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“Rest and be DOUBLING and doubling with laborious walk, Thankful !" Who, that has gained at length the wished-for At the head

Height, of Glencroe

This brief, this simple way-side Call can slight,
And rest not thankful? Whether cheered by talk
With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk
Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine
At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine,
Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk
Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose,
Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep
Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air,
And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep,
Somay the Soul, through powersthat Faith bestows,
Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that

Angels share.
Highland See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot,
Hut Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and howit may,

Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray
Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot.
The limpid mountain rill avoids it not ;
And why shouldst thou?- If rightly trained and

bred,
Humanity is humble, finds no spot
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread.
The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof,
Undressed the pathway leading to the door ;
But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor;
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-

proof,
Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer,
Belike less happy.--Stand no more aloof!

“How disappeared he?” Ask the newt and toad; The Hermit Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell

Macfarlane How he was found, cold as an icicle, Under an arch of that forlorn abode ; Where he, unpropped, and by the gathering flood Of years hemmed round, had dwelt, prepared to try Privation's worst extremities, and die With no one near save the omnipresent God. Verily so to live was an awful choiceA choice that wears the aspect of a doom ; But in the mould of mercy all is cast For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice; And this forgotten Taper to the last Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom.

THOUGH joy attend Thee orient at the birth Tothe Planet
Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most

Venus
To watch thycourse when Day-light, fled from earth,
In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost,
Perplexed as if between a splendour lost
And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun,
The absolute, the world-absorbing One,
Relinquished half his empire to the host
Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star,
Holy as princely, who that looks on thee
Touching, as now, in thy humility
The mountain borders of this seat of care,
Can question that thy countenance is bright,
Celestial Power, as much with love as light?

Bothwell IMMURED in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave
Castle (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn

The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.
Once on those steeps I roaned at large, and have
In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;
The river glides, the woods before me wave ;
Then why repine that now in vain I crave
Needless renewal of an old delight?
Better to thank a dear and long-past day
For joy its sunny hours were free to give
Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost.
Memory,like sleep, hath powers which dreamsobey,
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive ;
How little that she cherishes is lost !

Picture of Amid a fertile region green with wood Daniel in the And fresh with rivers, well did it become

Lion's Den The ducal Owner, in his palace-home
at Hamilton
Palace To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;

Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood
(Couched in their den) with those that roam at large
Over the burning wilderness, and charge
The wind with terror while they roar for food.
Satiate are these ; and stilled to eye
Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear!
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
Daunt him if his Companions, now be-drowsed
Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused :
Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.

and ear;

Avon-a precious, an immortal name !

The Avon Yet is it one that other rivulets bear

(a feeder of

the Annan) Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear Like this contented, though unknown to Fame: For great and sacred is the modest claim Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow; And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go, Tree,flower and green herb, feeding without blame. But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears. Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood Has mixed its current with the limpid Alood, Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears : Never for like distinction

may

the good Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased

ears.

The forest huge of ancient Caledon

Suggested Is but a name, nor more is Inglewood,

by a View in That from hill to hill, from flood to flood :

Inglewood swept

Forest
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.

Hart's-horn Here stood an Oak that long hath borne affixed
Tree, near To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art,
Penrith

Among its withering topmost branches mixed,
The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart,
Whom the Dog Hercules pursued-his part
Each desperately sustaining, till at last
Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased
And chaser bursting here with one dire smart.
Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat !
High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride;
Say, rather, with that generous sympathy
That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat ;
And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide
Verse that would guard thy memory, Hart's-

HORN Tree!

Fancy and The Lovers took within this ancient grove
Tradition Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs

The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings
For instant fight; the Sage in yon alcove
Sate musing ; on that hill the Bard would rove
Not mute, where now the linnet only sings :
Thus everywhere to truth Tradition clings,
Or Fancy localises Powers we love.
Were only History licensed to take note
Of things gone by, her meagre monuments
Would ill suffice for

and events :
There is an ampler page for man to quote,
A readier book of manifold contents,
Studied alike in palace and in cot.

persons

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