GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN.
In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; In this still place, where murmurs on But one meek streamlet, only one : He sang of battles, and the breath Of stormy war, and violent death; And should, methinks, when all was past, Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And everything unreconciled;
In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the bard sleep here indeed?
Or is it but a groundless creed?
What matters it ?-I blame them not
Whose fancy in this only spot
Was moved; and in this way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest. A convent, even a hermit's cell
Would break the silence of this dell:
It is not quiet, is not ease;
But something deeper far than these :
The separation that is here Is of the grave: and of austere Yet happy feelings of the dead : And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race,
Lies buried in this lonely place.
(At Inversnaid, upon Loch Lomond.)
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks; this household lawn; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay, a quiet road, That holds in shelter thy abode : In truth, together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream ; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! Yet dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart! God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away : For never saw I mien or face, In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here, scattered like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness; Thou wearest upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer, A face with gladness overspread ! Sweet looks, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech ; A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee, who art so beautiful? Oh, happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father, anything to thee !
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompence. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes; Then, why should I be loath to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasures like the past, Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And thee, the spirit of them all!
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