Will no one tell me what she sings?-
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;-
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

X.

ADDRESS

TO KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE.

"From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view, a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water, - -mists rested upon the mountain-side, with spots of

sunshine; there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately, not dismantled of turrets, nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin.” — Extract from the Journai of my Companion.

CHILD of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught

Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.

O there is life that breathes not! Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick, in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art thou, from care
Cast off, abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm,)
Yet he, not loth, in favor of thy claims
To reverence, suspends his own; submitting
All that the God of Nature hath conferred,
All that he holds in common with the stars,
To the memorial majesty of Time
Impersonated in thy calm decay!

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,

Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene
Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods unite
To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
In willing admiration and respect,

Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called
Youthful as Spring. - Shade of departed Power,
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,

The chronicle were welcome that should call
Into the compass of distinct regard

The toils and struggles of thy infant years!
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
To the perception of this Age, appear
Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued
And quieted in character, the strife,
The pride, the fury uncontrollable,

Lost on the aërial heights of the Crusades!*

* The tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady during the absence of her Lord in Palestine.

XI.

ROB ROY'S GRAVE.

The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small pinfoldike burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance which the traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland.

A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a thief as good,
An outlaw of as daring mood;
She has her brave Roв ROY!

Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chant a passing stave,
In honor of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong; -
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy

Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things

He sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, "What need of books? Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind;

And worse, against ourselves.

"We have a passion, — make a law, Too false to guide us or control! And for the law itself we fight

66

In bitterness of soul.

And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose Distinctions that are plain and few: These find I graven on my heart : That tells me what to do.

"The creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.

"For why?-because the good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan,

That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can.

"A lesson that is quickly learned,

A signal this which all can see!
Thus nothing here provokes the strong
To wanton cruelty.