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,
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.
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND.
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
Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, Who stood and flourished face to face With their perennial hills;-but Crime, Hastening the stern decrees of Time, Brought low a Power, which from its home Burst, when repose grew wearisome; And, taking impulse from the sword, And, mocking its own plighted word, Had found, in ravage widely dealt,
To barren heath, bleak Moor, and quaking Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt! fen,
Or depth of labyrinthine glen;
Or into trackless forest set
With trees, whose lofty umbrage met; World-wearied Men withdrew of yore:
All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile
Shot lightning through this lonely Isle ! No right had he but what he made
(Penance their trust, and prayer their store ;) To this small spot, his leafy shade;
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 of 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;
Where tapers burned, and mass was sung, For them whose timid Spirits clung To mortal succor, though the tomb Had fixed, forever 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; Still tempering, from the unguilty forge Of vain conceit, an iron scourge !
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,
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, 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 colors,-and the liveliest streak A foil to his celestial cheek!
COMPOSED AT CORA LINN,
IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER.
"How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the
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.
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