Till, lo! as sudden from his sight
'Tis gone, and all again is night.
'Twas thus upon my pathway drear-
A stranger long to Scotland dear—
Her music sweet, her wealth of song--
The tartan sheen-the Doric tongue-
Thou camest, Nature's own bright child!
To cheer me with thy "wood-notes wild."
Such music! O thou syren sweet!
I would have kissed thy very feet,
What time the tuneful keys along
Thy fairy fingers moved, and flung
Such wealth of melody around
As made yon hall seem hallowed ground,
And thou-less of Earth's daughters fair
Than some bright spirit of the air!
Ye've marked some sky-lark, singing sweet
High up above earth's dust and din,
Stop sudden, as if heaven's gate
Had ope'd and let her in.
'Twas thus it seemed, each time withdrew My bird of beauty from my view,— Withdrawing only to enhance
The joys that each return attend, Keeping my heart's tumultuous dance Increasing to the end.
O, "nicht" of rapture so complete!
Alas, the morn my song-bird sweet
Flew hence afar! while here am I
In gloom still deeper than before,
Much fearing that so great a joy
May mine be nevermore.
Thou'rt gone-yet still, in thought, I trace
Thy faultless form, thy winsome face
Beaming with intellect and grace,-
Thy sunny smile, thy forehead fair,
The gleaming of thy auburn hair,
And all the other graces rare
Which with me, spite of time and tide,
"A joy forever" shall abide.
Thou'rt gone! yet ever more to me
Thy name will wake the memory
Of dear old Scotia's hills and haughs-
Her woody dells and sylvan shaws –
Her matchless Rants and Lilts and Reels
So dear to Highland hearts and heels-
From Ruidhle Thulachain's delights
And Gille-Callum's airy flights
To Tullochgorum's whirls and flings,
And famous Neil's immortal springs
Yet most of all, bewitching elf!
Whene'er I think of thee,
Loves long since laid on memory's shelf
Again revive in me;
Maidens as lovely as thyself
In laughing groups I see ;-
Now, at "the milking o' the fauld,"
Now," when the kye come hame,'
Now, by "the Birks of Invercauld,"
And now by Aray's stream,
Fond Fancy, roaming free as wind,
One after one, the long-lost find,
And, with a loving, ready will,
Paints each dear charmer, charming still.
Well might a bard be proud to please
And sing of maidens such as these ;
Small wonder Scotia's bards always
Sing best whene'er they sing their praise—
Those darling girls whose graces rare
Might make the coldest lover there
Less lover than idolator!
Long may old Scotia's sons rejoice
In lays so worthy of her choice;
Long may such minstrels as thy sire
Be hers to honour and admire;
And aye may Scotia's daughters be
What with such joy and pride I see
The bright epitome in thee!
SONNETS DESCRIPTIVE OF THE SCENERY OF LOCH-AWE, ARGYLESHIRE.
LOCH-AWE-SEEN FROM CROIS-AN-T-SLEUCHDAIDH.*
No time nor tide can dim a genuine joy:
In thought I wander to that far-off day
When first upon my sight burst grand Glenstrae,
And from me brought Loch-Awe a sudden cry
Of ecstacy, as proudly to mine eye
It spread its glories. O! but now to be
Standing where, cross-crowned Innisfail to see.
The Celt, of old, his knee bent reverently.
Here kingly Cruachan, twin-topped, cleft the sky;
There tower'd Ben-dòran's head above the cloud,-
While on the lake's calm breast lay, lovingly,
Islets of which Elysium might be proud.
When fades that landscape from my memory,
Some friendly hand may quick prepare my shroud.
* Crois-an-t-sleuchdaidh (a term suggestive of Catholic times) is the name of that moorland ridge where the road from Inveraray to Dalmally reaches its highest elevation, and from which the tourist, travelling northward, obtains his first view of Loch-Awe-its bosom adorned with a number of islands of great beauty. Chief among those more immediately in view are Innisfail, famed for its sepulchral crosses; Innis-Druidhnich, with its Druidical circle, and Fraoch-Eilean, no less distinguished by its stern, old, dilapidated "keep," telling its own tale of times of feud and foray.
See where the Awe sweeps with resistless force
Through yonder Pass where once, in days of old,
Lorn's haughty chief would thwart his monarch's course,
And traitor dirks struck well for English gold!
It is enough to make one's blood run cold
To think what Scotland would have lost that day,
If, when through yonder gorge war's tide was roll'd,
And chief met chief in battle's stern array,
The Bruce's sword cleared not a ready way
Resistless through the thickest of the foe,
Leaving Macdougall baffled of his prey!--
How few the pilgrims wandering by the flow Of Braar impetuous, think, as there they stray, How classic is the ground o'er which they go!
Fair Innis-drui'nich! though, in this our age,
Few, save the fisher, haunt thy sylvan shore,
Well worthy art thou of a pilgrimage
To him who would, in thought, the Past explore.
By nature sole instructed, here of yore
The Druid taught his votaries to see
In day's bright orb the great creative power
To which he oft, adoring, bent the knee
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