With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men;

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;

Minions of splendor shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued;

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear

That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;

And when they smiled because he deemed it near,

His heart more truly knew that peal too well

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of

war;

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips- "The foe! They come ! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills

Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:

How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills

Savage and shrill! But with the breath

which fills

Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers

With the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave, — alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the

grass

THE LAKE OF GENEVA. [Childe Harold, Canto iii.] CLEAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,

While the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing

Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake

Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved

Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring

Sound sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all be

tween

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,

THE ISOLATION OF GENIUS. [Childe Harold, Canto iii.]

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find

The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;

He who surpasses or subdues mankind,

Must look down on the hate of those below.

Though high above the sun of glory glow,

And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,

Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow

Contending tempests on his naked head,

And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

THE STARS.

[Childe Harold, Canto iii.] YE stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate

Of men and empires, - 'tis to be forgiven,

That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,

And claim a kindred with you; for ye

are

A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar,

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

THE RHINE.

[Childe Harold, Canto iii.]

THE castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should

see

With double joy wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of
gray;

And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
But one thing want these banks of
Rhine,-

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must withered be,