X.

Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot
In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot;
Whither, by care of Libyan Jove,
(High Servant of paternal Love)
Young Bacchus was conveyed-to lie
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye;
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,
Close-crowding round the infant-god;

All colours, and the liveliest streak

A foil to his celestial cheek!

COMPOSED

II.

AT

CORA LINN,

IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER.

-How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name

Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,

All over his dear Country; left the deeds

Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,

To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty.'

MS.

LORD of the vale! astounding Flood;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood
Quakes conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates, to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented Tower!

And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;

Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.

Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee-delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade,
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!

Along thy banks, at dead of night
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,

Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A champion worthy of the stream,
Yon grey tower's living crest!

But clouds and envious darkness hide
A Form not doubtfully descried :—
Their transient mission o'er,

O say to what blind region flee
These Shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?

Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;

That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.

The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom,
That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas
Devoted to the tomb.

Nor deem that it can aught avail
For such to glide with oar or sail
Beneath the piny wood,

Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake,
His vengeful shafts-prepared to slake
Their thirst in Tyrants' blood.

III.

EFFUSION,

IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD.

'The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we must expect it. We were first, however, conducted into a small apartment, where the Gardener desired us to look at a picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the young Artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middle-flying asunder as by the touch of magic-and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; the great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls.'-Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.

WHAT He-who, mid the kindred throng
Of Heroes that inspired his song,
Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,

The stars dim-twinkling through their forms!
What! Ossian here-a painted Thrall,
Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;
To serve an unsuspected screen

For show that must not yet be seen;
And, when the moment comes, to part

And vanish by mysterious art;