His only daughter, and his only joy,

I feed my father's flock; and, while they rest,
At times retiring, lose me in the wood,
Skill'd in the virtues of each secret herb
That opes its virgin bosom to the moon.
No flow'r amid the garden fairer grows
Than the sweet lily of the lowly vale,
The Queen of flowers-But sooner might the weed
That blooms and dies, the being of a day,
Presume to match with yonder mountain oak,
That stands the tempest and the bolt of heav'n,
From age to age the monarch of the wood-
O! had you been a shepherd of the dale,
To feed your flock beside me, and to rest
With me at noon in these delightful shades,
I might have listen'd to the voice of love,
Nothing reluctant; might with you have walk'd
Whole summer suns away. At even-tide,
When heav'n and earth in all their glory shine
With the last smiles of the departing sun;
When the sweet breath of summer feasts the sense,
And secret pleasure thrills the heart of man;
We might have walk'd alone, in converse sweet,
Along the quiet vale, and woo'd the moon
To hear the music of true lovers' vows.
But fate forbids, and fortune's potent frown,
And honour, inmate of the noble breast.
Ne'er can this hand in wedlock join with thine.
Cease, beauteous stranger! cease, beloved youth!
To vex a heart that never can be yours."

Thus spoke the maid, deceitful: but her eyes, Beyond the partial purpose of her tongue, Persuasion gain'd. The deep-enamour'd youth Stood gazing on her charms, and all his soul Was lost in love. He grasp'd her trembling hand, And breath'd the softest, the sincerest vows Of love: "O, virgin! fairest of the fair! My one beloved! were the Scottish throne To me transmitted thro' a sceptred line Of ancestors; thou, thou should'st be my queen, And Caledonia's diadems adorn

A fairer head than ever wore a crown."

She redden'd like the morning, under veil Of her own golden hair. The woods among, They wander'd up and down with fond delay, Nor mark'd the fall of ev'ning; parted then, The happiest pair on whom the sun declin'd.

Next day he found her on a flow'ry bank,
Half under shade of willows, by a spring,
The mirror of the swains, that o'er the meads,
Slow-winding, scatter'd flow'rets in its way.
Thro' many a winding walk and alley green,
She led him to her garden. Wonder-struck,
He gaz'd, all eye, o'er the enchanting scene:
And much he prais'd the walks, the groves, the
flow'rs,

Her beautiful creation; much he prais'd
The beautiful creatress; and awak'd

The echo in her praise. Like the first pair,
Adam and Eve, in Eden's blissful bow'rs,
When newly come from their Creator's hand,
Our lovers liv'd in joy. Here, day by day,
In fond endearments, in embraces sweet,
That lovers only know, they liv'd, they lov'd,
And found the paradise that Adam lost.
Nor did the virgin, with false modest pride,
Retard the nuptial morn: she fix'd the day
That bless'd the youth, and open'd to his eyes
An age of gold, the heav'n of happiness
That lovers in their lucid moments dream.

And now the morning, like a rosy bride, Adorned on her day, put on her robes, Her beauteous robes of light: the Naiad streams, Sweet as the cadence of a poet's song, Flow'd down the dale: the voices of the grove, And ev'ry winged warbler of the air,

Sung overhead, and there was joy in heav'n. Ris'n with the dawn, the bride and bridal-maids Stray'd thro' the woods, and o'er the vales, in quest

Of flow'rs and garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs, To strew the bridegroom's way, and deck his bed.

Fair in the bosom of the level lake Rose a green island, cover'd with a spring Of flow'rs perpetual, goodly to the eye, And blooming from afar. High in the midst, Between two fountains, an enchanted tree Grew ever green, and every month renew'd Its blooms and apples of Hesperian gold, Here ev'ry bride (as ancient poets sing) Two golden apples gather'd from the bough, To give the bridegroom in the bed of love, The pledge of nuptial concord and delight For many a coming year. Levina now Had reached the isle with an attendant maid, And pull'd the mystic apples, pull'd the fruit; But wish'd and long'd for the enchanted tree. Not fonder sought the first created fair The fruit forbidden of the mortal tree, The source of human woe. Two plants arose Fair by the mother's side, with fruits and flow'rs In miniature. One, with audacious hand, In evil hour she rooted from the ground. At once the island shook, and shrieks of woe At times were heard, amid the troubled air. Her whole frame shook, the blood forsook her face,

Her knees knock'd, and her heart within her died. Trembling, and pale, and boding woes to come, They seiz'd the boat, and hurried from the isle.

And now they gained the middle of the lake, And saw th' approaching land: now, wild with joy, They row'd, they flew. When lo! at once effus'd, Sent by the angry demon of the isle,

A whirlwind rose: it lash'd the furious lake
To tempest, overturn'd the boat, and sunk

The fair Levina to a wat'ry tomb.

Her sad companions, bending from a rock,
Thrice saw her head, and supplicating hands
Held up to heav'n, and heard the shriek of death:
Then overhead the parting billow clos'd,
And op'd no more. Her fate in mournful lays
The muse relates, and sure each tender maid
For her shall heave the sympathetic sigh,
And haply my Eumelia, (for her soul
Is pity's self,) as, void of household cares,
Her ev'ning walk she bends beside the lake,
Which yet retains her name, shall sadly drop
A tear, in mem'ry of the hapless maid,
And mourn with me the sorrows of the youth,
Whom from his mistress death did not divide.
Robb'd of the calm possession of his mind,
All night he wander'd by the sounding shore,
Long looking o'er the lake, and saw at times
The dear, the dreary ghost of her he lov'd;
Till love and grief subdu'd his manly prime,
And brought his youth with sorrow to the grave.

I knew an aged swain, whose hoary head Was bent with years, the village-chronicle, Who much had seen, and from the former times Much had receiv'd. He, hanging o'er the hearth In winter ev'nings, to the gaping swains, And children circling round the fire, would tell Stories of old, and tales of other times. Of Lomond and Levina he would talk; And how of old, in Britain's evil days, When brothers against brothers drew the sword Of civil rage, the hostile hand of war Ravag'd the land, gave cities to the sword, And all the country to devouring fire. Then these fair forests and Elysian scenes, In one great conflagration, flamed to heav'n. Barren and black, by swift degrees arose A muirish fen; and hence the lab'ring hind, Digging for fuel, meets the mould'ring trunks Of oaks, and branchy antlers of the deer.

Now sober Industry, illustrious power! Hath rais'd the peaceful cottage, calm abode Of innocence and joy: now, sweating, guides The shining ploughshare; tames the stubborn soil; Leads the long drain along th' unfertile marsh; Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom, The haunt of flocks; and clothes the barren heath With waving harvests, and the golden grain.

Fair from his hand behold the village rise, In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees! Above whose aged tops the joyful swains At even-tide, descending from the hill, With eye enamour'd, mark the many wreaths Of pillar'd smoke, high-curling to the clouds. The street resounds with Labour's various voice, Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair, Trip nimble-footed, wanton in their play,

The village hope. All in a rev'rend row,
Their gray-hair'd grandsires, sitting in the sun
Before the gate, and leaning on the staff,
The well-remember'd stories of their youth
Recount, and shake their aged locks with joy.

How fair a prospect rises to the eye, Where beauty vies in all her vernal forms, For ever pleasant, and for ever new! Swells the exulting thought, expands the soul, Drowning each ruder care: blooming train Of bright ideas rushes on the mind. Imagination rouses at the scene, And backward, through the gloom of ages past, Beholds Arcadia, like a rural queen, Encircled with her swains and rosy nymphs, The mazy dance conducting on the green. Nor yield to old Arcadia's blissful vales Thine, gentle Leven! green on either hand Thy meadows spread, unbroken of the plough, With beauty all their own. Thy fields rejoice With all the riches of the golden year. Fat on the plain and mountain's sunny side, Large droves of oxen, and the fleecy flocks, Feed undisturb'd, and fill the echoing air With music, grateful to the master's ear. The trav'ller stops, and gazes round and round O'er all the scenes, that animate his heart With mirth and music. Even the mendicant, Bowbent with age, that on the old gray stone, Sole sitting, suns him in the public way, Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings.

How beautiful around the lake outspreads
Its wealth of waters, the surrounding vales
Renews, and holds a mirror to the sky,
Perpetual fed by many sister-streams,
Haunts of the angler! First, the gulfy Po,
That thro' the quaking marsh and waving reeds
Creeps slow and silent on. The rapid Queech,
Whose foaming torrents o'er the broken steep
Burst down impetuous, with the placid wave
Of flow'ry Leven, for the canine pike
And silver eel renown'd. But chief thy stream,
O! Gairny, sweetly winding, claims the song.
First on thy banks the Doric reed I tun'd,
Stretch'd on the verdant grass; while twilight
meek,

Enrob'd in mist, slow-sailing thro' the air,
Silent and still, on ev'ry closed flow'r
Shed drops nectareous; and around the fields
No noise was heard, save where the whisp'ring
reeds

Wav'd to the breeze, or in the dusky air
The slow-wing'd crane mov'd heav'ly o'er the lea,
And shrilly clamour'd as he sought his nest.
There would I sit and tune some youthful lay,
Or watch the motion of the living fires,
That day and night their never-ceasing course
Wheel round th' eternal poles, and bend the kuce
To him the Maker of yon starry sky,

Omnipotent! who, thron'd above all heav'ns,
Yet ever present through the peopl'd space
Of vast creation's infinite extent,

Pours life, and bliss, and beauty, pours himself,
His own essential goodness, o'er the minds
Of happy beings, thro' ten thousand worlds.

Nor shall the muse forget thy friendly heart, O Lelius! partner of my youthful hours; How often, rising from the bed of peace, We would walk forth to meet the summer morn, Inhaling health and harmony of mind; Philosophers and friends; while science beam'd, With ray divine, as lovely on our minds As yonder orient sun, whose welcome light Reveal'd the vernal landscape to the view. Yet oft, unbending from more serious thought, Much of the looser follies of mankind,

Hum'rous and gay, we'd talk, and much would laugh;

While, ever and anon, their foibles vain
Imagination offer'd to our view.

Fronting where Gairny pours his silent urn Into the lake, an island lifts its head, Grassy and wild, with ancient ruin heap'd Of cells; where from the noisy world retir'd Of old, as fame reports, Religion dwelt Safe from the insults of the darken'd crowd That bow'd the knee to Odin; and in times Of ignorance, when Caledonia's sons (Before the triple-crowned giant fell) Exchang'd their simple faith for Rome's deceits. Here Superstition for her cloister'd sons A dwelling rear'd, with many an arched vault; Where her pale vot'ries at the midnight hour, In many a mournful strain of melancholy, Chanted their orisons to the cold moon. It now resounds with the wild-shrieking gull, The crested lapwing, and the clamorous mew, The patient heron, and the bittern dull, Deep-sounding in the base, with all the tribe That by the water seek th' appointed meal.

From hence the shepherd in the fenced fold, 'Tis said, has heard strange sounds, and music wild;

Such as in Selma, by the burning oak
Of hero fallen, or of battle lost,
Warn'd Fingal's mighty son, from trembling

chords

Of untouch'd harp, self-sounding in the night.
Perhaps th' afflicted Genius of the lake,
That leaves the wat'ry grot, each night to mourn
The waste of time, his desolated isles
And temples in the dust: his plaintive voice
Is heard resounding thro' the dreary courts
Of high Lochleven Castle, famous once,
Th' abode of heroes of the Bruce's line;
Gothic the pile, and high the solid walls,
With warlike ramparts, and the strong defence

Of jutting battlements, an age's toil!
No more its arches echo to the noise
Of joy and festive mirth. No more the glance
Of blazing taper thro' its windows beams,
And quivers on the undulating wave:
But naked stand the melancholy walls,
Lash'd by the wintry tempests, cold and bleak,
That whistle mournful thro' the empty halls,
And piecemeal crumble down the tow'rs to dust.
Perhaps in some lone, dreary, desert tower,
That time has spar'd, forth from the window looks,
Half hid in grass, the solitary fox;

While from above the owl, musician dire!
Screams hideous, harsh, and grating to the ear.

Equal in age, and sharers of its fate,

A row of moss-grown trees around it stand.
Scarce here and there, upon their blasted tops,
A shrivell'd leaf distinguishes the year;
Emblem of hoary age, the eve of life,
When man draws nigh his everlasting home,
Within a step of the devouring grave;
When all his views and tow'ring hopes are gone,
And ev'ry appetite before him dead.

Bright shines the morn, while in the ruddy east
The sun hangs hov'ring o'er th' Atlantic wave.
Apart on yonder green hill's sunny side,
Seren'd with all the music of the morn,
Attentive let me sit; while from the rock,
The swains, laborious, roll the limestone huge,
Bounding elastic from th' indented grass,
At every fall it springs, and thund'ring shoots
O'er rocks and precipices to the plain.
And let the shepherd careful tend his flock
Far from the dang'rous steep; nor, O! ye swains,
Stray heedless of its rage. Behold the tears
Yon wretched widow o'er the mangled corpse
Of her dead husband pours, who, hapless man!
Cheerful and strong, went forth at rising morn
To usual toil; but, ere the evening hour,
His sad companions bear him lifeless home.
Urg'd from the hill's high top, with progress swift,
A weighty stone, resistless, rapid came,
Seen by the fated wretch, who stood unmov'd,
Nor turn'd to fly, till flight had been in vain;
When now arriv'd the instrument of death,
And fell'd him to the ground. The thirsty land
Drank up his blood: such was the will of Heav'n.

How wide the landscape opens to the view! Still, as I mount, the less'ning hills decline, Till high above them northern Grampius lifts His hoary head, bending beneath a load Of everlasting snow. O'er southern fields I see the Cheviot Hills, the ancient bounds Of two contending kingdoms. There in fight Brave Piercy and the gallant Douglas bled, The house of heroes, and the death of hosts! Wat'ring the fertile fields, majestic Forth, Full, deep, and wide, rolls placid to the sea,

With many a vessel trim and oared bark
In rich profusion cover'd, wafting o'er
The wealth and product of far-distant lands.

But chief mine eye on the subjected vale Of Leven pleas'd looks down; while o'er the trees, That shield the hamlet with the shade of years, The tow'ring smoke of early fire ascends, And the shrill cock proclaims th' advanced morn.

How blest the man! who, in these peaceful plains,

Ploughs his paternal field; far from the noise,
The care, and bustle of a busy world.

All in the sacred, sweet, sequester'd vale
Of Solitude, the secret primrose-path

Of rural life, he dwells; and with him dwells
Peace and Content, twins of the sylvan shade,
And all the graces of the golden age.
Such is Agricola, the wise, the good,
By nature formed for the calm retreat,
The silent path of life. Learn'd, but not fraught
With self-importance, as the starched fool;
Who challenges respect by solemn face,
By studied accent, and high-sounding phrase.
Enamour'd of the shade, but not morose.
Politeness, rais'd in courts by frigid rules,
With him spontaneous grows. Not books alone,
But man his study, and the better part;
To tread the ways of virtue, and to act
The various scenes of life with God's applause.
Deep in the bottom of the flow'ry vale,
With blooming sallows and the leafy twine
Of verdant alders fenc'd, his dwelling stands
Complete in rural elegance. The door,
By which the poor or pilgrim never pass'd,
Still open, speaks the master's bounteous heart.
There, O! how sweet! amid the fragrant shrubs
At ev'ning cool to sit; while, on their boughs,
The nested songsters twitter o'er their young,
And the hoarse low of folded cattle breaks
The silence, wafted o'er the sleeping lake,
Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge
Of western cloud; while converse sweet deceives
The stealing foot of time. Or where the ground,
Mounded irregular, points out the graves
Of our forefathers, and the hallow'd fane,
Where swains assembling worship, let us walk,
In softly-soothing melancholy thought,
As Night's seraphic bard, immortal Young,
Or sweet-complaining Gray; there see the goal
Of human life, where drooping, faint, and tir'd,
Oft miss'd the prize, the weary racer rests.

Thus sung the youth, amid unfertile wilds And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground! Far from his friends he stray'd, recording thus The dear remembrance of his native fields, To cheer the tedious night; while slow disease Prey'd on his pining vitals, and the blasts Of dark December shook his humble cot.

SIR JAMES THE ROSS.1

Of all the Scottish noern chiefs
Of high and mighty name,
The bravest was Sir James the Ross,
A knight of meikle fame.

His growth was like a youthful oak,

That crowns the mountain's brow; And, waving o'er his shoulders broad, His locks of yellow flew.

Wide were his fields, his herds were large;
And large his flocks of sheep;
And num'rous were his goats and deer
Upon the mountains steep.

The chieftain of the good clan Ross,
A firm and warlike band:
Five hundred warriors drew the sword
Beneath his high command.

In bloody fight thrice had he stood
Against the English keen,

Ere two-and-twenty opening springs
The blooming youth had seen.
The fair Matilda dear he loved,

A maid of beauty rare;
Even Margaret on the Scottish throne
Was never half so fair.

Long had he woo'd; long she refused With seeming scorn and pride; Yet oft her eyes confess'd the love Her fearful words denied.

At length she bless'd his well-tried love,
Allow'd his tender claim:

She vow'd to him her virgin heart,
And own'd an equal flame.

Her father, Buchan's cruel lord,
Their passion disapproved;
He bade her wed Sir John the Graeme,
And leave the youth she loved.

One night they met, as they were wont,
Deep in a shady wood;

Where on the bank, beside the burn,
A blooming saugh-tree stood.

Conceal'd among the underwood
The crafty Donald lay,

The brother of Sir John the Graeme,
To watch what they might say.

"Sir James the Ross" is, for so young a poet, a most admirable composition, and contains all the attributes of the historical ballad.-William Wilson,