Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;-
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

X.

ADDRESS

TO

KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE.

[THE first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight of the Ruin from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was added many years after.]

'From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our 'view, a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood 'had made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a 'Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming 6 stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was 'visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water,-mists rested 'upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine; there was a 'mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the 'mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately-not dismantled 'of turrets-nor the walls broken down, though obviously a 'ruin.-Extract from the Journal of my Companion.

CHILD of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest

Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.

Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
Cast off-abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm ;)
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
To reverence, suspends his own; submitting
All that the God of Nature hath conferred,
All that he holds in common with the stars,
To the memorial majesty of Time
Impersonated in thy calm decay!

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,
Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene

Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite
To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
In willing admiration and respect,

Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called
Youthful as Spring.-Shade of departed Power,
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,

The chronicle were welcome that should call

Into the compass of distinct regard

The toils and struggles of thy infant years!
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,

To the perception of this Age, appear
Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued
And quieted in character-the strife,
The pride, the fury uncontrollable,
Lost on the aërial heights of the Crusades*!

XI.

ROB ROY'S GRAVE.

[I HAVE since been told that I was misinformed as to the burial-place of Rob Roy. If so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on apparently good authority, namely, that of a well-educated Lady who lived at the head of the Lake, within a mile or less of the point indicated as containing the remains of One so famous in the neighbourhood.]

The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small pinfold-like Burialgrounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland.

A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a thief as good,
An outlaw of as daring mood;

She has her brave ROB ROY!

Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chant a passing stave,
In honour of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,

Or keep his friends from harm.

* The tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady during the absence of her Lord in Palestine.

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong;-
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy

Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
He sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, “What need of books?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our kind;
And worse, against ourselves.

We have a passion-make a law,
Too false to guide us or control!
And for the law itself we fight
In bitterness of soul.

And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few:
These find I

heart:

graven on my That tells me what to do.

The creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.

For why ?-because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,

That they should take, who have the power,
And they should keep who can.

A lesson that is quickly learned,

A signal this which all can see !
Thus nothing here provokes the strong
To wanton cruelty.

All freakishness of mind is checked;
He tamed, who foolishly aspires;
While to the measure of his might
Each fashions his desires.

All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall
By strength of prowess or of wit:
'Tis God's appointment who must sway,
And who is to submit.

Since, then, the rule of right is plain,
And longest life is but a day;

To have my ends, maintain my rights,
I'll take the shortest way."

And thus among these rocks he lived, Through summer heat and winter snow: The Eagle, he was lord above,

And Rob was lord below.

So was it would, at least, have been
But through untowardness of fate;
For Polity was then too strong-
He came an age too late;

Or shall we say an age too soon?
For, were the bold Man living now,
How might he flourish in his pride,
With buds on every bough!