Felt and in a great measure composed upon the little mount in front of our abode at Rydal. In concluding my notices of this class of poems it may be as well to observe that among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" are a few alluding to morning impressions which might be read with mutual benefit in connection with these "Evening Voluntaries." See, for example, that one on Westminster Bridge, that composed on a May morning, the one on the song of the Thrush, and that beginning" While beams of orient light shoot wide and high."

The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far-distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues,
Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues !
In vision exquisitely clear,

Herds range along the mountain side;
And glistening antlers are descried;
And gilded flocks appear.

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal

Eve!

But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine!
-From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won;

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread

On ground which British shepherds tread!

III

And, if there be whom broken ties
Afflict, or injuries assail,
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes
Present a glorious scale,
Climbing suffused with sunny air,
To stop-no record hath told where !
And tempting Fancy to ascend,
And with immortal Spirits blend !1
---Wings at my shoulders seem to play;
But, rooted here, I stand and gaze

On those bright steps that heavenward raise

Their practicable way.

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,

And see to what fair countries ye are bound! And if some traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground,

Ye Genii! to his covert speed;

And wake him with such gentle heed
As may attune his soul to meet the dower
Bestowed on this transcendent hour!

IV

Such hues from their celestial Urn
Were wont to stream before mine eye,
Where'er it wandered in the morn
Of blissful infancy.

1 See Note.

SERENE, and fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion, in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.
And what pure homage then did wait
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere-
That he, not too elate
With self-sufficing solitude,
But with majestic lowliness endued,
Might in the universal bosom reign,
And from affectionate observance gain
Help, under every change of adverse fate.

II

Five thousand warriors-O the rapturous day!

Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield,

Or ruder weapon which their course might yield,

To Syracuse advance in bright array.
Who leads them on?-The anxious people

see

Long-exiled Dion marching at their head,
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily,
And in a white, far-beaming, corselet clad!
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear
The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain,
Salute those strangers as a holy train
Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear)
That brought their precious liberty again.
Lo! when the gates are entered, on each
hand,

Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine

In seemly order stand,

On tables set, as if for rites divine;—
And, as the great Deliverer marches by,
He looks on festal ground with fruits
bestrown;

And flowers are on his person thrown
In boundless prodigality;

Nor doth the general voice abstain from

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and

mourn

Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn!

Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads

Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades!

For him who to divinity aspired,

Not on the breath of popular applause,
But through dependence on the sacred laws
Framed in the schools where Wisdom
dwelt retired,

Intent to trace the ideal path of right
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway
paved with stars)

Which Dion learned to measure with sub

lime delight;

But He hath overleaped the eternal bars; And, following guides whose craft holds no

consent

With aught that breathes the ethereal element,

Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,

Unjustly shed, though for the public good. Whence doubts that came too late, and

wishes vain,

Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;
And oft his cogitations sink as low

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,
The heaviest plummet of despair can go-
But whence that sudden check? that fearful
start!

He hears an uncouth sound-
Anon his lifted eyes

Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound.
A Shape of more than mortal size
And hideous aspect, stalking round and
round!

A woman's garb the Phantom wore,
And fiercely swept the marble floor,-
Like Auster whirling to and fro,

His force on Caspian foam to try;
Or Boreas when he scours the snow
That skins the plains of Thessaly,
Or when aloft on Mænalus he stops
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops!

IV

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed,

Sweeping-vehemently sweeping

But Shapes that come not at an earthly call,
Will not depart when mortal voices bid;
Lords of the visionary eye whose lid,
Once raised, remains aghast, and will not
fall!

Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Imple

ment

Obeys a mystical intent!

Your Minister would brush away

The spots that to my soul adhere;

But should she labour night and day,
They will not, cannot disappear;
Whence angry perturbations, and that
look

Which no Philosophy can brook!

VI

Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built

Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;
Who, through the portal of one moment's
guilt,

Pursue thee with their deadly aim!
O matchless perfidy! portentous lust
Of monstrous crime!-that horror-striking
blade,

Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid
The noble Syracusan low in dust!
Shuddered the walls-the marble city

wept

And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh; But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept,

As he had fallen in magnanimity;

Of spirit too capacious to require

MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 1814

In this tour, my wife and her sister Sara were my companions. The account of the "Brownie's Cell" and the Brownies was given me by a mas we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a little above Tarbert, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which, we were told preachings were often held in the open air. Th place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery very striking. How much is it to be regretted that, instead of writing such Poems as the "Holy Fair" and others, in which the relgious observances of his country are treated with so much levity and too often with indecency, Burrs had not employed his genius in describing religion under the serious and affecting aspects it must su frequently take.

I

SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM THIS HABITATION ACQUIRE THE NAME OF

THE BROWNIE'S CELL

I

To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen,

Or depth of labyrinthine glen;
Or into trackless forest set

With trees, whose lofty umbrage met;