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 hemmed 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,

In the gray sky hath left his lingering Ghost,
Perplexed as if between a splendor lost

ting 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.

And splendor 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?

XVIII.

BOTHWELL CASTLE.

(Passed unseen, on account of stormy weather.)

IMMURED in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn

The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.

Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and have
In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;
The river glides, the woods before me wave;
Then why repine that now in vain I crave
Needless renewal of an old delight?
Better to thank a dear and long-past day
For joy its sunny hours were free to give

Than blame the present, that our wish hath crossed.
Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams.

obey,

Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive:

How little that she cherishes is lost!

XIX.

PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN, AT HAMILTON

PALACE.

AMID a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well did it become
The ducal owner, in his palace-home

To naturalize this tawny Lion brood;

Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood (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.
Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and ear;
Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear!
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
Daunt him, if his Companions, now bedrowsed,
Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused:
Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.

XX.

AVON,

THE AVON.

(A feeder of the Annan.)

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.

XXI.

SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN INGLEWOOD FOREST.

THE forest huge of ancient Caledon

Is but a name, no 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, Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign

With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again,
To kill for merry feast their venison.

Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade
His church with monumental wreck bestrewn ;
The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid,
Hath still his castle, though a skeleton,
That he may watch by night, and lessons con
Of power that perishes, and rights that fade.

XXII.

HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH.

HERE stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art, Among its withering topmost branches mixed, The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart,

Whom the Dog Hercules pursued, — his part
Each desperately sustaining, till at last

Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased
And chaser bursting here with one dire smart.
Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat!
High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride;
Say, rather, with that generous sympathy
That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat;
And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide
Verse that would guard thy memory, HART's-
HORN TREE!*

XXIII.

FANCY AND TRADITION.

THE Lovers took within this ancient grove
Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs
The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings
For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove

*See Note.