The Highlanders, and Other Poems.

]>The Highlanders, and Other Poems.Grant, Anne MacVicar, 1755‐1838Charlotte Payne,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition443KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162001GranAHighl

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series58Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorThe Highlanders,: and other poemsGrant, Anne MacVicar Printed by C. Whittingham ... for Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme ...London, 1808[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:487. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:487mf.]

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[Title Page] THE HIGHLANDERS,ANDOTHER POEMS.BYMRS. GRANT, LAGGAN.SECOND EDITION.LONDON:PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM,Goswell Street;FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER‐ROW.1808.TOHER GRACE,THE DUCHESS OF GORDON,

THESE POEMS ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,BY HER GRACE'S OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT, THE AUTHOR,

A. G.CONTENTS.INTRODUCTORY VERSES1To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop3On the Death of Burns8The Highlanders, Part I16—————Part II24—————Part Ill38—————Part IV49—————Part V69Notes on the Highlanders101To Sir James Grant, Baronet125Notes on Ditto129A Ballad founded on Fact 131Notes on Ditto141Sonnet143Sonnet143Sonnet144A familiar Epistle to a Friend145An Epistle to a Friend156Notes on Ditto162Remarks on the Character of Burns165Moome169The Nymph of the Fountain to Charlotte175Answer to a Poetical Epistle from an intimate ␣␣␣␣␣Friend179To His Royal Highness the Duke of York, with ␣␣␣␣␣an Invalid Soldier's Petition182Sent to a Young Nobleman, with a Pair of Gar‐ ␣␣␣␣␣ters, wrought by an Highland Woman in the ␣␣␣␣␣101st Year of her Age186To Miss Wallis, with a Sprig of Crimson Heath, ␣␣␣␣␣which grew on the Summit of a Mountain190An Ode, on reading one on the same Subject by␣␣␣␣␣Professor Richardson, of Glasgow193Answer to a Poetical Apology sent by Professor␣␣␣␣␣M'Leod of Glasgow to some Ladies who had␣␣␣␣␣invited him to an Oyster Feast198Hymn for the Sons of the Clergy203To the Memory of a Young Lady who died near ␣␣␣␣␣Inverness in the 21st Year of her Age, August,␣␣␣␣␣1776205To a Lady deeply interested in the Subject of the␣␣␣␣␣Poem207To Lady Clan, who insisted on the Author's writ‐ ␣␣␣␣␣ing a Poem on meeting, by appointment, with␣␣␣␣␣her and three other Ladies at an Inn on the␣␣␣␣␣Road betwixt Perth and Laggan213Ode to Hygeia:—Addressed to the late Mrs. Wil‐ ␣␣␣␣␣liam Sprott, Edinburgh.—Spring 1779223To Miss Dunbar of Boath227Inscription for a Garden Seat.—Sacred to the ␣␣␣␣␣Remembrance of a beloved Friend, Miss A.␣␣␣␣␣O****, 1774230On reading Manuscript Poems by a Young Lady, ␣␣␣␣␣not in the Manner but in the Spirit of Collins232Written in one of the Duke of Atholl's Walks at ␣␣␣␣␣Blair, after making a clandestine Entrance ␣␣␣␣␣through the River Tilt.— Summer 1796234Peaceful Shades237TRANSLATIONSFROM THE GAELIC.Preliminary Letter to Robert Arbuthnot, Esq. ␣␣␣␣␣containing Observations on the Authenticity of ␣␣␣␣␣Ossian's Poems241Morduth:—A Fragment, translated from the ␣␣␣␣␣Gaelic: in Two Books265Notes on Ditto287The Aged Bard's Wish289Notes on Ditto297Glossary to Ditto299ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS.AWFUL and stern the rugged entrance low'rs148All hail! ye frowning terrors of my way148Awak'd to thought matur'd by age207Come, then, explore with me each winding glen25Com'st thou with swift wing in thy strength, O ␣␣␣␣␣wind!266Dear peaceful cottage, o'er whose humble thatch144Dear Beatrice, with pleasure I read your kind letter145Dear Lady Clan, you well may know213Daughter of exercise and calm content223Far to the North the howling tempest drove15Fair daughter of that fleeting race175From the recesses of this wild domain182Go, artless records of a life obscure[1]Hear, princely youth, th' unletter'd rustic Muse186How bless'd those olive plants that grew203Helen, by every sympathy allied227In vain my eyelids seek repose171Muse, that lov'st the lonely mountain190Now, hark! what loud tumultuous joys resound38Now Winter pours his terrors o'er the plain49Oh! soft and sweet the evening sun131Oh! lay me by yon peaceful stream289Sacred to thee and friendly love230The vanquish'd Prince, for safety forc'd to fly70Though long by fate's severe decree remov'd156While on the meadowy banks of Spey125What adverse fate awaits the tuneful train!8What voice awakes the soul‐afflicting theme?193When FINGAL dwelt in windy halls198What sound of woe from yonder grove205When THOMPSON'S harp, of charming tone232VALLESIA, whose illustrious blood3Yes, even amid these wilds forlorn179Your jealous walls, great Duke, in vain234Ye peaceful shades, that guard my dear lov'd home237INTRODUCTORY VERSES.Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast,I strive with wakeful melody to cheerThe sullen gloom, sweet Philomel, like thee.YOUNG.GO, artless records of a life obscure,Memorials dear of loves and friendships past,Of blameless minds from strife and envy pure;Go, scatter'd by Affliction's bitter blast,And tell the proud, the busy, and the gay,How rural peace consumes the quiet day.Oh ye, whom sad remembrance loves to trace,Look down complacent from your seats above,Regard with soft compassion's melting graceThe simple offering of surviving love:For, while I fondly think ye hover near,Your whisper'd melody I seem to hear.Ye dear companions in life's thorny way,Who see your modest virtues here display'd,Forgive, for well you know th' unstudied layWas only meant to soothe the lonely shade.But, when the rude thorn wounds the songster's breast,The lengthen'd strains of woe betray her secret nest.ADDRESSED TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP:ON READING BURNS'S LETTERS TO THAT LADY.Thy liberal heart, and judging eye,The flower unheeded shall descry.GRAY.VALLESIA*, whose illustrious blood,Deriv'd from chiefs of mighty name,Who long their country's barrier stood,Still glows with honour's purest flame:Oh, long may life's declining rayOn thee with mildest radiance shine,And selfish prayers protract the dayThat bears thee hence to joys divine!For thee, awakes each tuneful lyre,Each guardian virtue hovers round,The "voice of Coila" leads the choir,And Coila's hills return the sound!Sweet voice, that first awak'd thy ear,When languor spread its thickest gloom,Sweet hills, whose echoes lov'd to bearHis wood‐notes to VALLESIA's dome.Though cold the hand that wak'd the lyre,And mute the voice that tun'd the lay;That spark of pure celestial fire,That warm'd the strain, shall ne'er decay.While Wealth and Power, with cold regard,Beheld the Muse's darling Son!He wak'd that lay:—his best reward,The smile of nature—and thy own.'Twas thine, in Fortune's lowest valeThe crush'd, neglected flower to spy,And bid its fragrant sweets exhale,And latent beauties charm the eye.Nor only to the poet's lay,Hast deign'd with kind regard to bend,But through life's short and stormy day,Consol'd him with the name of Friend:That name, his best and dearest boast,Whene'er his erring steps would stray,Rever'd, belov'd, and honour'd most,Recall'd him back to wisdom's way.And when the wounds of Anguish bled,Thy kindness dropt the healing balm;And when the storm of Passion fled,Thy counsel breath'd the sacred calm.And when Misfortune's tempest low'r'd,Thy kind assisting hand was near;And when Remorse its sorrows pour'd,'Twas thine to wipe the bitter tear.Thou knew'st, well read in wisdom's lore,What failings with our virtues blend;Than truth and honour sought no more,Nor vainly hop'd a faultless friend.For this, the Muse that sings unknownShall strew thy evening path with flowers;And halcyon Peace her olive crownShall hang on thy sequester'd bowers.For this from India's bright domainsThy sons the blood‐stain'd laurel bring,For this again their native plains,With loud acclaim triumphant ring!While in thy kind maternal shadeWe see another WALLACE* rise,Whose early steps, to honour led,His country views with kindling eyes:And while his deep indented spearsProtect her thistle's hallow'd stem;And while her rampant lion rearsTo guard the British diadem:And while a Scottish pulse beats high,Accordant to her hero's name,And while in Valour's ardent eyeOppression wakes th' indignant flame:And while, through all her winding valesSad SCOTIA for her poet mourns,And far as Britain's conquering sailsExtends the deathless name of BURNS:And while kind Friendship's generous breastSwells with the tide of sympathy,Or suns declining gild the west,VALLESIA'S name shall never die!When wealth and pride, without a name,Are swept to drear oblivion's gloom,The Muse's never‐dying flameShall kindle odours on thy tomb.There, Praise shall purest incense breathe,And Fancy fairest garlands twine,And CALEDONIA bless the wreathThat decks VALLESIA's simple shrine.* This Lady is representative of that family, from which Sir WILLIAM WALLACE derived his origin.* Alluding to a most promising grandson who bears that name.ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destin'd urn;And as he passes, turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!MILTON.WHAT adverse fate awaits the tuneful train!Has OTWAY died and SPENCER liv'd in vain?In vain has COLLINS, Fancy's pensive child,Pour'd his lone plaints by Arun's windings wild?And SAVAGE, on misfortune's bosom bred,Bar'd to the howling storm his houseless head?Who gentle SHENSTONE'S fate can hear unmov'd,By virtue, elegance, and genius lov'd?Yet, pensive wand'ring o'er his native plain,His plaints confess'd he lov'd the Muse in vain.Chill penury invades his favourite bower,Blasts every scene, and withers every flower;His warning Muse to Prudence turn'd her strain,But Prudence sings to thoughtless bards in vain;Still restless Fancy drives them headlong on[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]With dreams of wealth, and friends, and laurels won—On Ruin's brink they sleep, and wake undone!And see where CALEDONIA'S Genius mourns,And plants the holly round the grave of BURNS!But late "its polish'd leaves and berries red"Play'd graceful round the rural Poet's head;"And while with manly force and native fireHe wak'd the genuine Caledonian lyre,Tweed's severing flood exulting heard her tell,Not Roman wreaths the holly could excel;Not Tiber's stream, along Campania's plain,More pleas'd, convey'd the gay Horatian strain,Than bonny Doon, or fairy‐haunted Ayre,That wont his rustic melody to share,Resound along their banks the pleasing theme,Sweet as their murmurs, copious as their stream:And RAMSAY, once the HORACE of the North,Who charm'd with varied strains the listening Forth,Bequeath'd to him the shrewd peculiar artTo satire nameless graces to impart,To wield her weapons with such sportive ease,That, while they wound, they dazzle and they please:But when he sung to the attentive plainThe humble virtues of the Patriarch Swain,His evening worship, and his social meal,And all a parent's pious heart can feel;To genuine worth we bow submissive down,And wish the Cottar's * lowly shed our own:With fond regard our native land we view,Its cluster'd hamlets, and its mountains blue,Our "virtuous populace," a nobler boastThan all the wealth of either India's coast.Yet while our hearts with admiration burn,Too soon we learn that "Man was made to mourn."The independent wish, the taste refin'd,Bright energies of the superior mind,And Feeling's generous pangs, and Fancy's glow,And all that liberal Nature could bestow,To him profusely given, yet given in vain;Misfortune aids and points the stings of pain.How bless'd, when wand'ring by his native Ayr,He woo'd "the willing Muse," unknown to care!But when fond admiration spread his name,A candidate for fortune and for fame,In evil hour he left the tranquil shadeWhere Youth and Love with Hope and Fancy play'd;Yet rainbow colours gild the novel scene,Deceitful fortune sweetly smil'd like JEAN;Now courted oft by the licentious gayWith them through devious paths behold him stray;The opening rose conceals the latent thorn,Convivial hours prolong'd awake the morn,Even Reason's sacred pow'r is drown'd in wine,And Genius lays her wreath on Folly's shrine;Too sure, alas! the world's unfeeling trainCorrupt the simple manners of the swain;The blushing Muse indignant scorns his lays,And fortune frowns, and honest fame decays,Till low on earth he lays his sorrowing head,And sinks untimely 'midst the vulgar dead!Yet while for him, belov'd, admir'd in vain,Thus fond Regret pours forth her plaintive strain,While Fancy, Feeling, Taste, their griefs rehearse,And deck with artless tears his mournful hearse,See Cunning, Dullness, Ignorance, and Pride,Exulting o'er his grave in triumph ride,And boast, "though Genius, Humour, Wit agree,"Cold selfish Prudence far excels the three;Nor think, while groveling on the earth they go,How few can mount so high to fall so low.Thus Vandals, Goths, and Huns, exulting come,T' insult the ruins of majestic Rome.But ye who honour Genius—sacred beam!From holy light a bright etherial gleam,Ye whom his happier verse has taught to glow,Now to his ashes pay the debt you owe,Draw Pity's veil o'er his concluding scene,And let the stream of bounty flow for JEAN!The mourning matron and her infant trainWill own you did not love the Muse in vain,While Sympathy with liberal hand appears,To aid the Orphan's wants, and dry the Widow's tears!* Cottar for Cottager. THE HIGHLANDERS:OR SKETCHES OF HIGHLAND SCENERY AND MANNERS:WITH SOME REFLECTIONS ON EMIGRATION.WRITTEN DURING THE AUTHOR'S RECOVERY FROM A LONG ILLNESS, IN SPRING 1795.IN FIVE PARTS.THE HIGHLANDERS.PART I.ARGUMENT.

Complaints of Languor and Solitude, rendered more melancholy by the gloomy season. Return of Spring. Restored Health. Consequent joy and gratulation. Aspect of Nature on the late appearance of Spring in the Northern Climate. Disappointment and concern at the Depopulation of the neighbouring glens. Apostrophe to the Spirit of Malvina. Parallel betwixt the degenerate race succeeding the Fingalian Heroes, and the mechanical and frigid people who replace the Highlanders, driven to emigrate. Contrast betwixt that Life in which the frame is enervated by Sloth and Luxury, and the mind unhinged by visionary systems of Philosophy;—and that wherein the Contemplation of Nature, and early habits of Piety, have produced Patience, Fortitude, and every manly Virtue:—Exemplified in the opposite characters, and illustrated by two correspondent similies, the Swallow and the Lark. The Author solicits the attention of the Reader to a picture of deep and peculiar distress.

Where Winter lingering chills the lap of May.GOLDSMITH.FAR to the North the howling tempest drove,Light od'rous buds perfum'd the birchen grove,The primrose, iris, and the daisy pied,With bashful sweets bedeck'd the mountain's side;And even from bogs with chilly moisture drown'd,Our hardy myrtle scatter'd fragrance round*:Nature in happier climes look'd fresh and gay,And sternly smil'd even on the banks of Spey.Hid from the solar beam and living breeze,Stretch'd on the languid couch of dire disease,By turns in listless torpor stretch'd I lay,Or pin'd the agonizing hours away:"How long must I in storms and sickness mourn?"Oh when will health on zephyrs wings return?"When shall I sit upon yon green hill's brow,"To view fresh verdure deck the vales below?"When shall my heart its grateful raptures bring,"To join the general symphony of spring?"No more shall selfish cares my soul employ,"But the kind throb reverb'rate kindred joy:"Youth's generous fervours kindle in my mind,"And the wide wish that grasps the human kind."How long must I in storms and sickness mourn?"Oh when will health, and light, and spring return?"Again, with balmy breath the western galeWakes the mild verdure of the shelter'd vale,While health, and light, and spring, return once more:But who, alas! can Spring's delights restore?Since social joys and cheerful toils are dead,And all the train of mountain virtues fled;Which, like our native firs, aspiring, bold,Love the bleak heights, and scorn the fertile mould.DAUGHTER of TOSCAR! who by Lutha's streamsOft met thy warlike spouse in mournful dreams:MALVlNA! come in all thy pensive charms,Stretch from thy robe of mist thy snowy arms;Lift thy slow‐rolling eyes, whose azure beamsSo oft of old were quench'd in sorrow's streams;When sons of little men, an abject race,Appear'd in thy departed hero's place:Tell in what secret cave, or whispering shade,Thy harp of sadly‐pleasing sound is laid,(Whose plaintive tones, so sweet to OSSIAN'S ear,The child of sorrow still delights to hear,)That my bold hand may wake its strings again,And teach the mountain echoes to complain:While to each dusky heath, and woody dell,The Genius of the mountains bids farewell.Now, where the dappl'd fawns and bounding roesWere wont their sprightly gambols to disclose,Slow wand'ring sheep gaze round with vacant eye,While sullen rocks return their plaintive cry:Pensive and slow I climb the mountain brow,To view each social hamlet's mutual plough*; To see the cluster'd cottages around,Where tranquil peace and rural joy were found;Where gentle manners, piety sincere,"The sympathies of love and friendship dear;"Fancy and music bless'd each humble cot,Each heart endearing to the native spot;While at the frugal meal the blue smokes rise*Like grateful incense to the fav'ring skies;For, here the beauties of one smiling day,Whole months of low'ring gloom and storms repay.While Spring with soft hand scatters fragrance round,Devotion, gratitude, and joy abound;And more delight expands th' untutor'd heart,Than pomp or luxury could e'er impart.In vain my eyes the length'ning vale explore,From hillocks green the blue smokes rise no more:"No more at evening hour the hamlets round,"The voice of joy and melody resound;No more the maids with plaintive ditties old,And warbl'd love‐tales soothe the musky fold;Or guardian‐spirits hovering round in airAttend the village‐patriarch's simple pray'r,Where breathes the native soul devoid of art,The genuine language of the grateful heart:No more the pibroch wakes the martial strain,No more the clan's proud standard waves amain,No more in pensive mood the gifted seerBeholds the joyous nuptial train appear;Or sees the funeral pomp approaching slow,Or hears through the still air the shrieks of future woe:No more the bard, whom native genius fires,(Celestial flame, that heaven‐ward still aspires,)Bids patriot valour in full glory blaze,Or consecrates departed worth with praise.Thus brave MONTROSE was sung, and great ARGYLE:The gentle Chieftain of the mysty isle,Snatch'd in the bloom of opening worth away,Thus lives—the theme of many a plaintive lay*;Which still his honour'd memory shall prolong;So young MARCELLUS lives in VIRGIL'S song.Say, banish'd masters of the tuneful art,Who sway with latent pow'r the willing heart,Where are you now? across th' Atlantic's roarDo your sad eyes your native hills explore?Or homeward do you strain your aching view,Where restless waves each other still pursue?Where angry billows meet with frowning skies,Till fancy's self recoils, and vision dies:Or, bending o'er the prow, your mournful strainMix with the murmurs of the boundless main,Where sinking surges equal cadence keep,While misty showers around you seem to weep;Or wakes the harp the well‐known notes of woe,That wont along the funeral path to flow,That, while our vanish'd comforts we deplore,Repeats emphatic, "They return no more*."Go, hapless bards, and sing in other landsYour country's praise to charm her exil'd bands;And soothe each drooping mind with thoughts of home,While hopeless through the pathless wilds they roam.But wherefore exil'd? while afar they rove,Still glow their filial breasts with patriot love:The thoughts of home still aching at their heart,While distance only aggravates the smart.Did not their hard hands earn with patient toilTheir scanty pittance from the rugged soil?And did not blameless morals add a graceTo simple manners, in the untaught race?Uncouth and wild these manners may appear,And even these virtues savage and austere,To those vain tribes who, indolently gay,Know but to dream and trifle life away;Who on soft Luxury's velvet lap reclin'd,Shrink from each bold exertion of the mind,Whose unbrac'd languid frame, dissolv'd in ease,Recoils and shivers at th' autumnal breeze.When winter rides terrific on the blast,They shrink to covert till the storm be past;Nay, when soft April's wat'ry smile appears,The gale that from the primrose shakes the tears,Too rudely breathes for them—although its powerWounds not the texture of the silken flower:Born in the sun's enlivening beams to play,Like sportive insects of a summer day,Say, how should they fatigue and danger brave,Or climb the rocky steep, or mount the wintry wave?"These tasks befit the rugged sons of toil,"Cries speculative Pride with scornful smile,"While they in ignorance and darkness grope,"And labour on, and talk of faith and hope;"Far nobler labours aid us to extol"The task of minds, the labour of the soul."To trace French novelists with steady gaze,"Through sentiment's inexplicable maze;"Whose evanescent meaning caught meanwhile,"Shall add new graces to enrich our style;"New systems of philosophy be shown,"With happier art in language all our own;"New modes, new governments, new laws, new light,"Shall put all superstition's train to flight;"And revelation's trembling, dubious ray,"No more its faint, uncertain beams display;"But knowledge flash with such resplendent blaze,"That maddening crowds grow giddy while they gaze."Such are our triumphs, while at ease reclin'd,"With active force the comprehensive mind"Breaks custom's chains and prejudice's ties,"And wide in sportive curves unbounded flies."Thus have I seen, in some long shining day,The Swallow kind their sportive gambols play;They roam'd excursive through the boundless air,Sporting with wanton wing, now here, now there;And twittering on with inharmonious mirth,Each surface skimm'd, yet scorn'd to touch the earth:Nor heav'n‐ward strove on wing sublime to rise,But chas'd with eager haste the summer flies;Till the chill blasts of the first wintry dayTo darkness drove the flutterers and their prey.Such be your fate—ye silken sons of ease,Whom hardships terrify, and trifles please.Be mine to watch the blush of early dawn,And thoughtful muse along the dewy lawn,Where the sweet Lark with cheerful ardour springs,Shakes the cold night‐drops from her russet wings;With music's raptures cheers the vaulted sky,And wakens all the feather'd minstrelsy;Then stooping to her dewy nest again,With grateful joy renews the charming strain.Thus from his native glen, when forc'd to roam,Some Alpine peasant joyous hails his home;Delighted hovering o'er the spot obscure,Where useful toils are mix'd with pleasures pure;While his fond eyes explore the low retreat,He feels his glowing heart tumultuous beat;And views with more delight his humble shed,Than all the scenes where pomp and pleasure tread.Will you, ye proud and gay, attend a while,To homely truths rehears'd in homely style;And hear a rustic Muse those truths impart,From the full sources of the swelling heart?No strains of measur'd harmony shall hereWith meretricious tinkle soothe your ear;Nor art ambitious snatch exotic flow'rsFrom eastern groves, or soft Italia's bow'rs;Be mine to raise, without disguise or art,The British song, and touch the British heart.To scenes of heartfelt sorrow turn your eye,Unlock the sacred source of sympathy;Nor let to Afric's wilds Compassion roam,While modest Anguish weeps unseen at home.* See note 1. on Part I.* See note 2. on Part I.* See note 3. on Part I.* See note 4. on Part I. * See note 5. on Part I.END OF PART I.THE HIGHLANDERS.PART II.ARGUMENT.

Character of the Mountaineers, with a sketch of the leading causes which produced and still preserve that peculiar Character, in which a manly Simplicity is blended with a degree of Sentiment, and gentleness of Manners, seldom to be found in the lower class of any other country; and which seems so intimately connected with their language and manner of life, that they generally lose it, when incorporated with any other class of people. Rural occupations described as carried on by different members of the same family. The domestic Group assembled in the Evening, rehearse to each other the Toils, Adventures, Visions, and Contemplations of the Day. Enthusiastic feeling excited by the simple pathos of artless narrative or unstudied composition—contrasted with the apathy common among those in whom much intercourse with the world has blunted the finer feelings;—illustrated by a comparison. Evening Worship. Early rising. Devout Aspirations. Respect paid to an old peasant, who generally presides by tacit consent in every hamlet, and holds his power by the double right of superior wisdom and experience, and is called, by way of pre‐eminence, n'Dunadh, or the Man. A younger person in the same little circle, generally admired by the rest for some talent, such as Humour, Musical Powers, or a faculty of Rhyming, &c. No hamlet without some Widow, who is in a great measure supported, and saved from the disgrace of a mendicant life, by the little society; she is usually childless, for the Highlanders, eminent for filial piety, always strive to support their aged parents.

Hath not old custom made this life more sweetThan that of painted pomp? Are not these woodsMore free from peril than the envious court?And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.SHAKSPEARE.COME, then, explore with me each winding glen,Far from the noisy haunts of busy men;Let us with stedfast eye attentive traceThe local habits of the CELTIC race;Renown'd even in those old heroic times,That live in OSSIAN'S songs, and RUNIC rhymes;When ardent Valour call'd his children forth,And glory lighten'd through the beaming North:Whose hardy sons that twilight age adorn,Like the quick splendours of the Boreal morn,Fill'd with amaze and awe the world's dread kings,And bade their eagles stoop with flagging wings.Come, trace with curious search what secret causeEach native's heart with strong attraction draws,Though wealth in happier lands her stores unlock,To cling with fervour to his native rock:Why lonely mountains, dark with russet heathAnd rushing streams, and narrow vales beneath;With more delight his wand'ring eye detain,Than FORTH'S rich banks, or LOTHIAN'S fertile plain:The many‐colour'd herd, his wealth and pride,Like deer, through wastes extended, wand'ring wide;And sportive goats, a bold aspiring flock,High on the ridge of yon aerial rock;More self‐importance to his mind impart,And fill with warmer joys his simple heart,Than all the flocks the southern shepherd pens,Or the fat herds that graze the LINCOLN fens.Dear to his heart, those rocks that oft have rungWith legends which the CELTIC muse has sung;While all the attentive hamlets round admireThe deeds gigantic of their common sire:The honest pride those noble deeds impart,With kind contagion flies from heart to heart.And while they hang delighted on the sound,The ties of kindred love are doubly bound;And lisping children, youths, and grandsires grey,Enamour'd dwell on the exalting lay:The long‐descended strains their sons inspire,To wake new raptures from the melting lyre,Bid every sympathetic bosom glowWith modest triumph, or with virtuous woe:With fine emotions rudest spirits move,And teach at once to wonder and to love:While glowing tenderness and thought refin'd,Exalt the spirit of the lowly hind.In other lands, where abject peasants toil,To gain rich products from the cultur'd soil;Where grovelling interest draws each sordid plan,And all things feel improvement's aid but man:To plod in dull mechanic sort their lot,And vegetate upon the self‐same spot:Through the dull year's unvarying circle round,The self‐same fields their cares and projects bound.No common toils have they, nor liberal views,Alternate ease, nor "rapture for the muse;"No leisure intervals to soothe their care,Save the gross pastimes of a village‐fair:Extinct in these the spirit fierce and boldThat blaz'd through all the Scottish ranks of old;Extinct the vital spark of energy,That bids the soul claim kindred with the sky.Far to the North, where Scotia's Alps arise,And shroud their white heads in the misty skies;In peopled straths*, where winding streams prolongTheir course familiar in the CELTIC song:Or where the narrow wooded glens displayTheir verdant bosoms opening to the day,And each his tributary torrent pours,To swell the midland river's copious stores:While near their confluence stand the mouldering seatsWhere ancient Chieftains rul'd those green retreats,And faithful Clans delighted to obeyThe kind behests of patriarchal sway;The social tribes branch'd out on every side,The pleasures and the toils of life divide;And long experienc'd in the ages gone,Peculiar toils and pleasures all their own.Here all is open as the ambient sky,Nor fence, nor wall, obstructs the wandering eye:Each hamlet's flocks and herds, a mutual charge,That wander up the mountain's side at large;Alternate claim the rustic's daily care;And thus each various rural toil they share.The lesser Children guide the bleating lambs,When wean'd and forc'd to quit their tim'rous dams;The more advanc'd the sportive kidlings guide,Where rocks o'erhang the torrent's dashing pride.The little Maiden, whose unsteady handCan scarce the distaff's yielding weight command,Is by her careful mother taught to cullFrom whitest curling fleeces, silky wool;Her flowing tresses decks with garlands gay,Then spins beside her playful calves the day.The Youth, whose cheek the manly down o'erspreadsWide o'er the hills the stronger cattle leads:While milky mothers lowing o'er the land,With plaintive cries their absent young demand.The careful Father forms the hamlet's fold,Or else with patient labour turns the mould;And watchful leaning o'er the faithful share,The small domain divides with frugal care;And free from cautious doubts and selfish fears,They reap their portion of the ripen'd ears.Thus, while they sow and reap the mutual field,And each to each by turns is wont to yield;With one consent they trace the general plan,And blended interests form the social man:Hence gradual ties of kind endearment flow,Hence bland address and courteous actions grow;And hence th' unstudied manners of the swain,The graces of a gentler mind explain.When the declining sun withdraws his fires,And slowly from the mountain‐top retires;When echoes whisper to the evening gale,And shadows dim the visionary vale:When cattle slumber in the peaceful fold,And clouds in wild fantastic shapes are roll'd;The scatter'd family delighted meet,And with complacent smile each other greet.All day, from deep recesses of the woods,From shelving rocks, or secret winding floods,Each individual strives to bring a shareTo aid their household wants, or help their frugal fare.The boastful Boy, caught by his feeble hook,Displays the scaly tenants of the brook:The Goat‐herds in their osier baskets bringThe wholesome herbs on airy cliffs that spring;The alder bark that gives the sable dye,Or buds of heath that with the saffron vie;While moss, that wont on aged rocks to grow,Shall make the various woof with purple glow:The housewife pleas'd the varied gifts beholds,While hope anticipates the checker'd folds;And colours of the home‐made drapery,Pride of her heart, and pleasure of her eye.The cumbrous burden see the Father bear,Of pliant birch, or smooth‐grain'd juniper;To form the roof that shields the humble dome,"Where every wand'ring stranger finds a home;"Or frame the seemly vessels that containThe milky store which from their flocks they drain;For here scarce known the sordid arts of trade,They seek no gross mechanic's frigid aid:Tho' mean the dwelling thus uncouthly rear'd,'Tis still by kindly gratitude endear'd:While each his neighbour aids with cordial smile,To build, like lab'ring ants, the rustic pile.The household stuff their simple wants demand,Is fashion'd by th' ingenious owner's hand:The knife, the axe, the auger, and the fire,The only tools that aid th' inventive sire.From courtly domes on marble columns borne,Let not the artist view their works with scorn;Till he another cot produce to view,By means as simple, and with tools as few.The wish'd Repast the weary inmates cheers,And kindness now on every face appears;Well pleas'd to meet in comfort, and displayThe mix'd adventures of the various day.What bounding deer and fluttering game they trac'd,What hunter met them on the moory waste;What straying cattle from th' adjacent strath,They careful turn'd into the homeward path:Or tell what rude and new‐invented lay,With soothing cadence lull'd their tedious day;Th' unearthly voice, deep sounding thro' the wood,Or vision wild of mournful solitude,That brings the long‐lost brother back againFrom QUEBEC'S gates, or sad CULLODEN'S plain:By turns in wonder wrapt, or chill'd with fear,Or sunk in woe, th' attentive audience hear;And each impression which their words impart,Sinks with deep interest on the artless heart:Not all the magic cunning of the scene,Though SIDDONS self in sorrow's pomp be seen,Can wake emotions in the callous mind,Vers'd in the crooked science of mankind,So soft, so strong, so warm, as here are known,Where modest NATURE works, and works alone.The vivid portion of celestial fireWhich bids the energetic soul aspire,Like the clear flames that light the frozen zone,Blown by the fav'ring breath of heaven alone,More brightly blazes, more intensely glows,Than where slow art her languid aid bestows.Now all the household with due reverence kneel,While in emphatic phrase with fervent zeal,The Parent Swain pours out his ardent pray'r,For the dear objects of his tend'rest care;Or else, by humble gratitude inspir'd,His swelling heart with holy transport fir'd,Presents his praise—an Evening Sacrifice,Sincere and welcome to the approving skies.Thus blessing heaven, and by each other blest,They drown their toils in sweet oblivious rest.When, on his eastern throne the Sun appears,From Nature's mantle green to dry the tears,With cheerful haste to meet his beams they rise,And pay again their homage to the skies*;Then greet the hamlet Sage with due esteem,Whose wise behest an oracle they deem:Ev'n Nature's artless children thus we find,A rude unconscious homage pay to mind.Then, why at Fortune's vain distinctions low'r?Since Wisdom still in every state is Pow'r.When Probity and Wisdom both combine,'Tis indefeasible and right divine:While all beneath the secret influence bow,And wait suspended the decision slow.Thus Grecian chiefs with mute attention heard,When hoary NESTOR spoke, by all rever'd.In every hamlet some experienc'd Sire,Whose worth and wisdom all the rest admire,Known to each track where deer are wont to range,And vers'd in every planetary change;Why meteors glare, or wand'ring comets blaze,And which propitious, which unlucky days;Directs what time to yoke the mutual plough,And when to feed the weakly flocks below;Or when the larger cattle forth to guide,Where fresher herbage decks the mountain's side;What dreadful judgments wait on broken vows,How conscious guilt low'rs on the murderer's brows;How voices whispering thro' the gloomy wood,Or groaning caves, make known the man of blood:How fields are blighted, or how cattle die,To punish secret fraud, or perjury:Or how red lightning scath'd the vassal's head,Who shew'd the way his outlaw'd chieftain fled;He tells at large,—while every hearer's senseIs ravish'd by his copious eloquence:In each debate he gives the casting vote,And his wise sayings all repeat by rote.Much does each hamlet boast its sage's skill,To draw the severing bounds 'twixt good and ill:And much indeed his knowledge is extoll'd,In local history, and tradition old.Thus, though he holds pre‐eminence, as fit,The circle also boasts its Bard or Wit.Some *Genius, who by Nature taught to sing,Responsive warbles to the trembling string:Each theme, by turns, th' attentive audience warms,The smile of beauty, or the clash of arms;Or grottos, woods, and shaded vales are shown,Description, such as THOMPSON'S self might own:Like him, the bard, without the aid of art,Awakes the fine emotions of the heart:Like him, can every "tenderness infuse,"And teach to love the "humanizing muse:"Or else some Youth, who smiles and wounds by turns,With all the poignant humour of a BURNS,Bids sportive mirth and pleasantry abound,And scatters Ridicule's light darts around;With the shrewd glance of quick inspection keen,Detects the vain, the selfish, and the mean;Drags vice and folly to the public eye,And points them out to grinning obloquy:Not even the worthy are from fear exempt,Such is the general horror of contempt.Besides th' ingenious Youth and sapient Sire;One darling object all the rest admire:Some blushing Maid, whose sweet, tho' simple charms,In many an artless bosom wake alarms;Whom all the young with secret joy behold,With looks of kind complacence all the old:See, with dishevell'd locks she moves along,The theme of many a wildly‐warbl'd song:And many a quaint similitude is sought,Through all the boundless wilderness of thought,To paint the graces of th' excelling fair:The glossy burnish of her shining hair,Is like the soft harp's many‐sounding stringsTo which the bard the deeds of heroes sings;Like stars that shed sweet influence from the skies,The beamy lustre of her downcast eyes;The downy cannach* of the wat'ry moors,Whose shining tufts the shepherd‐boy allures;Which, when the Summer's sultry heats prevail,Sheds its light plumage on th' inconstant gale:Even such, so silky soft, so dazzling white,Her modest bosom seems, retir'd from sight.The tufted berries rich in crimson glow,That on the mountain‐ash conspicuous grow,Seem a fit image of the deepening red,With which the conscious fair‐one's cheek is spread:While emulous her neighbour‐swains declareNo other virgin can with her compare;And challenge all the neighbouring hamlets round,To show a maid with such perfections crown'd.Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene,The narrow op'ning glens that interveneStill shelter in some lowly nook obscure,One poorer than the rest—where all are poor;Some widow'd Matron, hopeless of relief,Who to her secret breast confines her grief;Dejected sighs the wint'ry night away,And lonely muses all the summer day:Her gallant sons, who smit with honour's charms,Pursued the phantom Fame thro' war's alarms,Return no more;—stretch'd on Hindostan's plain,Or sunk beneath th' unfathomable main;In vain her eyes the wat'ry waste explore,For heroes—fated to return no more!Let others bless the morning's red'ning beam,Foe to her peace—it breaks th' illusive dreamThat, in their prime of manly bloom confest,Restor'd the long‐lost warriors to her breast;And as they strove, with smiles of filial love,Their widow'd parent's anguish to remove,Through her small casement broke th' intrusive day,And chac'd the pleasing images away!No time can e'er her banish'd joys restore,For ah! a heart once broken, heals no more.The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye,The "still small voice" of sacred sympathy,In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile,Or steal from weary woe one languid smile;Yet what they can they do,—the scanty store,So often open'd for the wandering poor,To her each cottager complacent deals,While the kind glance the melting heart reveals;And still, when evening streaks the west with gold,The milky tribute from the lowing foldWith cheerful haste officious children bring,And every smiling flow'r that decks the Spring:Ah! little know the fond attentive train, That spring and flow'rets smile for her in vain:Yet hence they learn to reverence modest woe,And of their little all a part bestow.Let those, to wealth and proud distinction born,With the cold glance of insolence and scornRegard the suppliant wretch,—and harshly grieveThe bleeding heart their bounty would relieve,Far different these;—while from a bounteous heartWith the poor sufferer they divide a part:Humbly they own, that all they have is givenA boon precarious from indulgent heaven;And the next blighted crop, or frosty spring,Themselves to equal indigence may bring.* See note No. 6.* See note No. 7.* See note No. 8.* See note No. 9.END OF PART II.THE HIGHLANDERS.PART III.ARGUMENT.

The removal to the Mountain Shealings, when the true Pastoral Life commences; and a Scene of vacant leisure, diversified by Music, Poetry, and Rural Sports, is opened to the people. Return from the Shealings. Autumn. Tokens of an early Winter. Wattled Barns. All Saints or Hallow Even. Rural Dancing. Grace and Agility in that exercise native to Highlanders.

Forms or customs had not shackl'd Man,But wild in woods the noble Savage ran.DRYDEN.NOW hark! what loud, tumultuous joys resound,From all the echoing rocks and valleys round;And hear! the sage oraculous declare,Tis time the summer‐flitting to prepare:The summer‐flitting! youths delighted cry,The summer‐flitting! lisping babes reply*.Now all is haste, and cheerful bustle round,To reach the wilds, with plenteous herbage crown'd.Thus when assembled storks prepare to fly,When NILUS leaves his slimy borders dry,The prudent leaders first consult with care,Then all the younger followers mount the air:Their figur'd flight with due precision steer,While hope exulting heads the gay career.When dappl'd grey first streaks the eastern sky,With quick dispatch the cottage‐matrons vie,Who first shall load the steeds that lead the way,And wheels and vessels in due order lay.Then in collected numbers duly rang'dWith lighten'd hearts, to care and fear estrang'd,The train proceed,—and first the motley herd,For greater strength, or agile force preferr'd,Lead on,—the milky mothers following near,Their sportive young behold with matron fear:Then come the bleating kind with plaintive cry,And children overjoy'd, they know not why;And mothers, smiling on the guiltless race,Or clasping infants in their fond embrace.High on the mountain's side, or in the wood,Where Nature reigns in savage solitude;Or deep embosom'd in some narrow glen,Where coy Retirement shuns the haunts of men,The shelter'd bothys* rise to shield the train,Who joy to view their summer‐haunts again;For here again the Sylvan Age returns,Nor man the curse of ceaseless labour mourns:Fair Freedom walks abroad, unties her zone,And joys to see the landscape all her own.Thrown careless on the slope—see vacant EaseBask in the sun, or court the cooling breeze;And musing Fancy, by some brook reclin'd,In language clothe the murmurs of the wind;Or frame to vocal reeds the native lay,Or form of mountain flowers the chaplet gay.See Sport, with Exercise and Health combin'd,In happy union, fleeter than the wind,Thro' pathless wastes the sprightly game pursue,"Oft out of reach, but never out of view:"While eager Hope impetuous grasps the prize,And Ardour lightens in the hunter's eyes.At length, exulting o'er their trembling spoil,They see the dun deer fall to crown their toil.And when calm evening bathes the flow'rs in dew,And bids the thrush his mellow note renew,With answering music maidens pour the lay,And drain the listening kine at close of day:Delighted Echoes spread the cheerful strains,And rapt Attention holds the silent swains:But holds not long—from every thicket roundYoung voices mix'd in cheerful chorus sound.Each lone recess the wand'ring tribes explore,And now return exulting with their storeOf berries*, that in rich luxuriance spread,O'er the dark heath their crimson lustre shed;Or trailing o'er the rocky fragments side,The glossy foliage spreads its verdant pride;While raspberries richly flavour'd, climb on high,And bask in all the radiance of the sky;Or brambles, on the brook's wild margin spread,With jetty lustre deck their pebbly bed:Where with coy wing the Ptarmigan retires,And high beyond the rolling mist aspires,In safest solitude and purest air,To rear her young with fond maternal care†:And mountain Hares, white as the drifted snow,Ascend, while fear and danger pant below;Or, where the Eagle darts his vigorous flightFrom cliffs sublime, to trace the realms of light;A fruit there grows, to fertile plains unknown,Whose beauties deck the sterile rock alone*;The creeping plant, low on the stony ground,Spreads like some lonely gem its radiance round:The topaz and the ruby here displayTheir blended lustre to the eye of day:'Twas thus Hesperian gardens bloom'd of old,Where Dragons watch'd the vegetable gold.All these, and more beside, of names unknown,Has Nature o'er the wilds profusely strown:And vent'rous children wide the waste explore,And to the Arrie bring the various store†.While bolder youth pursue the feather'd game,Of various plumage, and as various name:And adding what the finny tribes afford,With unbought viands load the simple board;Where milky draughts refresh the happy train,And each lives o'er th' excursive day again:While mirth's loud carol every care beguiles,And guiltless loves, that play in artless smiles;And aged swains, that talk of battles old,And wonders new by ancient seers foretold;And matrons, who the busy spindle ply,Till evening's warning star is mounted high;Thus comes with speed unmark'd the hour of rest,That hour to peace and innocence so blest;How sweet to slumber on the bed of heath,Whose purple blossoms health and vigour breathe!How sweet to dream of heavenly melody,And wake to hear it warbling thro' the sky!While larks ascending tune their matin lays,And scatter darkness with the notes of praise.Thus while successive days new pleasures bring,Gay Summer hastes away on blithsome wing:But now, when equal days and nights draw near,And pensive Autumn mild, of sober cheer;When clustering nuts are changing into brown,When from the nest the plover's young is flown,When nimble moor‐powts scatter o'er the heath,And hear in every blast the licenc'd death:When round the lonely hamlet's green domain,The grass in fresh luxuriance springs again;When flowery herbage richly clothes the mead,And corn shot up, supplies the past'ral reed;Then from the Summer‐sheals their course they bend,And with reluctant leisure slow descend.How cheap the pleasures of the simple mind!Unknown to joys that Fashion calls refin'd:What fine, what slender and unconscious ties,To hold the kind ingenuous heart, suffice.The wide, wild haunts, where nature lonely reigns,Unwilling they forsake, to seek the plains;Yet when they see the dear familiar spot,Where each descries his lov'd, his native cot,Well pleas'd they hail the Genius of the plain,And joy to meet their household‐gods again:Though penury and ceaseless toil await,They resolutely brave the storms of fate,And see fair Hope's eternal lamp displayThe gloomy path that leads to endless day.Now Autumn lifts her head, with plenty crown'd,The breezes wave her yellow locks around,The purest azure decks her sky serene,And mild Dejection marks her pensive mien:Now lonely Meditation walks abroad,Through all his bounteous works to trace her GOD:Now Labour plies his task, with smiling cheer,To reap the produce of the ripen'd year;And sportive glee, and talk, and social toil,The patient reaper's weary task beguile,And songs, according to the reaper's stroke,Brisk emulation o'er the field provoke:The ancient swains attentive wait behind,With patient care the yellow sheaves to bind;Or else, with long‐liv'd prudence, chide the while,Where, lur'd by Beauty's soft attractive smile,Some Youth who plies his task beside the fair,Whose artless charms his simple heart ensnare,With stroke unequal reaps; while on the groundThe broken ears are careless scatter'd round:In vain the fond Enthusiast ye reprove,For when did Prudence ever dwell with Love?Triumphant Love, who scorning Wisdom's rules,Exalting sees the wise become his fools.Now dark October comes, obscur'd with rain,And low'ring threats the plenty of the plain;For Winter here, too oft with boisterous form,Comes early riding on the howling storm;And oft with rude and chilly hand is found,To scatter Autumn's heavy locks around.High on these mountains BOREAS dwells alone,While icy terrors gird his frozen throne:When Sister‐Seasons dance the graceful round,Where Harmony appears with order crown'd;In fury oft he mounts his airy car,His blustering heralds sound the notes of war;And while those changing seasons fair advance,Spreads wild confusion through the mazy dance.Hence Winter here oft breaks the mystic ring,And chills the blooms that deck the breast of Spring!Or rages among unwither'd leaves,And shakes from Autumn's bounteous lap the sheaves.Hence aged swains, by slow experience taught,When heavy clouds appear with moisture fraught,And bending willows hang their dripping heads,And turbid rivers rise beyond their beds,And mountain‐cataracts, of dingy brown,With brawling rage o'er broken rocks come down;And plenteous fruit, with early ripeness red,In crimson tufts bedeck the witch‐elm's head;And numerous hips, with ripen'd scarlet glow,And frosty gales, in ruddy evenings blow;—Direct, in haste, to lead the new shorn grain,From the dank moisture of the wat'ry plainTo rocky heights, where frequent breezes blow,And sun‐beams with redoubled ardour glow.Now young and old from every quarter come,To share the cheerful task of leading home:Here, studious of the clime, they form with careThe wattled barn that courts th' enlivening air,Lest the fresh sap their labour render vain,Fermenting through the scarcely‐ripen'd grain:The sons of Art, who art alone esteem,These, marks of savage indolence may deem;But sage Experience, Wisdom's eldest child,When nurs'd by Nature 'midst th' untutor'd wild,Though small her bounds appear, and short her view,Yet in these narrow bounds her steps are true:Nor let rash Speculation's letter'd pride,O'erturn her modest works with daring stride.Now comes the day to Superstition* dear,When frosty mists foretel the closing year,Hallow'd and reverenc'd in the elder time,Sacred to every saint, of every clime;When aerial tribes in joyful freedom stray,Or hover round the church‐yard's lonely way;Or o'er the annual mystic rites preside,And form of air the visionary bride:In joyful groups the rustics then appear,To crown the finish'd labours of the year,And bid the rural genius come along,With dance, and sport, and revelry and song:Then native Music wakes in sprightly strains,Which gay according motion best explains:Fastidious Elegance, in scornful guise,Perhaps th' unpolish'd measure may despise;But here, where infants lisp in tuneful lays,And Melody her untaught charms displays;The dancers bound with wild peculiar grace,And sound thro' all its raptur'd mazes trace;Nor awkward step, nor rude ungainly mien,Through all the glad assemblage can be seen:But with decorous air, and sprightly ease,Even critic taste the agile dancers please.Cameleon Fashion's self, whose varying hue,Assumes the likeness of each object new,Returns, to copy motion's artless grace,Even from the wildest of the mountain race,And with decisive voice her votaries calls,To ape with air constrain'd the rural balls!The nymph that wont to trace the source of Tay,Or lead the sprightly dance by rapid Spey,With conscious triumph smiles aside to see,This "faint reflection of the rural glee;"Short pleasure languid imitation feels,While polish'd courtiers pant in active reels.* It is a season of rapturous freedom and variety to the children, who are always delighted at its return; which is indeed very much the case with the people in general.* Bothy is a provincial phrase, signifying a booth or slight building, applied to the huts in the shealings. * Wortle‐berries and Cran‐berries abound very much in those districts where the peasants retire in summer. Their vivid colours and glossy leaves make a beautiful variety among the productions of the mountains. † On the tops of the highest mountains, far above all human haunts, the Ptarmigan nestles, and the White Hare breeds. * The natives call this fruit Eyreickan, which is of the size and form of a large Strawberry, and not unpleasant to the taste; it is of incomparable beauty, being almost transparent, and of the most glowing colours, from all the variations of scarlet, shading off into a bright, and then paler yellow. † Arrie is a name in some districts given to the shealings. * See note No. 10. END OF PART III.THE HIGHLANDERS.PART IV.ARGUMENT.

Winter. Social Evenings. Little or no work done in that season in the Highlands. Hazardous intercourse with other Straths in search of strayed cattle. Hospitality exercised. Friendship promoted. Courage, Fortitude, and Patience strengthened. A spirit of bold adventure and strong Attachment cherished by their peculiar modes of Life;—Exemplified in the Episode of Farquhar. Singular View from Corryarric. Beauties of Lock‐Ness, which, never freezing in Winter, is the haunt of all kinds of Aquatic Birds. Glendoe. Sun‐rise on Loch‐Ness described. Urquhart Castle. Glenmoriston. Fyers. Return of Farquhar. Devastation of the Country after the year 1745.

A thousand fantasiesBegin to throng into my memory,Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,And airy tongues, that syllable men's namesOn sands, and shores, and desart wildernesses.These thoughts may startle well, but not astoundThe virtuous mind that ever walks attendedBy a strong siding champion—Conscience.MILTON.NOW Winter pours his terrors o'er the plain,And icy barriers close the wild domain,From the fierce North the sweeping blast descends,And drifted snow in wild confusion blends;The Mountain‐Cataract, whose thundering soundMade echoes tremble in their caves around,Now dashing with diminish'd majesty,In frozen state suspended seems on high;While in the midst a small contracted streamTinkles like rills that lull the shepherd's dream.The River crusted o'er, and hid in snow,Unfaithful tempts the traveller below;While pools and boiling springs, unsafe beneath,Betray th' unwary to the snares of death.How awful now appears Night's silent reign!Where lofty mountains bound the solemn scene.While Nature, wrapt in chilly bright disguise,And sunk in deep repose, unconscious lies*;And through the pure cerulean vault above,In lucid order constellations move:The milky‐way, conspicuous glows on high.Redoubled lustre sparkles through the sky;And rapid splendours, from the dark‐blue North,In streams of brightness pour incessant forth;While crusted mountain‐snows reflect the light,And radiance decks the sable brows of night.Now, though their herds excite their anxious care,Tir'd Labour slumbers with the shining share:Short while they ply the flail, the scanty corn,Dealt out with frugal care, employs the morn:But social glee, around the cheerful hearth,Lets loose the careless soul of rural mirth:Bright burns the hearth, th' enlivening torches blaze*,The pipes awake the notes of former days:Again they feel their ancient spirit rise,And courage fires, or pity melts their eyes,As love or war alternate swells the sound,And hearts dilate, and bosoms glow around:Yet even while frost comes bitter on the breeze,Not all their nights are spent in social ease.Some bolder spirits of the hardy race,O'er snow‐clad mountains wake the dangerous chase;And some advent'rous youths, with fearless mind,All thoughts of ease and safety leave behind,The pathless wilds for wandering steers explore,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]Climb the steep rock where nestling Falcons soar,And heights by human feet untrod before†.There, danger threats in every hideous form,There groans the Genius of the gathering storm;And solitude forlorn, and frantic fear,And howling blasts, and echoing caves are there.Yet adamantine souls, and iron forms,Hard brac'd by toil, and nurst among the storms,Whom pleasure ne'er could melt, or terror freeze,Can trace undaunted even such scenes as these;Amidst the rattling hail erect their head,And view serene the dwelling of the dead.Where chiefs, who bore of old a mighty name,In four grey stones concentre all their fame;Where sleeps the hunter on the hill of heath,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]By fancy pictur'd in the misty wreath,Dim hovering o'er the narrow bed of death.Yet when the wearied storm has spent its wrath,Patient he still explores th' adjacent Strath:By the pale moon he tracks the famish'd hare,Who seeks among the cots her scanty fare:At length, a distant light his steps invites,To share the wonted hospitable rites;Where plenteous cheer, and welcome's genial smiles,In simple guise the wanderer's care beguiles;The timely aid, the long‐remember'd feast,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]Are deep upon the stranger's mind impress'd,And hope and gratitude distend his breast.Deep in a narrow vale, unknown to song,Where Maeshy leads her lucid stream along*,Then turns, as if unwilling to forsakeThe peaceful bosom of her parent lake,While her pure streams the polish'd pebbles show,That through the native crystal shine below;Upon her flow'ry banks there dwelt a Swain,Who liv'd a stranger to the cultur'd plain:He mov'd with active ease, and artless grace,And manly spirit brighten'd in his face.Fair on his cheek appear'd youth's mantling glow,While lines of stedfast thought had mark'd his brow;Alone, superior in the sylvan reign,'Twas his to lead the life that poets feign,Amidst luxuriant fruits, and crystal springs,"Where the free soul looks down to pity kings*."Yet while through woods and mountains wont to rove,The pious youth excell'd in filial love;For his lov'd parents, and their duteous race,He search'd the flood, or urg'd the vent'rous chase:And while o'er distant moors he lov'd to roam,The fruit of all his toils enrich'd their home:For them the deer resign'd his ample hide,For them th' enamell'd roes their beauteous pride,The otter's costly fur, the dappled fawn,The leveret wounded in the dewy dawn:No sylvan game their FARQUHAR'S pow'r withstood,Who reign'd despotic o'er the pathless wood.But see! where Winter fierce, array'd in storms,With early fury Nature's face deforms;And pours his snows with wild unwonted haste,Ere scatter'd herds are brought from ev'ry waste,Where they through summer months unheeded rang'd,Or left the district to their home estrang'd.Now FARQUHAR ceas'd thro' gloomy woods to roam,And hastening downwards, sought his peaceful home,The kindred smile, the dear paternal cot:But while through new‐fall'n snows he hail'd the spot,His father with unwonted sternness cried,—"While heedless you traverse the forest wide,"Our little all, those heifers and those steers,"Rear'd as a stock for our declining years,"Your unregarded charge, have wander'd far,"Where ridgy rocks the dangerous access bar;"Or in the western Corry's depth profound,"Where blasts in fatal eddies circle round*:"While sylvan sports your vigorous youth engage,"Must penury and sorrow cloud our age."The generous youth heart‐chill'd with anguish stood,The "light forsook his eyes, his cheeks the blood,"Cold through his breast the new sensation came,A stranger yet to censure or to shame;Turning, he cried, "I go, where to the west"Declining suns in Ocean's bosom rest:"I go, your wand'ring heifers to explore,"To find them, or, alas! return no more."In sorrow thus he spoke, then turning round,His variegated vest succinctly bound:Array'd for speed, he westward bends his way,While low the wintry sun forsakes the day:His dog, the fleetest of the hunter kind,Oft with reluctant wonder looks behind:Then patient mounts the rock, and urges on,Till the last glimpse of lingering day was gone.Now wide and wild the dreary prospect showsWhere stars with glimmering light illume the snows,Through fleecy clouds a dubious lustre spread,Where Corryaric rears his lofty head:Deep at his feet the dismal Corry lies,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]Where dwells a spirit, hid from human eyes,Whose magic art the fatal blast unties*:The fatal blast, incessant whirling round,With horror fills the cavity profound:The Demon, in the whirling drift disguis'd,Has oft th' unweeting stranger here surpris'd;And many a grave is seen with fox‐glove crown'd,When spring appears, with dewy locks unbound;And many a plaintive ghost sad fancy forms,And hears their hollow shriek amidst the storms.Here FARQUHAR paus'd, look'd back, and shuddering sawHis faithful dog first shrink in silent awe,Then, howling, trembling, fly with quicken'd pace,To warn his master from the fatal place."Shall I too fly, (he cried) or trust the Pow'r"Who guards us in the dark and silent hour?"From whom commission'd blasts have leave to fly,"Or sleep within the curtains of the sky."Strong in his strength these horrors I explore,"By him protected, FARQUHAR fears no more."His plaid in ample folds around him cast,The vent'rous youth ascends the steep in haste;Loud from the Corry's depth arose the wind,Unmov'd he heard the yelling blast behind,And flying from the grim pursuit of death,No backward look retrac'd the dangerous path.Now high above the rolling clouds he goes,Where clearer starlight brightens whiter snows;Sublime on Corryaric's height he stood,And all the wide horizon wond'ring view'd*;Through the pure air, where vision unconfin'dStill ranges like the quick creative mind;Saw where the sun, from ocean's fluid breast,Begins his radiant progress in the East;And where with milder majesty he shines,When in the western wave his light declines:Saw the long vista, where midst candy'd snowsThe mighty depths of Ness appear unfroze†.Majestic lake! which rocky mountains bound,Or steepy heights, with yew and holly crown'd;Fed by thy tepid breath, each bordering treeStill with reflected verdure shines in thee;While wide the wintry blast in fury roves,And strips the graceful foliage from the groves.And when each neighbouring lake is chill'd to stone,Warmth, health, and beauty, dwell with thee alone:There birds disport, bedeck'd with plumage gay,And snowy swans their stately pride display.The ruthless tyrant of the frozen year,Repell'd, retiring, shuns thy bosom clear;Where downward skies are seen in azure dress'd,Like heav'n's own image, in the guiltless breast.And now the moon in cloudless splendour rose,Where lofty Alps their snowy tops disclose:And the wild Garrie, midst his ridgy zone,To her pale beams an icy mirror shone:There Moidart's hills in clustering groups appear,And Aonich's slow ascent and piny summit here;Knoidart's wild rocks in shapeless forms were seen,And Oich with softer beauties deck'd the scene:A while entranc'd, in solemn awe he gaz'd,Then to the skies his raptur'd eyes he rais'd:"And why (said he) should coward fears control,"Or doubts desponding, sink the guiltless soul?"The hand which bade those lofty summits rise,"And with those living splendours deck'd the skies,"Which move obedient to his dread command,—"I dwell beneath the shadow of that hand."Then downwards to the sheltering glen he hies,And close beneath the tangling thicket lies,Which o'er the rocky cavity was spread,Where wither'd leaves collected form'd his bed:Exhausted nature sunk in sleep profound,And peaceful visions lightly hover'd round.Now bleak and dim the chilly morn arose,And keen the North wind swept the glossy snows,The blast loud rushing through the wither'd oak,Arous'd his dog, and FARQUHAR starting woke:Forlorn and sad, he cast his eyes around,But in his view no living object found;Nor track, save to a gloomy cavern near,Where the false fox's bloody steps appear:Resolv'd, he turns, intent to trace the wayFrom whence the nightly robber bore his prey;For well he knew, at this inclement hourNo wand'ring flocks were subject to his pow'r;But from some cot perhaps not far away,He slunk insidious with his helpless prey.Forward with eager speed again he goes,And traces up th' ascent th' ensanguin'd snows;Eastward he bends, till weak, and spent with toil,He sees the new‐fall'n snow his steps beguile;The buried track no longer leads him on,And strength, and fortitude, and hope, are gone.The flaky torrent now conceals the sun,And hunger faint to dim his sight begun;Cheerless he turns, to seek the friendly shadeWhere verdant hollies rose, amidst a glade;But wond'ring starts, to see a lovely formWho in the self‐same shelter shunn'd the storm;In youth's first bloom, and deck'd with matchless grace,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]The morning's orient hues adorn'd her face: He gaz'd, nor thought the maid of mortal race.The snow‐clad stranger gentle MORAIG saw,And blushing turn'd, and shrunk with timid awe.The beauteous vision FARQUHAR still survey'd,And softly thus in suppliant accents said:"Fair wanderer of the wood, if deck'd in light"An airy spirit only cheats my sight;"Or if a sister of the earth you come,"No longer let me here bewilder'd roam;"But to some peaceful harbour guide my path,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]"Weary and faint, beneath the tempest's wrath"I sink unpitied in the grasp of death."'Stranger! in evil hour you come,' she cries,And lifts with soft concern her modest eyes:'A helpless maid, unaided and alone,'Perplex'd I wander here through paths unknown:'An ewe last evening from our sheep‐cot stray'd,'In search of her I trace the lonely glade.'"Vain search! (cries FARQUHAR) for along the wood"I track'd the guileful fox by marks of blood;"But what are they, who leave those toils severe"To female softness, and to maiden fear?"Daughter of Beauty, say, what heart of stone"Could bid thee trace those frozen wilds alone?"'Hast thou not heard,' she faintly said, through sighs,The big tears trembling in her lovely eyes,'How, to assert the STUART'S ancient claim,'To Moidart's wilds a youthful HERO came*?'To join his cause, in arms my kindred rose,'And while they pour fierce vengeance on his foes,'Forlorn and sad we tend their wonted care,'And manly toils and dangers learn to bear:'With me our mother anxious tends the flocks,'My grandsire pensive shakes his silvery locks;'While gloomy presages his mind engage,'The trance of foresight, or the dream of age:'But come, however fate decides our lot,'And banish cold and hunger in our cot.'The pitying maid, impatient, hastes before,Again with wonder FARQUHAR views her o'er;Her auburn locks with azure fillet bound,Her snowy neck luxuriant shaded round;Like some fair huntress of the times of old,Whom, rapt in vision, gifted seers behold:So FARQUHAR wond'ring sees the lovely formSmooth gliding, light him through the thickening storm.Glendoe, in high Schicuman's breast repos'd,With streaming birch and hazel shades inclos'd*,Receiv'd the pair; where pendent o'er the lakeThe aspin trembles, and the osiers shake.While evening wraps the hills in shadows pale,The careful matron spreads her frugal meal;The younger children crowding round the fire,Sadly their absent father's fate inquire:The grandsire, narrative, recounts the wars,Talks o'er the fatal pass, and shews his scars,When sudden, like two wandering beams of light,The youthful pair came full upon their sight.The fire burns clear, the kindling torches blaze,All eyes with new delight impatient gaze;"Sweet MORAlG, sister dear!" with fondness wild,The children cry, through tears the mother smil'd;"Why lonely wandering through the drifted snow,"Where gloomy Tarfe's enchanted waters flow†?"She cries, does MORAIG tempt the haunted path,"Where lurking witchcraft spreads the snares of death?"And who is this young wanderer of the chace,"Whose looks bespeak some high‐descended race;"Who o'er these pathless wilds, unus'd to roam,"With kindly care thus deigns to guide thee home?"With downcast eyes the modest youth replied,"An humble swain, to no high race allied,"In hopeless search of wandering steers I come,"By pity thus conducted to your home,—"In my dim view imperfect objects swim,"An icy torpor chills each weary limb:"Too late, alas! my rashness I deplore,"Doom'd to behold my pleasant home no more!"Unfinish'd accents falter'd on his tongue,And through his ears delusive murmurs rung;The aged peasant saw youth's roses fade,And propt the fainting swain with kindly aid:With patient care the matron chafes him o'er,While gradual warmth she labours to restore,To bring the needful cordials MORAIG flies,With soft compassion melting in her eyes*.By due attention now the youth restor'd,Sees plenty deck and welcome cheer the board:The hoary sire retraces former times,Or valiant deeds recounts in rustic rhymes:The matron, willing to amuse her guest,Tells in what distant glen the cheese she press'd,And how the monarch salmon's sportive young,Snar'd in the brook, within the roof she hung:How frugal care had made the viands last,And how they still remain to finish the repast:Fair MORAIG softly moves with silent care,And pours the draught that crowns their simple fare.Now social talk and song deceive their woes,Till wearied Nature lulls them in repose.The Genius of the storm his wrath forbore,And rav'd among the leafless woods no more:Calm silence brooded o'er the long dark night,Till from the East arose the wish'd for light;Now FARQUHAR, starting from his downy trance,Beheld with joy the new‐born day advance;And bless'd with ardent gratitude the Pow'rWho led him through that dark and dreadful hour;And pray'd unnumber'd blessings on the fairWho sav'd him from the wanderings of despair.Wrapt in his manly garb of various hue,He sallies forth the novel scene to view.Thy waters, Ness! all hush'd to tranquil rest,Reflected graces deck'd thy halcyon breast*;There URQUHART'S ruin'd castle gleam'd afar,Disastrous relic of unhallow'd war!The last sad shelter of unconquer'd worth,When EDWARD'S iron sceptre bruis'd the North†.The shaded Inver, haunt of social peace,Here bids his streams thy wat'ry stores increase,And proudly boasts of his excelling Fair,‡Their simple manners, and ingenuous air:There Fyers with plaintive murmurs soothes his dells,Where wild romantic Melancholy dwells*;And Tarfe, long wandering, hid in copses green,To pour his tributary wave is seen.Now strict inquiring from the swains around,His wandering cattle's haunt young FARQUHAR found,Deep in the shelter of a gloomy grove,By rocks defended from the storm above,They shunn'd, sequester'd in the narrow vale,The blast tempestuous, and the rattling hail.Clear was the freezing air, and bright the sky,Short was the day, and now the sun grew high;The cattle found,—no lingering can avail,Yet still he feels his wonted spirits fail.'Tis wrong to stay, but doubly hard to go,A while he pauses—lost in tender woe:"And shall I, helpless, friendless, leave the maid"Whose pitying care my feeble steps convey'd?"Whose gentle aid my fainting heart restor'd,"Oh, were I of this lake's fair borders lord;"Had I the joys of wealth, without its care,"Those joys, that wealth, my lovely maid should share."The new sensation swelling in his heart,Inspir'd the untaught swain with sudden art;And thus in cautious Wisdom's solemn guise,To veil his latent purpose FARQUHAR tries:First to the courteous matron bending low,—"You, to whose care my rescu'd life I owe,"Whose tender fears your absent friends deplore,"May heaven triumphant soon those friends restore!"Yet while their standard flies on Southern plains,"To till your fields no manly hand remains;"The coming Spring will soon your cares engage,"With toils unfit for childhood or for age:"So short the freezing day, so deep the snow,"No cattle o'er the mountain path can go."Warm shelter'd in yon busy glen behind,"My steers repose, and food and safety find;"But when relenting Spring shall smile a‐new,"Again your hospitable hearth I'll view;"And faithful, like a brother or a son,"Will till your fields till May's bright days come on;"And while warm life her vital pow'r retains,"And truth, and sense, and memory remains:"Should penury, or sad mischance betide"My friendly hostess, or my gentle guide,"My kindred, mindful of the generous deed,"Shall yield them shelter in the hour of need."The matron, pleas'd, accepts the promis'd aid,In silence meek assents the grateful maid.Serene and peaceful smil'd the shortening day,And FARQUHAR now unwilling hastes away:Yet oft he turn'd, as inly loth to go,And bless'd the gentle inmates of Glendoe.Now doubly welcome to his native vale,Of war's alarms he tells th' awakening tale,And keen recounts what all his kindred oweFor hospitable rites in fair Glendoe.Now all the North grew bright with hostile arms,From every hill resound the loud alarms*,And rumour tells, in shrill discordant tones,Of vanquish'd monarchs, and of tottering thrones.But FARQUHAR reckless of the fatal strife,Still pass'd in tranquil shades his blameless life;And chid the hours, and thought the sun too slowThat rose to light him to his lov'd Glendoe.Sweet April deck'd with primrose wreath appears,And smiles, like harmless infancy, through tears;When, through the pathless hills, th' advent'rous swainHis MORAIG'S peaceful dwelling sought again.In vain he casts around his searching eyes,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]From every side the smoky columns rise,And savage shouts are heard, and doleful cries!While from the mountain's top he views a‐farThe barbarous traces of unsparing war,Irresolute he stands, to turn, or go,Urg'd by despair to meet the ruthless foe;Resolv'd at last, he seeks the dark retreatWhere lovely MORAIG first he chanc'd to meet,In hopes some victim of disastrous fate,Hid in those shades, might aught of her relate.Her grandsire there, deep sorrowing on the ground,With haggard looks, in silent woe he found."Oh tell, good father, tell what wretched lot"Befel the blameless inmates of thy cot;"Have they obey'd the victor's stern command,"Or fled for succour to some happier land*?"'Say where, my son, should helpless females go?'A happier land than this they ne'er can know.'They make their bed beneath th' inclement sky,'And meet with sorrow wheresoe'er they fly:'Deep in yon secret glen, within those shades,'Whose privacy no hostile step invades,'Where your lost steers avoid the wintry blast,'They rest conceal'd, till this dread hour be past:'My sons, with blood deform'd, and faint with wounds,'Last night came from Culloden's fatal bounds,'And shelter in a neighbouring cave, while I'Th' approach of danger here attend to spy.'Now FARQUHAR'S glowing cheek and heaving breastThe strong emotions of his soul confess'd:"Come, father, haste to quit this scene of woe,"First to the cave to seek the warriors go;"Then let us fly to MORAIG'S secret glen,"And shun the blood‐stain'd haunts of impious men;"Through dark Glenmarky's woods I know a way,"Impervious to the searching eye of day:"Through that lone path your secret steps I'll guide,"Where plenty dwells on Maeshie's grassy side."Beneath my father's roof my only love"Shall to the aged pair a daughter prove:"Their ancient home, though destin'd thus to leave,"Let not my gentle MORAIG'S kindred grieve:"Endear'd by ties of sympathy divine,"Henceforth be gentle MORAIG'S kindred mine."The wounded warriors, and the sorrowing sage,Now sought the darling comforts of their age:Through tears the matron views her long‐lost mate,And all their various tales of woe relate.To go is danger—but 'tis death to stay,Beneath the moon's wan beams they take their way;With Heaven their trust, and FARQUHAR for their guide,They reach the winding Maeshie's peaceful side;There cheer'd by welcome, sooth'd by grateful love,They built their humble dwelling in the grove.* See note No. 11.* See note No. 12.† See note No. 13. * See note No. 14.* See note No. 15. * See note No. 16.* See note No. 17. * See note No. 18.† See note No. 19. * It was in Moidart that the PRINCE, who made the rash attempt in 1745, which proved so fatal to his followers, first set up his standard.* See note No. 20.† See note No. 21.* MORAIG is the CHLOE or PHILLIS of the Gaelic Poets, when they conceal the true name of their mistress, for they never pay the tuneful tribute to an ideal personage. * See note No. 22. † See note No. 23. ‡ Invermoriston, a river at the mouth of which is the seat of an ancient family, whose daughters, now respectable matrons, were justly admired for uncommon beauty, unaffected gentle manners, and every domestic virtue.* See note No. 24.* See note No. 25.* See note No. 26.END OF PART IV.THE HIGHLANDERS.PART V.ARGUMENT.

Loyalty, Fidelity, and inflexible perseverance of the Highlanders, as exercised towards the unhappy Adventurer, Prince Charles Edward, in 1746. His Wanderings and Escapes. Episode of Captain M'Kenzie. Of the Banditti in the Cove of Glenmoriston. Cruelty of the licenced Soldiery. Patient sufferance of the inhabitants. Wanderings of the Chevalier through Morar and Arisaig, among the Western Isles. Soliloquy. Attempt to land on Raasay. Narrow escape from a Frigate off South Uist. Concealment in a Cavern there. Episode of Flora Macdonald: She conveys the adventurer in disguise to Sky: She is carried Prisoner to England: Her Conversation with the Sovereign: Dismissal, and return to Sky. Marriage, and Emigration. Reflections on the Character of the Highlanders, as it appears in this Narrative. On the corrupting influence which Wealth, Luxury, extensive Commerce, and False Refinement, produce in Society, aided by that species of Learning which exhausts itself in exploring what is for ever concealed, and building systems that fall of themselves, before they are finished. The importance and necessity, in a country thus enervated by luxury, thus lost in frivolous pursuits and vain speculations,—to cherish, in whatever remote obscurity they exist, a hardy manly Race, inured to Suffering, fearless of Danger, and careless of Poverty, to invigorate Society by their Spirit, to defend it by their Courage, and to adorn it with those Virtues that bloom in the shade, but are ready to wither away in the sunshine of Prosperity.

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'Tis wonderful,That an invisible instinct should frame themTo Loyalty* unlearn'd; Honour untaught;Civility not seen from other; Valour,That wildly grows in them, but yields a cropAs if it had been sow'd!SHAKSPEARE.THE vanquish'd PRINCE, for safety forc'd to fly,Amidst those mountains shunn'd each searching eye;No threat of terror, or no splendid bribe,Could warp to treachery the generous tribe:For pleas'd with little, and in hardships try'd,Their wants were all by simple means supplied;Exertion bold, and feeling strong combin'd,Here nurse the noble independent mind.None here fair loyalty or honour sold,To purchase pleasure with unhallow'd gold;Fearless of pain, yet dreading sore disgrace,Whose sable blot might sully all their race:When CHARLES an outlaw shrunk in wilds unknown,Where long his fathers fill'd an awful throne;Though wealth and pow'r combin'd their forces led,To point the axe at his devoted head,Safe in the truth of his devoted train,See! wealth and pow'r combine their force in vain:Unhurt he slumbers in his sea‐beat cave,While round his bed the guiltless billows rave*.Though gloomy guards protect the Monarch's gate,Distrust and fear around his table wait:And anxious doubts disturb his secret soul,Of hidden daggers, or the poison'd bowl.But far from courts, and their delusive arts,How bless'd the PRINCE who rules o'er honest hearts!Unblasted he by treachery's poisonous breath,And safely smiling midst the snares of death.Oh! say, what gentle heart, what pitying muse,Can the sad tribute of a tear refuse,To that brave YOUTH, who in life's early bloomHid all his opening virtues in the tomb;Forsook the region of tumultuous strife,And clos'd with pious fraud a blameless life?Could mildest worth and gentlest graces save,No weeping muses had adorn'd his grave:But noble force and dignity of mind,Despis'd a life in honour's cause resign'd;Let traitor's ashes sleep in sculptur'd urns,While thee, bless'd Youth! thy country's Genius mourns*.Forgive, ye valiant dead! ye kindred shades!That glide with heroes through Elysian glades,The muse whose trembling hands entwine the wreath,Whose mournful eyes retrace the paths of death:So fast ye crowd upon her dazzled view,Like sun‐beams on a cypress wet with dew:She sinks, o'ercome, unequal to relateYour loyal zeal, or your disastrous fate.Yet ere oblivion's leaden gates be clos'dOn humble worth, in life's low vale repos'd,She'd touch the callous mind, unus'd to feel,With savage virtue, and the lawless zealOf the bold Brothers in their darksome grove,Whose steps licentious wont at ease to rove;Who live like Nature's commoners at large,Obey no master, and attend no charge,But wander through the grassy glens at will,Nor ask what owner rear'd the beeves they kill,Then drag their prey home to their ample cave,O'er whose dark entrance trembling aspins wave;And in whose deep recess to soothe repose,A weeping rill, with tinkling murmur flows:Returning from the chase or prosp'rous spoil,'Twas here they hid the fruits of all their toil;Yet aw'd by jealous fear, no stranger guestE'er view'd their secret haunt, or shar'd their feast.On every side the deathful ambush lay,When fate propitious led the PRINCE that way;His guide,—a native of the mountains near,Who often with those Outlaws chas'd the deer,And knew their minds, by avarice unstain'd,The price of treachery and blood disdain'd,—Now forc'd o'er trackless mountains to exploreThe way by which his Lord should gain the shore;Once more adventures through the snares of death,And trusts his precious charge to savage hunters' faith.Oh faith unstain'd! and truth beyond compare!With him the produce of the chase they share,With furry spoils they deck'd their cave around,With wholesome cups their liberal board they crown'd,The hostile camp through danger's paths they sought,And to their Royal Guest unwonted dainties brought*:For him the sanguine paths of death they tread,And scorn the mighty price that buys the Wand'rer's head.One brother daily ranges through the woods,Or snares the finny tenants of the floods;And one with watchful care attends to spyThe hostile troops, with scrutinizing eye;The third with prompt obedience mark'd his look,And from his eyes commands in silence took.Now twenty summer morns beheld renew'dThe rage of rapine, and the waste of blood;The moon as oft, with want and anguish pale,Saw hopeless wanderers trace each dreary vale;The plaints of orphan woe, and infants' cries,With doleful clamour pierce the pitying skies:The slaughter'd herds bespread th' ensanguin'd ground,And smoking hamlets lay in ruins round:In dreary wilds, from human dwelling far,The wretched remnants of unsparing warPrecarious life with gather'd herbs sustain,Or chase the deer and tim'rous fawns in vain;For none dare now the levell'd tube let fly,Whose thund'ring sound might wake some danger nigh;No voice of joy is heard, no smile is seen,No rural pastime sports along the green;But sad solicitude, and shuddering fear,And patient sufferance dwell in silence there;No hopes of mercy to th' offending train,—Thy worth and wisdom, FORBES, plead in vain*!The royal EXILE hears the tale of woe,And tears unwonted now begin to flow:On his fresh cheek youth's rose untimely fades,And livid grief his hollow eye invades;The cheerful spirit, that still upward soar'd,Nor vanish'd hope, nor regal state deplor'd,Now drooping o'er his wretched followers' woes,Abandons light and food, and shuns repose.While thus the PRINCE in silent sorrow mourns,With cautious steps his faithful guide returns;His fear and anguish hides in feeble smiles,And leads the Wanderer to the Western Isles.Ah! what avails to trace each darksome maze,While watchful centinels beset the ways;To tell, how high upon some cliffy brow,Whole days he patient view'd the coast below;Where bands victorious spread the snares of death,Or count the price of his high valu'd breath.In vain each night he strove to reach his bark,While answering watch‐fires glimmer'd thro' the dark;With many a meal of uncouth viands fed,With many a bleak blast whistling round his head,Beset with threatening perils, every hourHis life in many a savage native's power:Yet through the vigilance of Avarice past,He reach'd secure the destin'd bark at last.Now soft and slow they raise the cautious oar,And quit with silent care the dang'rous shore:Low in their hollow caves the loud winds sleep,And rest and darkness brooded o'er the deep:Far out to sea they steer'd to shun their foes,Till deck'd with orient red the morn arose;Then thus the PRINCE*: "Thou radiant Orb of Light,"At whose first smile recede the shades of night!"When from the sacred East thy beams arise,"A flood of glory brightens all the skies:"The constellations fade before thy sight,"And ocean rolls his thousand waves in light:"Yet shall not even thy greatness still remain,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]"Even thou shalt sink beneath the western main,"And leave the darken'd earth to mourn thy beams in vain!"Like thee in beauty, pow'r, and splendour drest,"Our royal lineage sway'd supreme the west;"With awful trident rul'd the circling sea,"And quench'd the light of lesser stars, like thee:"Like thee, in dim eclipse conceal'd from sight,"We sink or vanish in the shades of night:"The circling hours shall thy bright beams restore,"And bid fresh morn her roses strew once more;"But we, alas! inglorious from our skies"Are hurl'd to depths profound, no more to rise;"In vain our vanish'd glories we deplore,"For Fate imperious cries,—return no more!"Then calmly to the will supreme resign'd,In stern composure he collects his mind;His sorrows sooth'd with retrospective view,And comfort from the woes of exil'd monarchs drew.He thought how CHARLES from Wor'ster's bloody fightRetreating, shunn'd in gloomy groves the light,And bred in soft luxurious ease erewhile,Assum'd the weighty axe, and shar'd the woodman's toil:How great GUSTAVUS, deep in mines immur'd,Laborious tasks and wretched want endur'd;While distant glimmering like the polar star,The diadem allures their steps afar:Hope, softly whispering, smooths the brow of care,For who, alas! can labour and despair?The winds tempestuous now began to roar,And danger darkly frown'd along the shore;Who mustering thunders threaten in the skies,And livid lightning glaring dims their eyes;Fear, while the boatmen ply the busy oar,Shakes those firm nerves that never shook before.Serene, the Royal Wanderer view'd the scene,And read his peril in their haggard mien:One spent with toil, his stedfast eyes explore,When from the breathless youth he snatch'd the oar,With patient toil the task unwearied plies,Till the mild evening star arose in calmer skies*