When, soft as gales o'er summer seas that blow,
The plaintive music warbles love-lorn woe,
Or, wild and loud, the fierce exulting strain
Swells its bold notes triumphant o'er the slain.

Such themes inspire the Border shepherd's tale,
When in the gray thatch sounds the fitful gale,
And constant wheels go round with whirling din,
As by red ember-light the damsels spin:
Each chaunts by turns the song his soul approves,
Or bears the burthen to the maid he loves.

Still to the surly strain of martial deeds, In cadence soft, the dirge of love succeeds, With tales of ghosts that haunt unhallow'd ground; While narrowing still the circle closes round, Till, shrinking pale from nameless shapes of fear, Each peasant starts his neighbour's voice to hear.

What minstrel wrought these lays of magic

power,

A swain once taught me in his summer-bower,
As round his knees in playful age I hung,
And eager listen'd to the lays he sung.

Looks wistful for her lover's dancing plume.
Amid the piles of spoil that strew'd the ground,
Her ear,
all anxious, caught a wailing sound;
With trembling haste the youthful matron flew,
And from the hurried heaps an infant drew:
Scar'd at the light, his little hands he flung
Around her neck, and to her bosom clung;
While beauteous Mary sooth'd in accents mild
His fluttering soul, and clasp'd her foster-child.
Of milder mood the gentle captive grew,
Nor lov'd the scenes that scar'd his infant view.
In vales remote, from camps and castles far,
He shunn'd the fearful shuddering joy of war;
Or wake to fame the harp's heroic string.
Content the loves of simple swains to sing,

with sand,

Rolls her red tide to Teviot's western strand, Through slaty hills whose sides are shagg'd with thorn,

Where springs in scatter'd tufts the dark-green

corn,

Towers wood-girt Harden far above the vale;
And clouds of ravens o'er the turrets sail.
A hardy race, who never shrunk from war,
The Scott, to rival realms a mighty bar,
Here fix'd his mountain-home; -a wide domain,
And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain;
But, what the niggard ground of wealth denied,
From fields more bless'd his fearless arm supplied.

The waning harvest-moon shone cold and bright;

The warder's horn was heard at dead of night; And, as the massy portals wide were flung, With stamping hoofs the rocky pavement rung. What fair, half-veil'd, leans from her lattic'd hall, Where red the wavering gleams of torchlight fall? "Tis Yarrow's fairest flower, who through the gloom

1 Bortha, the rivulet Borthwick, which falls into the Teviot a little above Hawick. The vale was formerly inhabited by a race of Scotts, retainers of the powerful family of Harden.

2 Slata is the Sletrig, which rises on the skirts of Wineburgh, runs through a wild romantic district, and falls into the Teviot at Hawick. Wineburgh, from which it derives its source, is a green hill of considerable height, regarded by the peasants as a resort of the fairies, the sound of whose revels is said to be often heard by the shepherd, while he is unable to see them. On its top is a small, deep, and black lake, believed by

He, nameless as the race from which he sprung Sav'd other names, and left his own unsung.

Nurs'd in these wilds, a lover of the plains, I sing, like him, the joys of inland swains, Who climb their loftiest mountain-peaks, to view From far the cloud-like waste of ocean blue. But not, like his, with unperceiv'd decay My days in fancy's dreams shall melt away; For soon yon sun, that here so swiftly gleams, Shall see me tossing on the ocean-streams. Yet still 'tis sweet to trace each youthful scene, And conjure up the days which might have been, Live o'er the fancied suns which ne'er shall roll, And woo the charm of song to soothe my soul, Paint the fair scenes which charm'd when life began,

And in the infant stamp'd the future man.

From yon green peak black haunted Slata brings

The gushing torrents of unfathom'd springs:
In a dead lake, that ever seems to freeze,
By sedge inclos'd from every ruffling breeze,

the peasants to be bottomless; to disturb the waters of which, by throwing stones into it, is reckoned offensive to the spirits of the mountain. Tradition relates that, about the middle of last century, a stone having been inadvertently cast into it by a shepherd, a deluge of water burst suddenly from the hill, swelled the rivulet Sletrig, and inundated the town of Hawick. However fabulous be this assigned cause of the inundation, the fact of the inundation itself is ascertained, and was pro bably the consequence of the bursting of a water spout on the hill of Wineburgh. Lakes and pits on the tops of mountains are regarded in the Border with a degre

Mid yellow crow-bells, on the riv'let's banks,
Where knotted rushes twist in matted ranks,
The breeze, that trembles through the whistling
bent,

Sings in his placid ear of sweet content,
And wanton blows with eddies whirling weak
His yellow hair across his ruddy cheek.
His is the lulling music of the rills,
Where, drop by drop, the scanty current spills
Its waters o'er the shelves that wind across,
Or filters through the yellow, hairy moss.
"Tis his, recumbent by the well-spring clear,
When leaves are broad, and oats are in the car,
And marbled clouds contract the arch on high,
To read the changes of the flecker'd sky;
What bodes the fiery drake at sultry noon;
What rains or winds attend the changing moon,
When circles round her disk of yellowish hue
Portentous close, while yet her horns are new;
Or, when the evening sky looks mild and gray,
If crimson tints shall streak the opening day.
Such is the science to the peasant dear,
Which guides his labour through the varied year;
While he, ambitious mid his brother swains
To shine, the pride and wonder of the plains,
Can in the pimpernel's red-tinted flowers,
As close their petals, read the measur'd hours,
Or tell, as short or tall his shadow falls,
How clicks the clock within the manse's walls.

And roll one deluge of devouring fire;
The timid flocks shrink from the smoky heat,
Their pasture leave, and in confusion bleat,
With curious look the flaming billows scan,
As whirling gales the red combustion fan.

So, when the storms through Indian forests rave,

And bend the pliant canes in curling wave,
Grind their silicious joints with ceaseless ire,
Till bright emerge the ruby seeds of fire,
A brazen light bedims the burning sky,
And shuts each shrinking star's refulgent eye;
The forest roars, where crimson surges play,
And flash through lurid night infernal day;
Floats far and loud the hoarse, discordant yell
Of ravening pards, which harmless crowd the dell
While boa-snakes to wet savannahs trail
Awkward a lingering, lazy length of tail;
The barbarous tiger whets his fangs no more,
To lap with torturing pause his victim's gore;
Curb'd of their rage, hyenas gaunt are tame,
And shrink, begirt with all-devouring flame.

But far remote, ye careful shepherds, lead Your wanton flocks to pasture on the mead, While from the flame the bladed grass is young, Nor crop the slender spikes that scarce have sprung;

Else your brown heaths to sterile wastes you doom, While frisking lambs regret the heath-flower's bloom!

And ah! when smiles the day and fields are fair,
Let the black smoke ne'er clog the burden'd air!
Or soon, too soon, the transient smile shall fly,
And chilling mildews ripen in the sky,
The heartless flocks shrink shivering from the
cold,

Reject the fields, and linger in the fold.

Lo! in the vales, where wandering riv'lets run,
The fleecy mists shine gilded in the sun,
Spread their loose folds, till now the lagging gale
Unfurls no more its lightly skimming sail,
But through the hoary flakes that fall like snow
Gleams in ethereal hue the watery bow.
'Tis ancient Silence, rob'd in thistle-down,
Whose snowy locks its fairy circles crown;
His vesture moves not, as he hovers lone,
While curling fogs compose his airy throne;
Serenely still, self-pois'd, he rests on high,
And soothes each infant breeze that fans the
sky.

The mists ascend- the mountains scarce are free,
Like islands floating in a billowy sea;
While on their chalky summits glimmering dance
The sun's last rays across the gray expanse:
As sink the hills in waves that round them grow,
The hoary surges scale the cliff's tall brow;
The fleecy billows o'er its head are hurl'd,
As ocean once embrac'd the prostrate wor'

So round Caffraria's cape the polar storm
Collects black spiry clouds of dragon form:
Flash livid lightnings o'or the blackening deep,
Whose mountain-waves in silent horror sleep;
The sanguine sun, again emerging bright,
Darts through the clouds long watery lines of
light;

The deep, congeal'd to lead, now heaves again,
While foamy surges furrow all the main;
Broad shallows whiten in tremendous row;
Deep gurgling murmurs echo from below;
And o'er each coral reef the billows come and go.

Oft have I wander'd in my vernal years
Where Ruberslaw his misty summit rears,
And, as the fleecy surges clos'd amain,
To gain the top have trac'd that shelving lane,
Where every shallow stripe of level grain,
That winding runs the shatter'd crags between,
Is rudely notch'd across the grassy rind
In awkward letters by the rural hind.
When fond and faithful swains assemble gay,
To meet their loves on rural holiday,
The trace of each obscure, decaying name
Of some fond pair records the secret flame.
And here the village maiden bends her way,
When vows are broke and fading charms decay,
Sings her soft sorrow to the mountain gale,
And weeps that love's delusions e'er should fail.
Here too the youthful widow comes, to clear
From weeds a name to fond affection dear:
She pares the sod, with bursting heart, and cries,
"The hand that trac'd it in the cold grave lies!"

Ah, dear Aurelia! when this arm shall guide Thy twilight steps no more by Teviot's side, When I to pine in eastern realms have gone, And years have pass'd, and thou remain'st alone, Wilt thou, still partial to thy youthful flame, Regard the turf where first I carv'd thy name, And think thy wanderer, far beyond the sea, False to his heart, was ever true to thee? Why bend so sad that kind, regretful view, As every moment were my last adieu?

Ah! spare that tearful look, 'tis death to see, Nor break the tortur'd heart that bleeds for thee. That snowy cheek, that moist and gelid brow, Those quivering lips that breathe the unfinish'd

These eyes, that still with dimming tears o'erflow,
Will haunt me when thou canst not see my woe.
Not yet, with fond but self-accusing pain,
Mine eyes reverted linger o'er the main;
But, sad, as he that dies in early spring,
When flowers begin to blow and larks to sing,
When nature's joy a moment warms his heart,
And makes it doubly hard with life to part,
I hear the whispers of the dancing gale,
And fearful listen for the flapping sail,
Seek in these natal shades a short relief,
And still a pleasure from maturing grief.

Yes, in these shades this fond, adoring mind
Had hop'd in thee a dearer self to find,
Still from thy form some lurking grace to glean,
And wonder it so long remain'd unseen;
Hop'd those seducing graces might impart
Their native sweetness to this sterner heart,
While those dear eyes, in pearly light that shine,
Fond thought! should borrow manlier beams
from mine.

Ah, fruitless hope of bliss, that ne'er shall be!
Shall but this lonely heart survive to me?
No! in the temple of my purer mind
Thine imag'd form shall ever live enshrin'd,
And hear the vows, to first affection due,
Still breath'd-for love that ceases ne'er was true.

LINES TO MRS. CHARLES BULLER.1

That bonnet's pride, that tartan's flow,
My soul with wild emotion fills,
Methinks I see in fancy's glow
A princess from the land of hills.
O for a fairy's hand to trace

The rainbow tints that rise to view, That slender form of sweeter grace

Than e'er Malvina's poet drew.

Her brilliant eye, her streaming hair,
Her skin's soft splendour to display,
The finest pencil must despair,
Till it can paint the solar ray.

THE MERMAID.

On Jura's heath how sweetly swell

The murmurs of the mountain bee! How softly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea!

But softer floating o'er the deep,

The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep Before the bark of Colonsay.

Aloft the purple pennons wave,

As, parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars, the seamen brave

Their gallant chieftain homeward bore.

1 These hitherto unpublished verses were addressed to Mrs. Charles Buller by Dr. Leyden on seeing her, about 1805, in a Highland dress at a ball in Calcutta. This lady, née Barbara Isabella Kirkpatrick, was the second daughter of Colonel William Kirkpatrick of the British army, and the mother of the celebrated Charles Buller. - ED.

In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay: For her he chid the flagging sail,

The lovely maid of Colonsay.

"And raise," he cried, "the song of love

The maiden sung with tearful smile, When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove, We left afar the lonely isle!

"When on this ring of ruby red

Shall die,' she said, the crimson hue, Know that thy favourite fair is dead,

Or proves to thee and love untrue.'

Now, lightly poised, the rising oar

Disperses wide the foamy spray, And echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, Resounds the song of Colonsay.

"Softly blow, thou western breeze,

Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowy seas Before my love, sweet western gale!

"Where the wave is tinged with red,

And the russet sea-leaves grow, Mariners, with prudent dread,

Shun the shelving reefs below.

"As you pass through Jura's sound,

Bend your course by Scarba's shore; Shun, O shun the gulf profound,

Where Corrievreckin's surges roar!

If from that unbottomed deep,
With wrinkled form and writhed train,
O'er the verge of Scarba's steep,

The sea-snake heave his snowy mane,

"Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils,

Sea-green sisters of the main, And in the gulf where ocean boils, The unwieldy wallowing monster chain.

"Softly blow, thou western breeze,

Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowed seas Before my love, sweet western gale!"

Thus all to soothe the chieftain's woe, Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow,

He seemed her parting sigh to hear.

The lonely deck he paces o'er,

Impatient for the rising day,

And still from Crinan's moonlight shore He turns his eyes to Colonsay.

The moonbeams crisp the curling surge That streaks with foam the ocean green; While forward still the rowers urge

Their course, a female form was seen.

That sea-maid's form, of pearly light,
Was whiter than the downy spray,
And round her bosom, heaving bright,
Her glossy yellow ringlets play.
Borne on a foamy crested wave,

She reached amain the bounding prow.
Then clasping fast the chieftain brave,
She, plunging, sought the deep below.
Ah! long beside thy feigned bier,
The monks the prayers of death shall say,
And long for thee, the fruitless tear,
Shall weep the maid of Colonsay.

But downwards, like a powerless corse,
The eddying waves the chieftain bear;
He only heard the moaning hoarse

Of waters murmuring in his ear.

The murmurs sink by slow degrees,

No more the surges round him rave; Lulled by the music of the seas, He lies within a coral cave.

In dreamy mood reclines he long,
Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose,
Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song
Far in the crystal cavern rose.

Soft as that harp's unseen control
In morning dreams that lovers hear,
Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul,
But never reach the waking ear.

As sunbeams through the tepid air,

When clouds dissolve in dews unseen, Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair, And fields that glow with livelier green

So melting soft the music fell;

It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray-"Say, heard'st thou not these wild notes swell! Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay."

Like one that from a fearful dream

Awakes, the morning light to view, And joys to see the purple beam,

Yet fears to find the vision true,

He heard that strain, so wildly sweet,
Which bade his torpid languor fly;
He feared some spell had bound his feet,
And hardly dared his limbs to try.