Withered at eve. Frem scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice-happy quest, VII. THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute; Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy; Among the conquests of civility, Survives Imagination, to the change Superior? Help to Virtue does she give? If not, O Mortals, better cease to live! VIII. COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE. "THIS Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls, Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-colored mists,Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never rests, Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls, That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head IX. EAGLES. Composed at Dunolly Castle in the Bay of Oban. DISHONORED 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 X. IN THE SOUND OF MULL. 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 honor misconceived, or fancied wrong, Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce Men, Yon towering Peaks," Shepherds of Etive Glen?"* *In Gaelic, Buachaill Eite. XI. SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM. ENOUGH of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, - will cross a brook Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear XII. 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 To be looked down upon by ancient hills, DOUBLING and doubling with laborious walk, This brief this simple way-side Call can slight, talk Whether cheered by 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, And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep, – |