In Arran.

Thither their destined course they drew; It seemed the Isle her Monarch knew,

So brilliant was the landward view,

The ocean so serene;

Each puny wave in diamonds rolled O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold With azure strove and green.

The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, Glowed with the tints of evening's hour, The beach was silver sheen;

The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh, And, oft renewed, seemed oft to die,

With breathless pause between.

Oh, who, with speech of war and woes,
Would wish to break the soft repoşe
Of such enchanting scene!

Autumn on the Tweed.

AUTUMN departs-but still his mantle's fold

Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, Beneath a shroud of russet dropped with gold Tweed and his tributaries mingle still; Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill ; And yet some tints of summer splendour tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettricke's western fell.

Autumn departs-from Gala's fields no more

Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer;
Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er,
No more the distant reapers' mirth we hear.
The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,
And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain,

On the waste hill no forms of life appear,

Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train,

Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain.

Autumn on the Tweed.

Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower withered on the hill,

To listen to the woods' expiring lay,

To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,

To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way,

And moralise on mortal joy and pain?

Oh, if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain!

No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note
Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie,
Though faint its beauties as the tints remote

That gleam through mist in Autumn's evening sky,
And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry,
When wild November hath his bugle wound;

Nor mock my toil-a lonely gleaner I,

Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound, Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found.

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw hill.

THE Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet.

Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore;

Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide,

And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,

Are they still such as once they were?

Or is the dreary change in me?

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw hill.

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;

And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.