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These too thou 'lt sing ! for well thy magic Muse
Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar,
Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more.
Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er lose;
Let not dank Will* mislead you to the heath:
Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,
He glows, to draw you downward to your death,
In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake.
What tho' far off, from some dark dell espied,
His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight?
Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,
Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light;
For watchful, lurking, ʼmid th' unrustling reed,
At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,
And listens oft to hear the passing steed,

And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes,
If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise,

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed !
Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen,
Far from his flocks and smoaking hamlet then,
To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed :
On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood,
Shall never look with pity's kind concern,
But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood
O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return!

* A fiery meteor, called Will-with-the-Wisp, Jack-with-the-Lantorn, &c. It hovers over fenny and marshy places.

Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape,
To some dim hill that seems uprising near,
To bis faint eye, the griin and grisly shape,
In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear.
Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise,
Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source !
What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs ?

His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force,
And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse !

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,
Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
For him in vain, at to-fall of the day,
His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate:
Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night
Her travellid limbs in broken sluinbers steep,
With drooping willows drest his mournful sprite
Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep :
Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,
Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek,
And with his blue-swoln face before her stand,
And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak :
" Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils, pursue,
At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;
Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew,

While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore,
Drown'd by the Kelpie’s*wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more.',

• The water-fiend.

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist niarge of each cold Hebrid isle, To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows ; In whose small vaults a Pigmy-folk* is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wond'ring, from the hallow'd ground! Or thither, where, beneath the showery west, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now at midnight solemn hour, The rifted inounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,

In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold.

But 0! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the washing tides, Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides ; Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace ! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain;

* One of the Hebrides is called the isle of Pigmies: it is reported ihat several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there.

# Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where near sixty of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings are interred.

Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,
And all their prospect, but the wintry main.
With sparing temperance, at the needful time,
They drain the sainted spring ; or, hunger-prest,
Along the Atlantic rock undreading climb,
And of its eggs despoil the solan’s* nest.
Thus blest, in primal innocence they live,
Sufficed and happy with their frugal fare,
Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give :

Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak, and bare,
Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there.

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd in elder time the historic page. There Shakspeare's self, which every garland crown'd, Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen; In musing hour his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors drest magic scene; From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted and aghast, The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Thro' the dark cave in gleamy pageant past. Proceed; nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so'well my answering bosom pierce ;

* An aquatic bird, like a goose; on the eggs of which the inhabitants of St. Kilda often subsist.

Proceed, in forceful sounds and colour bold,

The native legends of thy land rehearse ;
To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober truth, are still to Nature true,
And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view,
The heroic Muse employ'd her Tasso's art.
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd!
When each live plant, with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheaved the vanish'd sword !
How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!
Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence, at each sound, imagination glows !
Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!
Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows !

Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,
And fills th’impassion'd heart, and wins the harmonious ear!

All hail, ye scenes, that o'er my soul prevail!
Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,
Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or pastoral Tay,*
Or Don's* romantic springs, at distance hail!

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