And with a magic key unlocks the gate
Of Time's dark temple, where he sits elate,
And lights it up again, in all its state.

X.

He takes a lowly maiden from the field,*
And on her brow-no more to be conceal'd
While Scotland stands, firm rooted in the sea-
Places a crown of virtuous modesty,
Brighter and nobler in its simple sheen
Than any diadem of king or queen

That ever glitter'd since a king hath been.

XI.

Where'er he goes men venerate his name,
Remotest lands re-echo with his fame,

And his own Scotland, wild and bleak and bare,
Robed in the light he destined it to wear,
Becomes the jewel of the northern seas,
Where throng the pilgrims and the devotees,
As to a shrine of holiest mysteries.

XII.

Then, from the world, his daily magic wrought,
He hies him home, and shaking off his thought,
Ploughs in his fields or plants the darling ground,
Or from his princely hand throws largess round
To all who need; or sitting by the fire
Becomes the tender husband and the sire-
A good plain man to love and to admire.

XIII.

Alas! alas! on that majestic head

Gather the storms-the lightning bolt is spedBillows of sorrow surge on every side

With whitening crests to overwhelm his pride.

But he, in native dignity of soul,

Rises erect, and sighs, Let God control;
Duty's my fate, my pathway, and my goal.'

XIV.

He sees not, feels not, fenced with courage in,
How fierce the conflict which he may not win;
But fights the fight, defiant to the last,
As firm as Staffa in the northern blast,
And like its wondrous cave-Titanic piled-
Receives the raging waters undefiled,
Or answers back with music weird and wild.

* Jeanie Deans, in the 'Heart of Mid Lothian,

XV.

The end is hidden; but I hear the cry
As of a mother when her children die-
'Tis Scotland weeping for her noblest son,
His heart at rest, his race of glory run.
Let her lament! she may not hope to see,
In all the countless ages yet to be,
Another son so great and good as he.

XVI.

The sorrow passes like the tearful mist
In a May morning, when the sun hath kiss'd
The mountain tops, and Scotland lifts her head,
Weeping no longer for her glorious dead,
And shouts aloud from rugged shore to shore-
"The light remains, though not the hand that bore,
And in my heart shall shine for evermore.'

EGERIA,

OR

THE SPIRIT OF NATRUE. 1850.

CANTO I.-THE SEASHORE.

UPON the lonely margin of the sea,

Whose crested waves beat hoarsely on the shore,
Warring against it with perpetual feud,

Sat Julian, young and fair, but full of woe.
His calm blue eyes were turn'd upon the deep,
Looking, not seeing: all his thought, self-poised,
Seem'd centred in untold calamity.

Beside him stood another, more mature,
But youthful still, and in his early prime,
With sun-brown skin, full eyes, and ruddy cheeks,
An open front, and light thick-clustering hair.
‘Julian,' he said, 'why dwells upon thy brow
This settled grief? Art thou not young? and rich?
And strong? and healthful?-with a host of friends?
Hast thou not everything the world can give?
All that the heart can crave, or sense desire?
Hast thou not intellect, and power, and fame,
And heavenly opportunity of growth?
And yet, from day to day, and night to night,
Thou sittest moping o'er ideal griefs ;-
A moony idiot were not worse than thou.'

'Ay, thou mayst talk and lecture, Montague!

I've run some round of pleasure in my time;
I've seen and heard, and studied and explored,

Examined, delved, weigh'd, suffer'd, thought, enjoy'd;
Tried every pleasure, tasted every pain,
And, like King Solomon, with deep disgust,
I can but cry, "Oh, empty Vanity!

Oh, sharp vexation! mockery! despair!"'

A loud, long laugh was Montague's response;
But still the other kept his moody mien,
And look'd so woe-begone and sick of heart,
His friend took pity on his misery,
And spake him kindly:-'Julian,

thou art ill.
It is not natural a man should brood
Ever on sorrow, where no sorrow dwells.
Perchance thy busy brain is overwrought

With mental toil:-come, give thy heart a turn-
Thy heart, thy limbs, thy morals, and thy life.
Leave books and study, systems, dogmas, creeds,
Divines, philosophers, historians, bards :-
Pamphlets, blue-books, and leading-articles.
Leave the economists, oh, leave them all,
Until some surer science than they teach,
Of social justice, shall dispel their doubts,
And lead them to the light from utter dark.
And, worse than all, leave metaphysic lore,
Which sinks thee floundering in chaotic glooms,
Till thou art dubious of the Universe,
And of thy little self as part of it,

Leave them awhile, and let's go hunt, or shoot,
Or swim, or climb the hills, or give a feast,
Or dance with Beauty in the glittering ball;—
Or travel into Iceland, or to Ind,

Or through the desert to the Pyramids,
Or over Andean heights; or, if thou wilt,
To San Francisco and the golden land.'

'I like thee, Montague, but I am sad.
I've lost my faith, my courage, and my hope,
And often doubt if Evil or if Good

Made and upholds this wretched Universe.

The earth is foul, the o'er-arching skies are black, When I behold the misery and wrong,

The crimes and follies of humanity.'

'Mere moony madness, Julian; throw it off,

Nor vilify the world, thyself, and God.'

'Not so; for I have look'd into my heart, And in its mirror I have seen-myself: Myself, not worst of all the crawling things That desecrate the innocent lap of earth; And what I saw I've wept and shudder'd at. A blight is on me. I am young in years, But old before my time with deep disgust At mine ownself-at Man-at Heaven-at Fate.'

A pretty bridegroom, Julian, thou wouldst make, Brimful of warring doubts and phantasies. My sister shall not wed misanthropy ; I will persuade her to uproot her love, And pluck it from the tendrils of her heart, Unless her bridegroom shall grow sane again,

And love all humankind for sake of her.
Why, 'twas but yestermorn thou swor'st an oath,
That Ellen's love was paradise to win,

And thou hadst won it. Julian, be a man,
And cease this whooping, hideous as an owl's;
Come, I will be thy doctor in this case,
And cure thee for the credit of my craft.'

'Tell thy fair sister, Montague, her love
Exalts me to myself, and her to heaven.
Tell her I love her as beseems a man,
With heart and soul, and stedfast purity;
And that since time began, and earth was earth,
Was never woman more beloved than she:
Were she estranged, I should be mad indeed,
And life would lose its latest spark of light.'

'If so, I'll cure thee, or my leechcraft fails. Come with me to the fields, and skip, run, leapThe breath of heaven shall waft thee quietude, The breeze of morn bear healing to thy brain, The voice of Nature speak to thee of peace, And with perpetual comfort, ever new, Free thy sad spirit from the evil thoughts That dim the lovely world, and poison air With cancerous blotches. Julian, be advised, And I will make thee whole. Hark! in the sky The lark sings merrily, the river brawls, Running its happy journey to the sea. The doves are cooing on the forest boughs, The sunlight streams upon the distant hillsAll Nature smiles in innocence and joy: The very wind that sports amid the leaves Whispers the loveliness of Earth and Life.'

'Ay, of the earth,' he said, 'but not of man;
The vain, capricious, sanguinary fool,
Who makes his gods in likeness of himself,
And peoples heaven with base divinities-
Creatures of lust impure, and savage guile.-
Ah! were the world a world of little babes,
That never ripen'd into full-grown men,
I might confess the heavenliness of earth,
And see the vision of a paradise!

But time and change brew evil out of good,
And of the innocent suckling make a man,
And of the man a thing that cheats and lies,
And kills his fellows for religious hate.
Have I not, Montague-say, have not I
Essay'd to teach this base and sordid age
The heavenly truths it knows not? Have not I
Endeavour'd to instil the sense of Right,
Of Mercy, Justice, Charity, and Truth,