Nor deem that localized Romance
Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears, - made sport
For fanciful dejections:

Ah, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling

Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred;
Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark entered;
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted

By the "last Minstrel," (not the last!)
Ere he his Tale recounted.

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!

Fulfil thy pensive duty,

Well pleased that future Bards should chant

For simple hearts thy beauty;

To dream-light dear while yet unseen,

Dear to the common sunshine,

And dearer still, as now I feel,

To memory's shadowy moonshine!

II.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTS

FORD, FOR NAPLES.

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light

Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe
strain,

Saddens his voice again, and yet again.

Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate.
Be true,

Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

III.

A PLACE OF BUKIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.

PART fenced by man, part by a rugged steep That curbs a foaming brook, a Graveyard lies; The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep; Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes,

Enter in dance. Of church, or Sabbath ties,
No vestige now remains; yet thither creep
Bereft ones, and in lowly anguish wetp
Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.
Proud tomb is none; but rudely sculptured knights,
By humble choice of plain old times, are seen
Level with earth, among the hillocks green:
Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites
The spangled turf, and neighboring thickets ring
With jubilate from the choirs of spring!

IV.

ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND,

SAY, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills, Among the happiest-looking homes of men Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen, On airy upland, and by forest rills,

And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills His sky-born warblings,-does aught meet your ken More fit to animate the Poet's pen,

Aught that more surely by its aspect fills

Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode
Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours
To his high charge, and truly serving God,
Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers,
Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod,

Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.

(We know not whence) ministers for a bell*
To mark some change of service. As the swell
Of music reached its height, and even when sank
The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN! to a blank
Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof,
Pillars, and arches, not in vain time-proof,

Tho' Christian rites be wanting! From what bank Came those live herbs? by what hand were they

sown,

Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown?

Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche

Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green

grown,

Copy their beauty more and more, and preach,
Though mute, of all things blending into one.

VI.

THE TROSACHS.

THERE's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for one

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass

Withered at eve. Frem scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than

glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice-happy quest If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

VII.

THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute;
The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy

Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy;
The target mouldering like ungathered fruit;
The smoking steamboat eager in pursuit,
As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread
To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head,
All speak of manners withering to the root,
And of old honors, too, and passions high:
Then may we ask, though pleased that thought
should range

Among the conquests of civility,

Survives Imagination, to the change

Superior? Help to Virtue does she give?

If not, O Mortals, better cease to live!