of flame burn'd steadily,
Though there was breeze enow
To shake the pines that overhead
Waved black, funereal bough.
And, dancing on the sullen loch,
A ghostly troop there went,
Whose airy figures floated high
On the thin element;

And grimly at each other's forms

Their mock claymores they bent.

One brush'd so near, she turn'd her gaze,
She stood transfix'd to stone;

It was the face of him she sought,
Close pressing on her own,
And fell upon her straining ear
One deep and awful moan.

She started back with madden'd shriek-
Shriek echoed by the dead;

She gave a hurried pray'r to heaven,
Then o'er the moorland fled;
Until she reach'd the village kirk,

She dared not turn her head.

Not long her thread of life endured,
Not long her infant hung
Upon that bosom terror-dried,

That mouth no more that sung.
She died, and ever since the tarn
Is shunn'd by old and young.

For still the gusty breezes raise

The phantom's anguish'd cry,
Still on the water's brim they flit
When winter storms are high;
Still flames, nor wind nor wave can quench,
Are ever burning nigh.

Nay, if you doubt it, wend your way,

In twilight's deepening blue,
And watch beneath those spectral pines
One stormy midnight through;
And, if your courage fail you not,
You shall behold them too!

II. CULLODEN.

There was tempest on the waters, there was darkness on the earth,

When a single Danish schooner struggled up the Moray Firth;

Far and grim the Ross-shire mountains loom'd Unfriendly on its track,

Shriek'd the wind along their gorges like a sufferer on the rack,

And the utmost deeps were shaken by the stunning thunder-peal,

'T was a sturdy hand, I trow ye, that was needed at the wheel!

Though the billows flew about them till the mast was hid in spray,

Though the timbers strain'd beneath them, still they bore upon their way,

Till they reached a fisher village, where the vessel they could moor;

Every head was on its pillow when they landed on the shore,

And a man of noble presence bade the crew, "Wait here for me;

I will come back in the morning, when the sun has left the sea.

He was yet in manly vigor, though his lips were ashen white;

On his brow were early furrows, in his eyes a clouded light;

Firm his step withal, and hasty, through the blinding mist so sure,

That he found himself by dawning on a wide and barren muir,

Only marked by dykes and heather, bare alike of house and wood,

But he knew the purple ridges-'t was Culloden where he stood!

He had known it well aforetime, not as now, so drear and quiet;

Then astir with battle's horror, drunken with destruction's riot;

Now so peaceful and unconscious, that the orphan'd and exiled

Was unmann'd to see its calmness, weeping

weakly as a child :

And a thought arose of madness, and his hand was on his sword,

But he crush'd the coward impulse, and he spoke

the bitter word:

Dabbled with the heather blossoms, red as lifedrops of the slain?

Did ye hide your hunted children from the vengeance of the foe,

Did ye rally back the flying for one last despairing blow?

No! the Saxon holds dominion, and the humbled clans obey,

And their bones must rot in exile who disdain usurpers' sway.

“He is sunk in wine's oblivion, for whom Highland blood was shed,

Him the kerne most wretched sheltered with a price upon his head;

Beaten down like hounds by whipping, crouch we from our master's sight;

And I tread my native mountains like a robber in the night;

Spite of tempest, spite of danger, hostile man and hostile sea,

Gory field of sad Culloden, I have come to look on thee!"

So he plucked a tuft of heather that was blooming at his foot,

That was nourished by dead kinsmen and their bones were at its root;

With a sigh he took the blossom, striding quickly to the strand,

Where the Danish crew awaited 'mong a curious fisher band;

Brief his parley, swift his sailing with the tide, and ne'er again

Saw the Moray Firth that stranger or the schooner

of the Dane.

III.

THE BALLAD OF EVAN DHU.

As swarming bees upon the wing,
The people crowded o'er the hill;
And now the bell had ceased to ring,
The village kirk had ceased to fill.

The mountain burn that washed the graves
Murmured a hymn while running by;
And with the solemn chime of waves
A hundred voices clomb the sky.

The sunbeams through the open door
And, messengers of gladness, bore
Came streaming in across the place,

Heaven's radiance to each humble face.

On upturned foreheads, sage and good,

They lingered with seraphic smile, When in the darkened doorway stood A stranger man, and paused awhile.

His raiment had a foreign air,

His brow was burnt by foreign skies;
And there was fierceness in his stare
That suited ill devotion's eyes.

He looked around with changing cheek,
Then hurried to the nearest pew,
As one whose heart, too full to speak,
Those time-worn stairs and benches knew

The preacher eyed him as he went, Remembrance on his features shone ;

Culloden's plain,

A warmer pity fired his tone.

Why will ye die who know full well Your sentence just, our warning true? The Lord our God is terrible,

And yet the Lord hath bled for you!

"Whate'er your weakness, e'er your guilt,
His fountains wash the blackest crime;
Ah! not in vain his blood was spilt!
Turn, sinners, in th' Accepted Time!"

The stranger stirred, as ill at ease,

And shunned the preacher's earnest gaze; When, strong as wind that shakes the trees, Up swelled the stately Paraphrase:

"As long as life its term extends

Hope's blest dominion never ends; For, while the lamp holds on to burn, The greatest sinner may return."

From lisping child and tuneful girl

The glorious measure rolled on high ; Ah, Evan Dhu, the battle's whirl

Ne'er sent such dimness to thine eye!

Oft on the lawless Spanish main,

When pirate colors shamed thy mast, The voice of that reproving strain

At midnight o'er thy slumbers passed !

Oft heaving on the southern swell,

A thousand watery leagues from land, Thy village kirk's familiar bell

Rang through the stillness, close at hand.

"Hope's blest dominion!" for those years, Thy reckless youth, thy hardened prime ! The stricken wretch arose in tears,

And fled as from pursuing crime.

The hymn sank down, the singers' eyes
Each other sought in wondering dread,
Until an old man spake, with sighs,
"My son is living who was dead!

"Yes, 't is the son whom I have wept
As false to God, and lost to me;
But he whose hand the wanderer kept,
Will set the slave of Satan free."

With tears upon his visage old,

The trembling father sought his son, Who, flung upon the heathy mould, Embraced his mother's burial-stone.

A woman sat beside the tomb;

Her youth was fled, her eyes were dim ;
For she had lived away her bloom
In agonizing thoughts of him.

Ah, Evan Dhu! beloved of yore,
Thy wooing met no coy denial;
But pleasure gilt a foreign shore,
And she was left to faith and trial!

Thou, all unworthy of her love,

Debased thy heart to low desires; She was a star that watched above

The marshes' false, uncertain fires. Long watched, long waited, till, at last, Her soul was from its anchor driven;

And reason was by love o'ercast,
And every link of memory riven.

With inexpressive sweetness smil'd

Her eyes, that knew not friend from friend, While, harmless as a gentle child,

Her daily steps would church-ward tend.

Ah, Evan Dhu! beside thee sat
This idol of thy boy romance;
Ah, Evan Dhu! return'd too late
To wilder'd brain and vacant glance!

She knew him not, but chanted low
An ancient lay of love and sorrow,
And aye its sad returning flow

Was "Smile to-day, grief comes to-morrow."

But many years were yet for him,

A penitent, heart-broken man,
To drain a cup that o'er the brim
With bitter juice of memory ran-

Long years for him to tend the maid,
Whose restless eyes still turn'd away,
Who spoke his name but to upbraid

With tender plaints the Far-away.

Dire was his penance, by her side,

To mark the wreck, to feel the shame, She never knew him, though she died Calling on his beloved name.

IV.

THE OLD HOUSE OF URRARD.

Dost fear the grim brown twilight?
Dost care to walk alone
When the firs upon the hill-top

With human voices moan?
When the river in his channel

Doth twist through craggy linn,
Like one who cannot sleep o' nights
For evil thoughts within?
When the hooting owls are silent
The ghostly sounds to hark
In the ancient house of Urrard,
When the night is still and dark?

There are graves about old Urrard,
Huge mounds by rock and tree,
And they who lie beneath them
Died fighting by Dundee.
Far down along the valley,
And up along the hill,
The fight of Killiecrankie
Has left a story still;
But thickest show the traces,

And thickest throng the sprites,
In the woods about old Urrard
On the gloomy winter nights.
In the garden of old Urrard,
Among the bosky yews,
Uprears a turfy hillock,
Refresh'd by faithful dews;
Here died the Highland captain,
By charméd silver ball,
And all the might of victory
Dropp'd nerveless in his fall;
Last hope of exiled Stuart-
Last heir of chivalrie-
In the garden of old Urrard
He fell, the great Dundee !
In the ancient house of Urrard

There's many a hiding den

The very walls are hollow
To succor flying men ;
For not e'en lady's chamber
Barr'd out the fierce affray,
And couch and silken hanging
Were stain'd with blood that day:
From yonder secret passage

Hack'd sword, and skull, and bone, Were brought to light in Urrard, When years had pass'd and gone. If thou sleep alone in Urrard,

Perchance in midnight gloom
Thou'lt hear behind the wainscot
Of that old haunted room
A fleshless hand that knocketh,
A wail that cries on thee,
And rattling limbs that struggle
To break out and be free.
It is a thought of horror,

I would not sleep alone
In the haunted rooms of Urrard,
Where evil deeds were done.

Up in the dusty garrets,

That stretch along the roof,
Stand chests of ancient garments,
Of gold and silken woof.
When men are lock'd in slumber
The rustling sounds are heard
Of dainty ladies' dresses,

Of laugh and whisper'd word,
Of waving wind of feathers,
And steps of dancing feet,
In the garrets of old Urrard,

Where the winds of winter beat.

By the ancient house of Urrard
Its warder mountain sits;
Whene'er those sounds arouse him
His cloudy brow he knits;
For he the feast remembers,
Remembers too the fray,
And to him flee the spectres
At breaking of the day.

There under nossy lichen

They couch with hare and fox, Near the ancient house of Urrard, 'Mong Ben-y-Vrachy's rocks.

Here came the gay fawn, bounding
Its dappled dam to greet;
Heard they my rude roar sounding,
Methinks their hoof were fleet.
Here rose the lark at morning,

The blythe thrush warbled here;
Saw they my black throat yawning,
They'd tumble in with fear!
Hither came Youth and Beauty,
Light steps and laughter gay;
Methinks her face were sooty,
Who gaz'd too near to-day.
But lo! with axe on shoulder,
The skilful artisan-
Surely, there is none bolder

Than that strange creature, man—
He came, and hew'd the forest-
He dug beneath the soil-
His toil was of the sorest,

Yet he reck'd not of his toil.
Daily and nightly-deeper

Beneath the earth he div'd-
Woe! to the ling'ring sleeper!
Woe! to the newly-wiv'd.
Why bor'st thou, thou that borest?
Delver, why delv'st thou so?
Aboye ye grew the forest-

Seek
ye fresh groves below?
They had hewn wood in the meadow,
They found more wood below;
For beneath that pit's dark shadow,
Thick trunk on trunk did grow.
'T was coal, they said-rich treasure!
And, faith, right glad were they.
They found great store-" No measure
Can mete it out," they say.
Coal! 'tis the diamond's brother!
Strange speech, I ween, yet true;
Of one substance and one mother,
Diverse enough their hue!
This coal I feed on nightly-
Coal, I devour by day:

Heap, heap on! the more brightly
I burn, the more I'll say.

And lo in other places

They delv'd beneath the sod,

And cheeried grew their faces,
And with lighter step they trod.
"Ho! ho! black iron," they shouted,
"Great luck is ours to-day!"
They laughed. "What dullard doubted
There was treasure in this clay?
Erewhile, men said, earth riches
Wave with the golden corn;
Our darksome pits and ditches
The cravens laugh'd to scorn.
Say, will they laugh, when, clashing
Farmer with artisan,

In banded conflict dashing

Black iron against red grain
Shall fill the world with anguish,
Tumult, and wild dismay,
Till the grim ore shall vanquish
Grain's bonded knavery?"
Then took they brick, and daily

Made me more tall and strong-
(Ye must ply my fire more gaily,
An ye would hear my song.)
Then took they fire, and taught me
On all that burns to feed:

I ate up all they brought me,

Nor knew I ought of need.

Days, nights, weeks, months, yea longer,