And this the little blind Boy knew;
And he a story strange yet true
Had heard, how in a shell like this
An English Boy, O thought of bliss!
Had stoutly launched from shore;
Launched from the margin of a bay
Among the Indian isles, where lay
His father's ship, and had sailed far-
To join that gallant ship of war,
In his delightful shell.

Our Highland Boy oft visited

The house that held this prize; and, led By choice or chance, did thither come One day when no one was at home,

And found the door unbarred.

While there he sate, alone and blind,
That story flashed upon his mind ;—
A bold thought roused him, and he took
The shell from out its secret nook,

And bore it on his head.

He launched his vessel,-and in pride Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side, Stepped into it-his thoughts all free As the light breezes that with glee

Sang through the adventurer's hair

A while he stood upon his feet;
He felt the motion-took his seat;
Still better pleased as more and more
The tide retreated from the shore,

And sucked, and sucked him in.
And there he is in face of Heaven.
How rapidly the Child is driven !
The fourth part of a mile, I ween,
He thus had gone, ere he was seen
By any human eye.

But when he was first seen, oh ine,
What shrieking and what misery!
For many saw; among the rest
His Mother, she who loved him best,

She saw her poor blind Boy.
But for the child, the sightless Boy,
It is the triumph of his joy!
The bravest traveller in balloon,
Mounting as if to reach the moon,

Was never half so blessed.
And let him, let him go his way,
Alone, and innocent, and gay!
For, if good Angels love to wait
On the forlorn unfortunate,

This Child will take no harm.

But now the passionate lament,

Which from the crowd on shore was sent, The cries which broke from old and young In Gaelic, or the English tongue,

Are stifled-all is still.

And quickly with a silent crew
A boat is ready to pursue:

And from the shore their course they take,
And swiftly down the running lake

They follow the blind Boy.

But soon they move with softer pace,
So have ye seen the fowler chase
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast
A youngling of the wild-duck's nest
With deftly-lifted oar;

Or as the wily sailors crept
To seize (while on the Deep it slept)
The hapless creature which did dwell
Erewhile within the dancing shell,

They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made,
They follow, more and more afraid,
More cautious as they draw more near;
But in his darkness he can hear,

66

And guesses their intent.

"Lei-gha-Lei-gha "- he then cried out,
Lei-gha-Lei-gha"-with eager shout;
Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,
And what he meant was, "Keep away,
And leave me to myself!"

Alas! and when he felt their hands-
You've often heard of magic wands,
That with a motion overthrow
A palace of the proudest show,
Or melt it into air;

So all his dreams-that inward light
With which his soul had shone so bright-
All vanished;-'twas a heartfelt cross
To him, a heavy, bitter loss,

As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice,
With which the very hills rejoice:
'Tis from the crowd, who trembling
Have watched the event, and now can see
That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land,
Full sure they were a happy band,
Which gathering round, did on the banks
Of that great Water give God thanks,
And welcomed the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart
The blind Boys little dog took part;
He leapt about, and oft did kiss
His master's hands in sign of bliss,

With sound like lamentation.

But most of all, his Mother dear,
She who had fainted with her fear,
Rejoiced when waking she espies
The Child; when she can trust her eyes,
And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain,
When he was in the house again;
Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes,
She kissed him-how could she chastise?
She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;

And, though his fancies had been wild,
Yet he was pleased and reconciled
To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland dell
Still do they keep the Turtle shell;
And long the story will repeat
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,
And how he was preserved.

NOTE. It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages that a boy, son of the captain of a Man-of-War seated himself in a Turtle-shell, and floated in it from the shore to his father's ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. In deference to the opinion of a Friend, I have substituted such a shell for the less elegant vessel in which my blind Voyager did actually entrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witness.

VIII.

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.

IX.

Spring finds not here a melancholy breast,
When she applies her annual test
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;
Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren
Is warbling near the BROWNIE'S Den.

X.

Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot
In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot;
Whither, by care of Libyan Jove,
(High Servant of paternal Love)
Young Bacchus was conveyed-to lie
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye;
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,
Close-crowding round the infant-god;
All colors,-and the liveliest streak
A foil to his celestial cheek!

II.

COMPOSED AT CORA LINN,

IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER.

"How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the

name

Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear Country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty." MS.

LORD of the vale! astounding Flood;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood
Quakes-conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates, to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented Tower!

And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;

Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.

Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee-delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade,
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A Champion worthy of the stream,
Yon gray tower's living crest!

But clouds and envious darkness hide
A form not doubtfully descried :-
Their transient mission o'er,
O say to what blind region flee
These Shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?

Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;

That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.

The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom
That still invests the guardian Pass
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas
Devoted to the tomb.

And let no Slave his head inciine,
Or kneel, before the votive shrine
By Uri's lake, where Tell

Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land,
Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand
That day the Tyrant fell.

where the Gardener desired us to look at a picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the young Artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middle flying asunder as by the touch of magic-and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzy aud anve with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; the great cascade, opposite the window which faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls."-Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller. WHAT He-who, mid the kindred throng Of Heroes that inspired his song, Doth yet frequent the hill of storms, The stars dim-twinkling through their forms! What! Ossian here-a painted Thrall, Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall; To serve-an unsuspected screen For show that must not yet be seen; And, when the moment comes, to part And vanish by mysterious art; Head, harp, and body, split asunder, For ingress to a world of wonder; A gay saloon, with waters dancing Upon the sight wherever glancing; One loud cascade in front, and lo! A thousand like it, white as snowStreams on the walls, and torrent-foam As active round the hollow dome, Illusive cataracts! of their terrors Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors. That catch the pageant from the flood Thundering adown a rocky wood. What pains to dazzle and confound! What strife of color, shape and sound In this quaint medley, that might seem Devised out of a sick man's dream! Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy As ever made a maniac dizzy, When disenchanted from the mood That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!

O Nature-in thy changeful visions,
Through all thy most abrupt transitions
Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime—
Ever averse to pantomime,

Thee neither do they know nor us
Thy servants, who can trifle thus;
Else verily the sober powers

Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars,
Exalted by congenial sway

Of Spirits, and the undying Lay,
And Names that moulder not away,
Had wakened some redeeming thought
More worthy of this favored Spot;
Recalled some feeling-to set free
The Bard from such indignity!

*The Effigies of a valiant Wight
I once beheld, a Templar Knight;
Not prostrate, not like those that rest
On tombs, with palms together prest,
But sculptured out of living stone,
And standing upright and alone,
Both hands with rival energy
Employed in setting his sword free
From its dull sheath-stern sentinel
Intend to guard St. Robert's cell;
As if with memory of the affray
Far distant, when, as legends say,
The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force
From its dear home the Hermit's corse,
That in their keeping it might lie,
To crown their abbey's sanctity.
So had they rushed into the grot
Of sense despised, a world forgot,
And torn him from his loved retreat,
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat
Still hint that quiet best is found,
Even by the Living, under ground;
But a bold Knight, the selfish aim
Defeating, put the Monks to shame,
There where you see his Image stand
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand
Which lingering NID is proud to show
Reflected in the pool below.

Thus, like the men of earliest days,
Our sires set forth their grateful praise;
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude!
But, nursed in mountain solitude,
Might some aspiring artist dare
To seize whate'er, through misty air,
A ghost, by glimpses, may present
Of imitable lineament,

And give the phantom an array

That less should scorn the abandoned clay; Then let him hew with patient stroke

An Ossian out of mural rock,

And leave the figurative Man--
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran !—
Fixed, like the Templar of the steep,
An everlasting watch to keep;
With local sanctities in trust,
More precious than a hermit's dust;
And virtues through the mass infused,
Which old idolatry abused.

What though the Granite would deny
All fervor to the sightless eye;
And touch from rising suns in vain
Solicit a Memnonian strain;

*On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough.