EAGLES.

"THIS Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls,
Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists—
Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never rests -
Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls-
Of Mountains varying momently their crests-
Proud be this Land! whose poorest huts are halls
Where Fancy entertains becoming guests;
While native song the heroic Past recals."
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
Where the all-conquering Roman feared to tread.

281

X.
EAGLES.

COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY OF OBAN.

["The last I saw was on the wing," off the promontory of Fairhead, county of Antrim. I mention this because, though my tour in Ireland with Mr Marshall and his son was made many years ago, this allusion to the eagle is the only image supplied by it to the poetry I have since written. We travelled through that country in October, and to the shortness of the days and the speed with which we travelled (in a carriage and four) may be ascribed this want of notices, in my verse, of a country so interesting. The deficiency I am somewhat ashamed of, and it is the more remarkable as contrasted with my Scotch and Continental tours, of which are to be found in these volumes so many memorials.]

DISHONOURED Rock and Ruin! that, by law
Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred
Like a lone criminal whose life is spared.
Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw
Was on the wing; stooping, he struck with awe
Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort paired,

From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard,
Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw

Light from the fountain of the setting sun.

Such was this Prisoner once; and, when his plumes

The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on,

1

Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes
His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free,
His power, his beauty, and his majesty.

XI.

IN THE SOUND OF MULL

[Touring late in the season in Scotland is an uncertain speculation. We were detained a week by rain at Bunaw on Loch Etive in a vain hope that the weather would clear up and allow me to show my daughter the beauties of Glencoe. Two days we were at the Isle of Mull, on a visit to Major Campbell; but it rained incessantly, and we were obliged to give up our intention of going to Staffa. The rain pursued us to Tyndrum, where the Twelfth Sonnet was composed in a storm.]

TRADITION, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw

Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung

Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient tongue On rock and ruin darkening as we go,—

Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to show

What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have sprung;

From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong,

What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe.

Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed

By civil arts and labours of the pen,

Could gentleness be scorned by those 2 fierce Men,

SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM.

Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed1
For patriarchal occupations, named

Yon towering Peaks, Shepherds of Etive Glen?'*

XII.

SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM.

ENOUGH of garlands, of the Arcadian crook,
And all that Greece and Italy have sung
Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among!
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 Mountaineer!
And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One

Of Nature's privy council, as thou art,

On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear
To what dread powers 2 He delegates his part

On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, alone.

283

XIII.

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

Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile,

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.

XIV.

"REST AND BE THANKFUL!"

AT THE HEAD OF GLENCROE.

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,
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 repose,
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 bliss that Angels share.

* Finlarig, near Killin, is the burial place of the Breadalbane family. "The modern mausoleum occupies a solitary position in the vicinity of the old ruins."-ED.

HIGHLAND HUT.

285

XV.

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 vapour without stain or blot.
The limpid mountain rill avoids it not;

And why shouldst thou ?—If rightly trained and bred,
Humanity is humble, finds no spot

Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread.
The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof,
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!*

This Sonnet describes the exterior of a Highland hut, as often seen under morning or evening sunshine. To the authoress of the "Address to the Wind," and other poems, in this volume, who was my fellow-traveller in this tour, I am indebted for the following extract from her journal, which accurately describes, under particular circumstances, the beautiful appearance of the interior of one of these rude habitations.

66

On our return from the Trossachs the evening began to darken, and it rained so heavily that we were completely wet before we had come two miles, and it was dark when we landed with our boatman, at his hut upon the banks of Loch Katrine. I was faint from cold: the good woman had provided, according to her promise, a better fire than we had found in the morning; and, indeed, when I sat down in the chimney-corner of her smoky biggin, I thought I had never felt more comfortable in my life; a pan of coffee was boiling for us, and, having put our clothes in the way of drying, we all sat down thankful for a shelter. We could not prevail upon our boatman, the master of the house, to draw near the fire, though he was cold and wet, or to suffer his wife to get him dry clothes till she had served us, which she did most willingly, though not very expeditiously.

"A Cumberland man of the same rank would not have had such a notion of what was fit and right in his own house, or, if he had, one would have accused him of servility; but in the Highlander it only seemed like politeness (however erroneous and painful to us), naturally growing out of the