Lines

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEYPIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
The abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view,-
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides,

The outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills:
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride;
The palace, rising on its verdant side;

The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste ;
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-

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Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell :

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods!

The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods.

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Here Poesy might wake her Heaven-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half-reconciled,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds;
Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch

her scan,

And injured Worth forget and pardon man.

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Verses

ON AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS OF

LINCLUDEN ABBEY.

YE holy walls, that, still sublime,
Resist the crumbling touch of time;
How strongly still your form displays
The piety of ancient days!

As through your ruins, hoar and gray-
Ruins yet beauteous in decay--
The silvery moonbeams trembling fly,
The forms of ages long gone by
Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye,
And wake the soul to musings high.
Even now, as lost in thought profound,
I view the solemn scene around,
And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes,
The past returns, the present flies;
Again the dome, in pristine pride,
Lifts high its roof and arches wide,
That, knit with curious tracery,

Each Gothic ornament display.

The high-arch'd windows, painted fair, Show many a saint and martyr there.

As on their slender forms I gaze,
Methinks they brighten to a blaze!
With noiseless step and taper bright,
What are yon forms that meet my sight? -
Slowly they move, while every eye
Is heavenward raised in ecstasy.

'Tis the fair, spotless, vestal train,

That seek in prayer the midnight fane.
And, hark! what more than mortal sound
Of music breathes the pile around?
'Tis the soft-chanted choral song,

Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong;
Till, thence return'd, they softly stray
O'er Cluden's wave, with fond delay;
Now on the rising gale swell high,
And now in fainting murmurs die.
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream,
That glistens in the pale moonbeam,
Suspend their dashing oars to hear
The holy anthem, loud and clear;

Each worldly thought a while forbear,

And mutter forth a half-form'd prayer.

But, as I gaze, the vision fails,

Like frost-work touch'd by southern gales;

The altar sinks, the tapers fade,

And all the splendid scene's decay'd;

In window fair the painted pane

No longer glows with holy stain,

Lincluden Abbey.

But through the broken glass the gale
Blows chilly from the misty vale;
The bird of eve flits sullen by,

Her home these aisles and arches high!
The choral hymn, that erst so clear
Broke softly sweet on Fancy's ear,
Is drown'd amid the mournful scream
That breaks the magic of my dream!
Roused by the sound, I start and see
The ruin'd sad reality!