And Tiber, and each brook and rill For Thou, upon a hundred streams, A gracious welcome shall be thine, Dreams treasured up from early days, The holy and the tender. And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer, Did no responsive harp, no pen, Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us? Nor deem that localized Romance Ah, no! the visions of the past Life as she is, our changeful Life, With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day By the "last Minstrel," (not the last!) Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream! Well pleased that future Bards should chant And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine! II. ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTS FORD, FOR NAPLES. A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, III. A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. PART fenced by man, part by a rugged steep That curbs a foaming brook, a Graveyard lies; The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep; Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes, Enter in dance. Of church, or Sabbath ties, IV. ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. SAY, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills,- And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills Aught that more surely by its aspect fills Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers. V. COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM. THE wind is now thy organist; -a clank (We know not whence) ministers for a bell To mark some change of service. As the swell Of music reached its height, and even when sank The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN! to a blank Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof, Pillars, and arches, not in vain time-proof, Tho' Christian rites be wanting! From what bank Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown, Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown? Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green grown, Copy their beauty more and more, and preach, Though mute, of all things blending into one. VI. THE TROSACHS. THERE's not a nook within this solemn Pass, Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, |