Wheel round the' eternal poles; and bend the knee
To Him the Maker of yon starry sky,
Omnipotent! who thron'd above all heavens,
Yet ever present through the peopled 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 through ten thousand worlds.
Nor shall the Muse forget thy friendly heart,
O Lælius! 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,
Humorous 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 votaries 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 the' 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, the' 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 through the dreary courts
Of high Lochleven Castle, famous once,
The' 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 through 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 through the empty halls,
And piecemeal crumble down the towers to dust.
Perhaps in some lone, dreary, desert tow'r,
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 towering hopes are gone,
And every appetite, before him, dead.
Bright shines the morn, while in the ruddy east
The sun hangs hovering o'er the' 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 the' indented grass;
At every fall it springs, and thundering shoots
O'er rocks and precipices to the plain.-
And let the shepherd careful tend his flock
Far from the dangerous 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 bare 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 lessening 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 Percy and the gallant Douglas bled;
The house of heroes, and the death of hosts!
Watering 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 produce 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 towering smoke of early fire ascends,
And the shrill cock proclaims the' 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, 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 flowery 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 evening 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.
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