XI. SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM. ENOUGH of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, Ours couch on naked rocks, will cross a brook On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear XII. THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MANSION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KILLIN. WELL sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains Thoughtful and sad, the "narrow house." No style Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where he detains The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile With truth, or with each other, decked remains To be looked down upon by ancient hills, DOUBLING and doubling with laborious walk, Who, that has gained at length the wished-for Height, This brief this simple way-side Call can slight, talk Whether cheered by 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, And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep, — So may the Soul, through powers that Faith be stows, Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that Angels share. XIV. HIGHLAND HUT. SEE what gay wild-flowers deck this earth-built Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray Like wreaths of vapor without stain or blot. And why shouldst thou?—If rightly trained and bred, Humanity is humble, finds no spot Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. proof, Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, * See Note. XV. THE HIGHLAND BROACH. THE exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must strike every one, and concurs, with the plaid and kilt, to recall to mind the communication which the ancient Romans had with this remote country. IF to Tradition faith be due, And echoes from old verse speak true, No common light of nature blest Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain But delicate of yore its mould, And the material finest gold; Where shields of mighty heroes hung, - The heroic Age expired, it slept Deep in its tomb :— the bramble crept O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod The fairest, while with fire and sword Still was its inner world a place Love wound his way by soft approach, When alternations came of rage |