Let not dank Will * mislead you to the heath; Dancing in murky night, o'er fen and lake,

He glows to draw you downward to your death, In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake: What though far off, from some dark dell espied,

His glimmering mazes cheer the'excursive sight, Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,

Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light:
For watchful, lurking, mid the unrustling reed,

At those murk hours the wily monster lies,
And listens oft to hear the passing steed,

And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes,
If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch

surprise.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unbless'd, indeed!

Whom late bewilder'd in the dank dark fen,

Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet, then!
To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed!

On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood,
Shall never look with pity's kind concern,

But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood
O’er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return!

Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape
To some dim hill that seems uprising near,

To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape,
In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear.

Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise,
Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source !

What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs ?

* A fiery meteor, called by various pames, such as Will with the Wisp, Jack with the Lantern, &c. It hovers in the air over marsby and fenny places.

His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthful force,
And down the waves he floats, a pale and breath-

less corse!

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,

Or wander forth to meet him on his way:

For him in vain at to-fall of the day,
His babes shall linger at the unclosing gate !
Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night

Her travel'd limbs in broken sluinbers steep!
With drooping willows dress’d, his mournfulsprite

Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep : Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,

Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, And with his blue swoln face before her stand,

And shivering cold, these piteous accents speak : Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,

At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew,

While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore, Drown’d by the Kelpie's* wrath, nor e'er shall

aid thee more!'

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill
Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which

spring
From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,

To that hoar pilet which still its ruins shows:

In whose small vaults a pigmy folk is found,

Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wondering, from the hallow'd

ground! Or thither *, where beneath the showery west,

The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid : Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,

No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour,

The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,

In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aereal council hold.

But, oh! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, [tides,

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting

Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides.
Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace!

Then to my ear transmit some gentle song,
Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,

Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintry main.

With sparing temperance, at the needful time,
They drain the scented spring: or, hunger-press'd,

Along the Atlantic rock undreading climb,
And of its eggs despoil the solan'sť nest.

Thus, bless'd in primal innocence they live,
Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare

Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give:
Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare ;

Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

• Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where near sixty of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings are interred.

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes en

gage
Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possess'd;

For not alone they touch the village breast,
But fill’d, in elder time, the historic page.
There Shakspeare's self, with every garland

crown'd,
Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen,

In musing hour; his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors dress’d the magic scene.

From them he sung, when mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted and aghast,

The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass’d.

Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told,
Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;

Proceed, in forceful sounds and colour bold,
The native legends of thy land rehearse;
To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.
In scenes like these, which, daring to depart

From sober truth, are still to Nature true,

And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, The' heroic Muse employ'd her Tasso's art;

How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour’d!

When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheaved the vanish'd sword !

How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind, To hear his barp by British Fairfax strung!

Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung;

Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!

Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows !

Melting it flows, pure, mur

nurmuring, strong, and clear, And fills the’ impassion'd heart, and wins the har

monious ear!

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail ;
Ye splendid friths and lakes which, far away,

Are by smooth Annan * fill’d, or pastoral Tay *, Or Don's * romantic springs, at distance hail ! The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens + o'erhung with spreading

broom; Or o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led :

Or o'er your mountains creep in awful gloom! Then will I dress once more the faded bower

Where Jonson f satin Drummond's classic shade ; Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's

laid ! Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore

The cordial youth,on Lothian's plainsę, attend !Where'er Home dwells, on hill or lowly moor,

To him I love your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my