Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,

If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
This moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest.

VI.

THE Pibroch's note, discountenanced or The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy mute; Of quaint apparel for a haif-spoilt boy; The target mouldering like ungathered fruit;

The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head

All speak of manners withering to the root, And some old honours, too, and passions high:

Then may we ask, though pleased that
thought should range
Among the conquests of civility,
Survives imagination-to the change
Superior? Help to virtue does it give?
If not, O Mortals, better cease to live!

Where Fancy entertains becoming guests; While native song the heroic Past recalls. Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide

Her trophies, Fancy crouch;- the course of pride

Has been diverted, other lessons taught, That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head

than glass

tread.

[Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual, one of the last survivors of the Clan of Macfarlane, once powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author learned these particulars, and that this person then living there had acquired the appellation of "The Brownie." The following Sonnet is a sequel to the Brownie's Cell, p. 156.)

"How disappeared he?" Ask the newt and toad;

Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell
How he was found, cold as an icicle,
Under an arch of that forlorn abode ;

ing flood

Of years hemm'd 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 choice-
A 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.

XV.

TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR.

COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND.

THOUGH joy attend thee orient at the birth
Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most
To watch thy course 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?

XVII.

PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN

AT HAMILTON PALACE.

AMID a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well doth it become
The Ducal Owner, in his Palace-home
To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;
Children of Art, that claim strange brother-
hood,

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.
But these are satiate, and a stillness drear
Calls into life a more enduring fear;
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
Daunt him if his Companions, now be-

drowsed

Yawning and listless, were by hunger roused: Man placed him here, and God, he knows,

can save.

XVIII.

THE AVON (a feeder of the Annan). AVON-a precious, an immortal name! Yet is it one that other Rivulets bear 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 flood, Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears; Never for like distinction may the good Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased ears!

XIX.

SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMI-
NENCE IN INGLEWOOD FOREST.

THE forest huge of ancient Caledon
Is but a name, nor more is Inglewood,
That swept from hill to hill, from flood to
flood:

On her last thorn the nightly Moon has shone;

Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be

none,

[On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with the following inscription:

"This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c., for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2nd of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 47. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2nd day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo !"]

WHILE the Poor gather round, till the end of time

May this bright flower of Charity display Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day;

clime!

ROMAN ANTIQUITIES.

(FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.) How profitless the relics that we cull, Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, Unless they chasten fancies that presume Too high, or idle agitations lull!

Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full,

To have no seat for thought were better doom,

Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull
Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.
Heaven out of view, our wishes what are
they?

Our fond regrets, insatiate in their grasp?
The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay?
Mere Fibula without a robe to clasp;
Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls;
Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals!

scorn

Our ministration, humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse
Its impulse took- that sorrow-stricken

door,

Whence, as a current from its fountainhead,

Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed,

Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength From kindred sources; while around us sighed

(Life's three first seasons having passed away)

Leaf-scattering winds, and hoar-frost sprinklings fell,

Foretaste of winter, on the moorland heights;

And every day brought with it tidings new Of rash change, ominous for the public weal.

Hence, if dejection have too oft encroached Upon that sweet and tender melancholy Which itself be may cherished and

caressed

More than enough, a fault so natural, Even with the young the hopeful or the gay, For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.

THE HIGHLAND BROACH.
And echoes from old verse speak true,
IF to Tradition faith be due,

Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore
Glad tidings to Iona's shore,

No common light of nature blessed
The mountain region of the west,
A land where gentle manners ruled
O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled,
That raised, for centuries, a bar
Impervious to the tide of war ;
Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain
Where haughty Force had striven in vain,
And, 'mid the works of skilful hands,
By wanderers brought from foreign lands
And various climes, was not unknown
The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown ;
The Fibula, whose shape, I ween,
Still in the Highland Broach is seen,
The silver Broach of massy frame,
Worn at the breast of some grave Dame
On road or path, or at the door
Of fern-thatched Hut on heathy moor:
But delicate of yore its mould,
And the material finest gold;