For mild Sorrento's breezy waves;

May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy h fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking!

O! while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age

With strength her venturous brother;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory!

For Thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,

Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,

With gladness must requite Thee.

A gracious welcome shall be thine
Such looks of love and honor
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her;
Beheld what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender

Dreams treasured up from early days,
The holy and the tender.

And what, for this frail world, were all
That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
Memorial tribute offer?

Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice

That hourly speaks within us?

Nor deem that localized Romance
Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears-made sport
For fanciful dejections:
Oh, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is our changeful Life,

With friends and kindred dealing.

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred;
Who through the silent portal arch

Of mouldering Newark enter'd;
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted

By the "last Minstrel," (not the last !)
Ere he is Tale recounted.

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain,

Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:

Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight;

While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,

Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might

Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;

Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,

Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

III.

A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.

PART fenced by man, part by a rugged steep

That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies;

The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep;

Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes,

Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties, No vestige now remains; yet thither creep Bereft ones, and in lowly anguish weep Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.

SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM.

ENOUGH of garlands, of the Arcadian crook,

And all that Greece and Italy have sung

Ours couch on naked rocks,-will cross a brook

Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look This way or that, or give it even a thought More than by smoothest pathway may be brought

Into a vacant mind. Can written book Teach what they learn? Up, hardy Moun

taineer!

For the departed, built with curious pains, And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand

Together,-'mid trim walks and artful bowers,

To be looked down upon by ancient hills, That, for the living and the dead, demand And prompt a harmony of genuine powers; Concord that elevates the mind, and stills.

XIII.

"REST AND BE THANKFUL."--AT THE HEAD OF GLENCROE.

DOUBLING and doubling with laborious walk,

Who, that has gained at length the wishedfor Height,

This brief, this simple way-side Call can slight,

And rests not thankful? Whether cheered by talk

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,
Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk
Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs re-
pose,

Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep
Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air,
And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's
sweep,-

So may the Soul, through powers that
Faith bestows,

Win rest, and ease, and peace, with that Angels share.

XIV.

HIGHLAND HUT.

bliss

Undressed the pathway leading to the door; But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof,

Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer,

Belike less happy.-Stand no more aloof!

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,
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;
As might beseem the fairest Fair,
Whether she graced a royal chair,
Or shed, within a vaulted hall,
No fancied lustre on the wall
Where shields of mighty heroes hung,
While Fingal heard what Ossian sung.
The heroic Age expired-it slept
Deep in its tomb:-the bramble crept
O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod
Grew on the floors his sons had trod:
Malvina! where art thou? Their state
The noblest-born must abdicate;

The fairest, while with fire and sword
Come Spoilers-horde impelling horde,
Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest
By ruder hands in homelier vest.
Yet still the female bosom lent,
And loved to borrow, ornament;
Still was its inner world a place
Reached by the dews of heavenly grace;
Still pity to this last retreat
Clove fondly; to his favorite seat
Love wound his way by soft approach,
Beneath a massier Highland Broach.

When alternations came rage
Yet fiercer, in a darker age;

And feuds, where, clan encountering clan,
The weaker perished to a man;
For maid and mother, when despair
Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer,
One small possession lacked not power,
Provided in a calmer hour,

To meet such need as might befall-
Roof, raiment, bread, or burial:
For woman, even of tears bereft,
The hidden silver Broach was left.

As generations come and go

Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow;
Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away,
And feeble, of themselves, decay;
What poor abodes the heir-loom hide,
In which the castle once took pride!
Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth,
If saved at all, are saved by stealth.
Lo! ships, from seas by nature barred,
Mount along ways by man prepared;
And in far-stretching vales, whose streams
Seek other seas, their canvas gleams.

Lo! busy towns spring up, on coasts
Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts;
Soon, like a lingering star forlorn
Among the novelties of morn,
While young delights on old encroach,
Will vanish the last Highland Broach.

But when, from out their viewless bed,
Like vapors, years have rolled and spread;
And this poor verse, and worthier lays,
Shall yield no light of love or praise;
Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough,
Or torrent from the mountain's brow,
Or whirlwind, reckless what his migh
Entombs, or forces into light;
Blind Chance, a volunteer ally,
That oft befriends Antiquity,

And clears Oblivion from reproach,
May render back the Highland Broach.*

XVI.

THE BROWNIE.

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 neighborhood. Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author learned these particu lars, and that this person then living there had acquired the appellation of "The Brownie.' See"The Brownie's Cell," p. 265, to which the following is a sequel. "How disappeared he?" and toad;

Ask the newt

Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell
How he was found, cold as an icicle,
Under an arch of that forlorn abode;
Where he, unpropp'd, and by the gathering
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.

XVII.

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,

How much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble stations may be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female friend. She had had an opportuuity of benefiting a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter, in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, "I would give anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for my Broach!" and, uttering these words, she put her hand upon the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she imagined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress.