A Highland boy !-why call him so?
Because, my darlings, ye must know,
In land where many a mountain towers,
Far higher hills than these of ours!
He from his birth had lived.

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight:
The sun, the day; the stars, the night;
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined,
Nor had a melancholy mind;
For God took pity on the boy,
And was his friend; and gave him joy
Of which we nothing know.

*His mother, too, no doubt above
Her other children him did love :
For, was she here, or was she there,
She thought of him with constant care,
And more than mother's love.

And proud she was of heart, when clad
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,
And bonnet with a feather gay,
To kirk he on the Sabbath-day

Went hand in hand with her.

A dog, too, had he; not for need,
But one to play with and to feed ;
Which would have led him, if bereft
Of company or friends, and left

Without a better guide.

And then the bagpipes he could blow; And thus from house to house would go, And all were pleased to hear and see; For none made sweeter melody

Than did the poor blind boy.

Yet he had many a restless dream;
Both when he heard the eagles scream,
And when he heard the torrents roar,
And heard the water beat the shore

Near which their cottage stood..

Beside a lake their cottage stood,
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;
But one of mighty size, and strange;
That, rough or smooth, is full of change,
And stirring in its bed.

For to this lake by night and day,
The great sea-water finds its way
Through long, long windings of the hills;
And drinks up all the pretty rills,

And rivers large and strong :

Then hurries back the road it came-
Returns, on errand still the same;
This did it when the earth was new;
And this for evermore will do,

As long as earth shall last.

And with the coming of the tide,
Come boats and ships that safely ride,
Between the woods and lofty rocks;
And to the shepherds with their flocks
Bring tales of distant lands.

And of those tales, whate'er they were,
The blind boy always had his share;
Whether of mighty towns, or vales
With warmer suns and softer gales,
. Or wonders of the deep.

Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,
When from the water-side he heard
The shouting, and the jolly cheers,
The bustle of the mariners

In stillness or in storm.

But what do his desires avail?

For he must never handle sail;

Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float
In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat.
Upon the rocking waves.

His mother often thought, and said,
What sin would be upon her head
If she should suffer this.
My son,
Whate'er you do, leave this undone;
The danger is so great."

Thus lived he by Loch Leven's side,
Still sounding with the sounding tide,
And heard the billows leap and dance,
Without a shadow of mischance,

Till he was ten years old.

When one day (and now mark me well,
Ye soon shall know how this befel)
He in a vessel of his own,
On the swift flood is hurrying down
Towards the mighty sea.

In such a vessel never more
May human creature leave the shore !
If this or that way he should stir,
Woe to the poor blind mariner !
For death will be his doom.

But say what bears him?--Ye have seen
The Indian's bow, his arrows keen,
Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;
Gifts which, for wonder or delight,

Are brought in ships from far.

Such gifts had those seafaring men
Spread round that haven in the glen;
Each hut, perchance, might have its own,
And to the boy they all were known;
He knew and prized them all.

The rarest was a turtle shell

Which he, poor child, had studied well;
A shell of ample size, and light
As the pearly car of Amphitrite,

That sportive dolphins drew.

And, as a coracle that braves
On Vaga's breast the fretful waves,
This shell upon the deep would swim,
And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing surge.

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, oh, 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 which 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.

But when he was first seen, oh, me,
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 stili.

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 be made
They follow, more and more afraid,
More cautious as they draw more near
But in his darkness he can hear,
And guesses their intent.

[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 its name.]

To barren heath and quaking fen,
Or depth of labyrinthine glen;
Or into trackless forest set
With trees, whose lofty umbrage met;
World-wearied men withdrew of yore,-
(Penance their trust, and prayer their store;)

And in the wilderness were bound
To such apartments as they found;
Or with a new ambition raised;
That God might suitably be praised.

High lodged the warrior, like a bird
prey ;

Or where broad waters round him lay;
But this wild ruin is no ghost
Of his devices-buried, lost!
Within this little lonely isle

There stood a consecrated pile;

of

Where tapers burned, and mass was sung,
For them whose timid spirits clung
To mortal succour, though the tomb
Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!

Upon those servants of another world
When maddening power her bolts had

hurled,

Their habitation shook ;-it fell,
And perished-
—save one narrow cell;
Whither, at length, a wretch retired :
Who neither grovelled nor aspired:
He, struggling in the net of pride,
The future scorned, the past defied;

It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages, that a boy, the son of a 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 intrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witness

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
To which he only dared to cling;
Renouncing here, as worse than dead,
The craven few who bowed the head
Beneath the change, who heard a claim
How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.

From year to year this shaggy mortal went
(So seemed it) down a strange descent;
Till they, who saw his outward frame,
Fixed on him an unhallowed name;
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;
Impassioned dreams, that strove to span
The faded glories of his clan !

Suns that through blood their western harbour sought,

And stars that in their courses fought,-
Towers rent, winds combating with woods-
Lands deluged by unbridled floods,--
And beast and bird that from the spell
Of sleep took import terrible,
These types mysterious (if the show
Of battle and the routed foe

Had failed) would furnish an array
Of matter for the dawning day!

How disappeared he?-ask the newt and
Inheritors of his abode;

[toad,

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,
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.

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 colours, and the liveliest streak
A foil to his celestial cheek!

COMPOSED AT CORRA 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,

Oh, 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.

Nor deem that it can aught avail
For such to glide with oar or sail
Beneath the piny wood,

Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake,
His vengeful shafts-prepared to slake
Their thirst in tyrant's blood.

EFFUSION,

IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD. "The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we must expect it. We were first, however, conducted into a small apartment, where the gardener desired us to look at the picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling, the history of the young artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middleflying asunder as by the touch of magic-and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzy and alive 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 snow-
Streams on the walls, and torrents foam
As active round the hollow dome,
Illusive cataracts! of their terrors
Not stript, nor voiceless in the mirrors,
That catch the pageant from the flood
Thundering adown a rocky wood!
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 surely had 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,
Awakened some redeeming thought
More worthy of this favoured 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 pressed, 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 Intent to guard St. Robert's cell; As if with memory of the affray Far distant, when, as legends say, The monks of Fountains thronged to force

From its dear home the hermit's corse,

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