Time in all changes can but iterate

The morn and eve, the noontime and the night,
The spring's fresh promise and the autumnal fruit,
The leaves of summer and the winter's snow.
And human story still repeats itself,—

The form may differ, but the soul remains.

Four hundred years ago, when thou wert built,
Men err'd and suffer'd ;-Truth and Falsehood waged
One with the other their perpetual war ;-

And Justice and Injustice, Right and Wrong,

Succumb'd and triumph'd as they do to-day.

The young heart loved with passionate earnestness,
The old heart scorn'd all follies but its own;
And Joy and Sorrow-Jealousy-Revenge-
Lusty Ambition-skulking Avarice-
Patience and Zeal-and persecuting Rage-
Pity and Hope-and Charity and Love-
All good and evil passions of the mind,
Brighten'd or darken'd-oh, thou mouldering wall!
Through all the landscape of Humanity.

Couldst thou divulge whatever thou hast seen,
Thou couldst but call these spirits from the Past
To read us lessons.-Ancient Tower! thy voice
Need not instruct us; for we look around
On highways or on byways of our life,
And find no sorrow of the ancient days
Unparallel'd in ours; no love sublime,
No patient and heroic tenderness,
No strong endurance in adversity,
No womanly or manly grace of mind,
That we could not, if every truth were known,
Match with its fellow in our later days.
So keep, old Tower, thy secrets to thyself!
There's not a hovel in the crowded town,
That could not tell us tomes of histories
Of good and evil, wonderful as thine.

KILRAVOCK, NAIRNSHIRE.

LAMENT OF CONA* FOR THE UNPEOPLING OF THE
HIGHLANDS.

I.

Low o'er Ben Nevis, the mists of the sunrise are trailing,
Dimly he stands, by the tempests of centuries worn;

Lonely Lochaber and grey Ballachulish are veiling

Their cold jagged peaks in the thick drooping vapours of morn:

* Cona is the name given by Ossian to the River Coe, and one that ought to supersede the modern word.

Red gleams the sun o'er the ocean,
Lochlin with angry commotion

Batters the shore, making moan in its innermost caves;
While from each mountain height,

Fed by the rains of night,

Torrents come bounding to mingle their voice with the waves.

II.

On through Glen Cona, the valley of murder and rapine,
Dark with the crimes and the sorrows of days that are past;
On by the track where the three giant sphinxes of Appin
Loom through the moorland, unshapely, majestic, and vast ;
On by the turbulent river,

Darting the spray from her quiver,
Bounding and rolling in glory and beauty along;
On by the rocky path,

Far through the gloomy strath,

Lonely I wander by Cona, the river of song.

III.

Cona! sad Cona! I hear the loud psalm of thy sorrow;
Weird are thy melodies, filling with music the glen;
Dark is the day of the people, and shall no to-morrow
Gleaming with brightness bring joy to these true-hearted men?
Not for the past and its sadness,
Not for its guilt and its madness,

Mourn we, oh Cona! To-day has a grief of its own.
Forth go the young and old,

Forth go the free and bold,

Albyn is desolate! Rachael of nations! Alone!

Roll

IV.

on, ye dark mists, and take shape as ye marshal before me, One is among you-I see her, dejected and pale!

Mournful she glides; it is Cona, who hov'ring over me,
Chaunts in the roar of the stream her lament for the Gael.
Words from her echoes are fashion'd

Surging like pibrochs impassion'd;

Mourning for Scotland-and sobbing her useless appeals;
Sprite of the mountain stream,

Telling a truth-or dream!-
Reason is in it-come, hear what the spirit reveals!

V.

'Weep, Albyn, weep!' she exclaims, 'for this dark desolation,
Green are thy mountains and blue are thy streams as of yore;
Broad are thy valleys to feed and to nurture a nation,
Mother of nations, but nation thyself never more!

Men of strong heart and endeavour

Sigh as they leave thee for ever;

Those who remain are down-stricken, and weary, and few;
Low in the dust they lie,

Careless to live or die;

Misery conquers them ;-foemen could never subdue!

VI.

"Once thou wert home of a people of heroes and sages;
Strong in the battle and wise in the counsel were they,
Firm in all duty, as rocks in the tempests of ages
Loving and loyal, and honest and open as day.
Pure were their actions in story,

Clear was the light of their glory,

Proud were the chiefs of the clansmen who came to their call,
Proud of their race and laws,

Proud of their country's cause,
Proud of their faith, of their liberty prouder than all.

VII.

'Each Highland hut was the home of domestic affection;
Honour and Industry sat at the hearth of the poor;
Piety prompted the day's and the night's genuflexion;
Those who felt sorrow could still be erect and endure.
Born in no bright summer bowers,

Sweet were the fair human flowers

Maids of the Highlands, array'd in their glory of smiles;
Blessings of good men's lives,
Thrifty and sober wives,

Mothers of heroes, the charm and the pride of the Isles.

VIII.

'Where are they now? Tell us where are thy sons and thy daughters ?
Albyn! sad mother! no more in thy bosom they dwell!
Far, far away, they have found a new home o'er the waters,
Yearning for thee with a love that no language can tell.
Cold are the hearths of their childhood,

Roofless their huts in the wildwood,

Bends the red heather no more to the feet of the clan;
Where once the clachan stood,

Come the shy grouse and brood,
Fearing no danger so far from the presence of man.

ΙΧ.

"Where the fair-headed, blue-eyed rosy babes of the Norland
Bathed in the burn, making merry the long summer noon,
Comes the red-deer undismay'd from his haunts in the moorland,
Slaking his thirst, where the pool shows its breast to the moon,
Where in the days long departed,
Maidens sat singing, light-hearted,

Sounds but the roar of the flood, or the whisper of rills;
Voices of human kind,

Freight not the vacant wind,

Music and laughter are mute on the tenantless hills.

X.

'Nimrods and hunters are lords of the mount and the forest,
Men but encumber the soil where their forefathers trod;
Though for their country they fought when its need was the sorest,
Forth they must wander, their hope not in man, but in God.

Roaming alone o'er the heather,
Naught but the bleat of the wether,

The bark of the collie, or crack of the grouse-slayer's gun,
Breaks on the lonely ear,

Land of the sheep and deer!

Albyn of heroes! the day of thy glory is done!'

XI.

Cona! sad Cona! I hear the loud psalm of thy sorrow,
Weird are thy melodies filling with music the glen;
Dark is the day of the people, and shall no to-morrow,
Gleaming with brightness, bring joy to these desolate men?
Yes; but not here shall they find it;

Darkness has darkness behind it;

Far o'er the rolling Atlantic the day-star shall shine;
Young o'er the Western main

Albyn shall bloom again,

Rearing new blossoms, old land! as majestic as thine.

THE VISIONS OF MICHAEL SCOTT, THE WIZARD.

AN ODE FOR THE WALTER SCOTT CENTENARY.

EDINBURGH, August 15, 1871.

I.

I, MICHAEL SCOTT, endow'd with power to see
Up the dark vistas of futurity,

And through the veil that shrouds the bygone time,
With all its sorrow, suffering, and crime,

Behold two visions open on my sight-
Hazy and dim the one, the second bright
With all the purpling hues of life and light.

II.

I see the days that were-
e-the days that are-
Darken'd by rapine, cruelty, and war;

When over all this beauteous mountain land

Fraud and oppression rule with iron hand.

When the weak fall, the victims of the strong,

When right is crush'd by the aggressive wrong,
And good men groan-Oh Lord, our God, how long?'

III.

Because I'm wise-alas! my wisdom's light
Is but a taper glimmering in the night;
They call me wizard, who, with wicked skill,
Cleft into three the peak of Eildon Hill-
Dream that I blight the harvests of the plain,
Control the summer sun or spring-time rain,
And rouse or calm the tempests of the main.

IV.

They deem I study in a magic book,
That I can maim or slay by word or look,
And call the unwilling lightning from the skies,
Ridden by fiends, to blast mine enemies.

Poor fools! they know not, and 'tis vain to tell,
Sunk in the depths of darkness where they dwell,

That knowledge comes from Heaven, and not from Hell.

V.

Fade from my sight! go back into the past
Ye mournful days wherein my lot is cast!
And let my glad and grateful eyes behold,
Of the new Morn the crimson and the gold,
When Knowledge, like the ripening rain, shall fall
Impartial on the great and on the small,
Cheering, adorning, and sustaining all."

VI.

When true Religion's holy light shall shine,
And every child shall read the Book Divine--
And wakening Science in her second birth
Shall turn her piercing eyes o'er Heaven and Earth,
And work more magic with her wondrous hand,
In one short day, o'er all the happy land,
Than Fancy ever dream'd or wisdom plann'd.

VII.

Amid the dawning splendour, growing clear,
Shall the true Wizard and true sage appear,
In the great light of whose meridian prime,
Benignant, joyous, tender, and sublime,
All other lights that e'er our Scotland knew,
Great as they were, the many or the few,
Shall seem but torches flickering in the blue.

VIII.

Lo! from the vast recesses of his brain
Emerge the mighty dead to live again ;

He waves his hand, and, lo! they act their parts,

And open wide the portals of their hearts.

Their loves and hates, their inmost hopes and fears,

All that ennobles, touches, and endears,

Their grief or joy, their laughter or their tears.

IX.

Through glen and strath he walks in generous pride,
And fills with life the lonely mountain side,

Peoples the lucent Loch or craggy Ben

With lovely women and great-hearted men,