But glows a fair, a fadeless light—

The realm of Faëry.

There he dwelt,

Till seven sweet years had o'er him stealt
A long, deep, rapturous trance, 'mid bowers
O'er-blossomed with perennial flowers-
One deep dream of ecstatic joy,
Unmeasured, and without alloy;

And when by Learmonth's turrets grey,
Which long had mourned their lord's delay,
Again 'mid summer's twilight seen,

His velvet shoon were Elfin green,

The livery of the tiny train

Who held him, and would have again.

VII.

Smil'st thou at this, prosaic age,

Whom seldom other thoughts engage

Than those of pitiable self,

The talismans of power

and pelf

Whose only dream is Bentham's dream,

And Poetry is choked by steam?

It must be so; but yet to him

Who loves to roam 'mid relics dim

Of ages, whose existence seems
Less like reality than dreams-
A raptured, an ecstatic trance,
A gorgeous vision of romance-
It yields a wildly pleasing joy,
To feel in soul once more a boy,

And breathe, even while we know us here,
Love's soft Elysian atmosphere;

To leave the rugged paths of Truth
For fancies that illumined youth,
And throw Enchantment's colours o'er
The forest dim, the ruin hoar,

The walks where musing Genius strayed,
The spot where Faith life's forfeit paid,
The dungeon where the patriot lay,
The cairn that marks the warrior's clay,
The rosiers twain that shed their bloom
In autumn o'er the lover's tomb ;
For sure such scenes, if truth be found
In what we feel, are hallowed ground.

VIII.

Airy delusion this may be,

But ever such remain for me:
Still may the earth with beauty glow
Beneath the storm's illumined bow--
God's promised sign-and be my mind
To science, when it deadens, blind;
For mental light could ne'er be given
Except to lead us nearer Heaven.

8

THE GLEN OF ROSLIN.

I.

HARK! 'twas the trumpet rung!
Commingling armies shout;
And echoing far yon woods among,
The ravage and the rout!
The voice of triumph and of wail,

Of victor and of vanquish'd blent,

Is wafted on the vernal gale :

A thousand bows are bent,

And, 'mid the hosts that throng the vale, A shower of arrows sent.

II.

For Saxon foes invade

The Baliol's kingless realm:
Their myriads swarm in yonder shade,
The weak to overwhelm :-

'Tis Seagrave, on destruction bent,

From Freedom's roll to blot the land,

By England's haughty Edward sent;
But never on her mountain strand
Shall Caledonia sit content-

Content with fetter'd hand.

10

III.

Not while one patriot breathes—
Not while each broomy vale
And cavern'd cliff bequeaths

Some old heroic tale!

The Wallace and the Græme have thrown
The lustre of their deeds behind,11
The children to their fathers' own
Unconquer'd straths to bind ;
By every hearth their tale is known,
In every heart enshrined.

IV.

The Comyn lets not home

To tell a bloodless tale,

And forth in arms with Frazer come

The chiefs of Teviotdale.

In Roslin's wild and wooded glen

The clash of swords the shepherd hears, And from the groves of Hawthornden Gleam forth ten thousand spears: For Scottish mothers bring forth men Of might, that mock at fears!

12

V.

Three camps divided raise

Their snowy tops on high;
The breeze-unfurling flag displays
Its lions to the sky :

While chants the mountain lark in air
Its matin carols of delight,

The tongue of mirth is jocund there;
Nor is it dreamt, ere night,

The sun shall shed its golden glare
On thousands slain in fight!

VI.

Baffled, and backward borne,
Is England's foremost war;
The Saxon battle-god, forlorn,
Remounts his raven car.

"Tis vain—a third time Victory's cheer
Bursts forth from that resistless foe,
Who, headlong, on their fierce career,
Like mountain torrents go:

The invaders are dispersed like deer,
And whither none may know!

VII.

Three triumphs in a day!

Three hosts subdued by one! Three armies scattered, like the spray, Beneath one vernal sun!