Blithe was his song, a song of yore ;
But where the rock is rent in two,
And the river rushes through,
His voice was heard no more!
'Twas but a step! the gulf he passed;
But that step-it was his last!

As through the mist he winged his way,
(A cloud that hovers night and day,)
The hound hung back, and back he drew
The Master and his merlin too.
That narrow place of noise and strife
Received their little all of Life!

There now the matin-bell is rung;
The "Miserere!" duly sung;
And holy men in cowl and hood
Are wandering up and down the wood.
But what avail they? Ruthless Lord,
Thou didst not shudder when the sword
Here on the young its fury spent,
The helpless and the innocent.
Sit now and answer, groan for groan.
The child before thee is thy own.
And she who wildly wanders there,
The mother in her long despair,
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping,
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping;
Of those who would not be consoled

When red with blood the river rolled.

Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a Priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid: and the mother's answer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale. See WHITAKER'S Hist. of Craven.

WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF

SCOTLAND,

SEPTEMBER 2, 1812.

LUE was the loch, the clouds were gone,
Ben-Lomond in his glory shone,
When, Luss, I left thee; when the
breeze

Bore me from thy silver sands,

Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,
Where, grey with age, the dial stands ;
That dial so well-known to me!
-Tho' many a shadow it had shed,
Beloved Sister, since with thee
The legend on the stone was read.1
The fairy-isles fled far away;
That with its woods and uplands green,
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
And songs are heard at close of day;
That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the asylum of the dead :
While, as the boat went merrily,
Much of ROB ROY the boat-man told;
His arm that fell below his knee,
His cattle-ford and mountain-hold.
Tarbat,2 thy shore I climbed at last;
And, thy shady region passed,
Upon another shore I stood,

And looked

another flood; upon

3

Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills ;)

Where many an elf was playing round,

[His sister Sarah, who living to a great age, died in the same

year with himself.-ED.]

2

Signifying in the Gaelic language an Isthmus.

3 Loch-Long.

Who treads unshod his classic ground;
And speaks, his native rocks among,
As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung.

Night fell; and dark and darker grew
That narrow sea, that narrow sky,
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ;
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus, half-descried,
Black and huge above the tide;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare;
Each beyond each, with giant-feet
Advancing as in haste to meet;

The shattered fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain;

All into midnight-shadow sweep-
When day springs upward from the deep!1
Kindling the waters in its flight,

The prow wakes splendour; and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea of light!

Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale;
And bright indeed the path should be,
That leads to Friendship and to Thee!
Oh blest retreat, and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Tolled duly on the desert air,
And crosses decked thy summits blue.
Oft, like some loved romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
And Her-the Lady of the Glen !

1 A phenomenon described by many navigators.

LEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile.
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,
And move, and breathe delicious
sighs!-

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle o'er her neck of snow.

Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish-and fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast.
—And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above control,
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee!
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary!

AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIMEA.

1812.

HEPHERD, or Huntsman, or worn
Mariner,

Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay
thy thirst,

Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arched, and o'erwrought with many a sacred

verse,

This iron cup chained for the general use,

And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, "Twas here she turned from her beloved sire, To see his face no more.1 Oh, if thou canst, ("Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers; And with a drop of this sweet water fill

The two small cells scooped in the marble there, That birds may come and drink upon his grave, Making it holy 2

AN INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE DEDIICATED TO THE GRACES.3

From them flow all the decencies of Life;

Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self Admired not loved: and those on whom They

smile,

Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful, Shine forth with double lustre.

There is a beautiful story, delivered down to us from antiquity, which will here perhaps occur to the reader.

Icarius, when he gave Penelope in marriage to Ulysses, endea voured to persuade him to dwell in Lacedæmon; and, when all he urged was to no purpose, he entreated his daughter to remain with him. When Ulysses set out with his bride for Ithaca, the old man followed the chariot, till, overcome by his importunity, Ulysses consented that it should be left to Penelope to decide whether she would proceed with him or return with her father. It is related, says Pausanias, that she made no reply, but that she covered herself with her veil; and that Icarius, perceiving at once by it that she inclined to Ulysses, suffered her to depart with him.

A statue was afterwards placed by her father as a memorial in that part of the road where she had covered herself with her veil. It was still standing there in the days of Pausanias, and was called the statue of Modesty.

2 A Turkish superstition.

3 At Woburn Abbey.