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4.

GLEN-ALMAIN,

or the

NARROW GLEN.

In this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN ;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek Streamlet, only one :
He sang of battles, and the breath

Of stormy war, and violent death;

And should, methinks, when all was past,

Have rightfully been laid at last

Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent

As by a spirit turbulent;

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

And every thing unreconciled;

In some complaining, dim retreat,

For fear and melancholy meet;

But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ?
Or is it but a groundless creed ?

What matters it? I blame them not
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot

Was moved; and in this way express'd
Their notion of it's perfect rest.

A Convent, even a hermit's Cell

Would break the silence of this Dell:

It is not quiet, is not ease;

But something deeper far than these:
The separation that is here

Is of the grave; and of austere
And happy feelings of the dead:
And, therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race!
Lies buried in this lonely place.

5.

THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND.

At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess.

AGE! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers! And call a train of laughing Hours;

And bid them dance, and bid them sing;

And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring!

Take to thy heart a new delight;

If not, make merry in despite !

For there is one who scorns thy power.

-But dance! for under Jedborough Tower
There liveth in the prime of glee,

A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,

And She will dance and sing with thee!

Nay! start not at that Figure-there!

Him who is rooted to his chair!

Look at him-look again! for He
Hath long been of thy Family.
With legs that move not, if they can,
And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,
He sits, and with a vacant eye;
A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!
Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:
His world is in this single room :
Is this a place for mirth and cheer?
Can merry-making enter here ?

The joyous Woman is the Mate

Of Him in that forlorn estate!
He breathes a subterraneous damp,

But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:
He is as mute as Jedborough Tower;
She jocund as it was of yore,

With all it's bravery on; in times,
When, all alive with merry chimes,
Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
It rouz'd the Vale to Holiday.

I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
Is praise; heroic praise, and true!
With admiration I behold

Thy gladness unsubdued and bold :
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
The picture of a life well-spent:
This do I see; and something more;
A strength unthought of heretofore!
Delighted am I for thy sake;
And yet a higher joy partake.
Our Human-nature throws away
It's second Twilight, and looks gay :
A Land of promise and of pride
Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

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