But had they seen thee they would own that the Graces
Misjudged in not giving her raven-black tresses.

Then choose whoso will beauties auburn or flaxen,
Give me, when I mate-be she Celtic or Saxon-

A girl who can add to the sweetest of faces
The rarest profusion of raven-black tresses!

THE RIVER BEAULY.

Of all the witching scenes the North
Can boast of well and truly,-
Haunts which no bard of any worth
Would fail to honour duly,-

There's none, I ween,

To match that scene

Where quits it's Dream, the Beauly,
And laughing leaps into the plains
Where plenty smiles on happy swains.

I've stood by Foyers' thundering leap,
Seen Lora's rush astounding,

Heard the swift Brander's moaning deep
'Mong Cruachan's caves resounding :
These have their share

Of grandeur rare,

But, Beauly, thee surrounding

Are scenes that might Elysium grace,

The beauty-spots on nature's face!

'Tis grand thy crystal flood to view
Benvaichard's borders leaving,

Nor less to see the Strath below
Thy fuller flow receiving;
But grander far

To see thee where

Its narrowing bounds thou'rt cleaving
Through rocky ridges opening wide
In very terror of thy tide.

Now through the Dream's dark gorges deep
Methinks I see thee going,

Half hid 'mid woods that love to keep

Fond watch upon thy flowing
From rock to rock,

With flash and shock,

And fury ever growing,—

A giant fettered, it is true,

Yet bound all barriers to subdue.

O for a home on Agais fair
Nigh which, anon, thou wendest
Thy way, proud-rushing on to where
In thy great might thou rendest
The one more chain

That strives in vain

To fetter thee, and lendest

Unto the Dream thy grandest gift of all,
The gleaming glory of Kilmorack's Fall!

с

O scene most magically wrought!
What minstrel pen can paint thee?
Thy charms, fantastic beyond thought,
Art never could have lent thee:

Enchanting spot,

I wonder not

The muses love to haunt thee;

And long, loved Dream! may they delight to stray Through thee with tuneful King-descended Hay.*

Majestic stream! methinks I see

Thee through the Aird now going,
Calm-glassing many a lordly tree
On thy fair margin growing.
Soon in thy grave,

The German wave,

Shall ever cease thy flowing;

Cease? deathless flood! till time shall cease to run,
Thy race is finished, and yet but begun.

* John Sobieskie Stuart Hay, author of "The Bridal of Kilchurn" and other poems of great merit, and who for some years resided in the vicinity of the scene here alluded to.

THE CASTLE OF LOCHAVICH.

A WEST HIGHLAND LEGEND.

The Castle of Lochavich (better known in the traditionary lore of the West Highlands as "Caisteal na h-ighinne ruaidh") stands on a little islet lying close to the western shore of Lochavich—a lake whose legendary associations, altogether apart from its romantic beauty, may well justify a pilgrimage to Glendovan, the valley in which it is situated. Tradition points to Innis-luna, the islet already alluded to, as having been in Ossianic times the scene of a rather tragic occurrence—that which forms the subject of a poem well known to all students of ancient Gaelic poetry as "Laoidh Fhravich." There is no question whatever as to Lochavich having been at a period much less remote, the scene of the leading incidents related in the following poem, and which in all their main features form an ower true tale."

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LOCHAVICH'S banks are fair to view,

The swan loves well its bosom blue,
And well the angler is aware
His paradise of sport is there.
Yet, pilgrim to that solitude,
However sceptical thy mood,
I would not counsel thee to bide
On Avich's breast at twilight tide,
And least of all, to ply the oar
Near Innisluna's haunted shore.
It is an islet green, where lave
The birch her branches in the wave,

And towers a time-worn pile,--although The winds wail through its chambers wide, It looks upon the flood below

With something yet of feudal pride.

When night resumes her dusky sway,
The shepherd shuns yon beechward way;
The hunter, lated and alone,

May well with quickened pace move on
Whenever meets his watchful eye
That pile unhallow'd frowning nigh.

For there between him and the tide
A maiden form doth often glide,
Now with a low beseeching wail,
Now silent as a cloudlet frail
Dissolving in the moonlight pale,
Till sudden passing from his sight,

She startles with her shrieks the night!

'It is the Nighean ruadh," he says—

"Protect me, Heaven good!"

And while he yet doth wilder'd gaze,

She sinks into the flood.

But listen, stranger, while I tell
A legend old of Dovan-dell,

So may thy doubting mood give way
To a wise wish that heaven may

Be from all ill thy shield and stay!