With mirth and music. Ev'n the mendicant,

Bowbent with age, that on the old

grey stone, Sole sitting, suns him in the public way, Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings.

How beautiful around the lake outspreads Its wealth of waters, the surrounding vales Renews, and holds a mirror to the sky, Perpetual fed by many sister-streams, Haunts of the angler! First, the gulfy Po, That through the quaking marsh and waving reeds Creeps slow and silent on. The rapid Queech, Whose foaming torrents o'er the broken steep Burst down impetuous, with the placid wave Of flow'ry Leven, for the canine pike And silver eel renown'd. But chief thy stream, O Gairny! sweetly winding, claims the song. First on thy banks the Doric reed I tun'd, Stretch'd on the verdant grass: while twilight meek, Enrob'd in mist, slow-sailing through the air, Silent and still, on every closed flow'r

Shed drops nectareous; and around the fields

No noise was heard, save where the whispering reeds

Wav'd to the breeze, or in the dusky air

The slow-wing'd crane mov'd heavily o'er the lee,

And shrilly clamour'd as he sought his nest..

There would I sit, and tune some youthful lay;
Or watch the motion of the living fires,
That day and night their never-ceasing course
Wheel round th' eternal poles; and bend the knee
To Him the Maker of yon starry sky,
Omnipotent! who, thron'd above all heavens,
Yet ever present through the peopled space
Of vast Creation's infinite extent,

Pours life, and bliss, and beauty, pours himself,
His own essential goodness, o'er the minds
Of happy beings, through ten thousand worlds.

Nor shall the Muse forget thy friendly heart,
O Lelius! partner of my youthful hours.
How often, rising from the bed of peace,
We would walk forth to meet the summer morn,
Inhaling health and harmony of mind;
Philosophers and friends: while science beam'd,
With ray divine, as lovely on our minds
As yonder orient sun, whose welcome light
Reveal'd the verdant landscape to the view.
Yet, oft unbending from more serious thought,
Much of the looser follies of mankind,

Humorous and gay, we'd talk, and much would laugh;

While, ever and anon, their foibles vain

Imagination offer'd to our view.

Fronting where Gairny pours his silent urn
Into the lake, an island lifts its head,
Grassy and wild, with ancient ruin heap'd
Of cells; where from the noisy world retir'd
Of old, as fame reports, Religion dwelt,
Safe from the insults of the darken'd crowd
That bow'd the knee to Odin; and in times
Of ignorance, when Caledonia's sons
(Before the triple-crown'd giant fallen)
Exchang'd their simple faith for Rome's deceits,
Here Superstition for her cloister'd sons
A dwelling rear'd, with many an arched vault;
Where her pale votaries at the midnight hour,
In many a mournful strain of melancholy,
Chanted their orisons to the cold moon.

It now resounds with the wild-shrieking gull,
The crested lapwing, and the clamorous mew,
The patient heron, and the bittern dull,
Deep-sounding in the base, with all the tribe
That by the water seek th' appointed meal.

From hence the shepherd in the fenced fold, "Tis said, has heard strange sounds, and music wild; Such as in Selma, by the burning oak,

Of hero fallen, or of battle lost,

Warn'd Fingal's mighty son, from' trembling chords

Of untouch'd harp, self-sounding in the night.
Perhaps th' afflicted genius of the lake,

That leaves the watʼry grot each night, to mourn
The waste of time, his desolated isles,

And temples in the dust: his plaintive voice
Is heard resounding through the dreary courts
Of high Lochleven Castle, famous once,
Th' abode of heroes of the Bruce's line.
Gothic the pile, and high the solid walls,
With warlike ramparts and the strong defence
Of jutting battlements: an age's toil!

No more its arches echo to the noise'

Of joy and festive mirth. No more the glance
Of blazing taper through its windows beams,
And quivers on the undulating wave:

But naked stand the melancholy walls,

Lash'd by the wintry tempests, cold and bleak,
That whistle mournful through the empty halls,
And piecemeal crumble down the towers to dust.
Perhaps in some lone, dreary, desert tow'r,
That time has spar'd, forth from the window looks,
Half hid in grass, the solitary fox:

While from above, the owl, musician dire!

Screams hideous, harsh, and grating to the ear.

Equal in age, and sharers of its fate,

A row of moss-green trees around it stand.

Scarce here and there, upon

their blasted tops,

A shrivell❜d leaf distinguishes the year:
Emblem of hoary age, the eve of life,

When man draws nigh his everlasting home,
Within a step of the devouring grave;

When all his views and tow'ring hopes are gone,
And every appetite before him dead.

Bright shines the morn, while in the ruddy east The sun hangs hovering o'er th' Atlantic wave. Apart on yonder green hill's sunny side, Seren'd with all the music of the morn, Attentive let me sit: while from the rock, The swains, laborious, roll the limestone huge, Bounding elastic from th' indented grass; At every fall it springs, and thundering shoots O'er rocks and precipices to the plain. And let the shepherd careful tend his flock Far from the dangerous steep; nor, O ye swains! Stray heedless of its rage. Behold the tears Yon wretched widow o'er the mangled corpse Of her dead husband pours: who, hapless man! Cheerful and strong, went forth at rising morn To usual toil; but, ere the evening hour, His sad companions bare him lifeless home...