XIX. SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME OF THE BROWNIE'S CELL. To barren heath, and quaking fen, Or into trackless forest set With trees, whose lofty umbrage met; (Penance their trust, and Prayer their store ;) That God might suitably be praised. High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey; Of his devices buried, lost! Within this little lonely Isle Upon those servants of another world And perished save one narrow Cell; Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, With their perennial hills; - but Crime Had found, in ravage widely dealt, Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt! All, all were dispossessed, save Him whose smile Shot lightning through this lonely Isle ! No right had he but what he made To this small spot, his leafy shade; But the ground lay within that ring From year to year this shaggy Mortal went Him - free from all malicious taint, And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, A pen unwearied to indite, In his lone Isle, the dreams of night; Impassion'd dreams, that strove to span Suns that through blood their western harbour sought, And stars that in their courses fought, Towers rent, winds combating with woods Had failed) would furnish an array How disappeared He?-ask the Newt and Toad, Inheritors of his abode; The Otter crouching undisturbed, In her dank cleft; but be thou curbed, O froward Fancy! mid a scene Of aspect winning and serene; For those offensive creatures shun The inquisition of the sun! And in this region flowers delight, And all is lovely to the sight. Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, To dead and living; when her breath Quickens, as now, the withered heath; Nor flaunting Summer - when he throws His soul into the briar-rose; Or calls the lily from her sleep Prolonged beneath the bordering deep; |