Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;

Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

The heart

-the heart is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boisterous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men

I seek to shun, not hate mankind;

My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, To flee away, and be at rest.*

• "And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove; for thien

WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER.

WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,

And climbed thy steep summit, oh Morven of

To gaze on the torrent that thundered beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gathered below,

Untutored by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, ‡'t was centred in you?

would I fly away, and be at rest."—Psalm lv. 6. This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. * Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. "Gormal of snow," is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.

This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.

[In Byron's Diary for 1813, he says, "I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. How very odd that I should have been so utterly, devotedly fond of that girl, at an age when I could neither feel passion, nor know the meaning of the word. And the effect! My mother used always to rally me about this childish amour; and, at last, many years after, when I was sixteen, she told me one day; 'Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-covered wild : One image alone on my bosom impressed,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were blessed; And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with

you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along;

Edinburgh, from Miss Abercromby, and your old sweetheart, Mary Duff, is married to a Mr. Cockburn.' [Robert Cockburn, Esq. of Edinburgh.] And what was my answer? I really cannot explain or account for my feelings at that moment; but they nearly threw me into convulsions-to the horror of my mother and the astonishment of everybody. And it is a phenomenon in my existence (for I was not eight years old), which has puzzled, and will puzzle me to the latest hour of it.” Again, in January, 1815, a few days after his marriage, in a letter to his friend Captain Hay, the poet thus speaks of his childish attachment::-"Pray tell me more- or as much as you like, of your cousin Mary. I believe I told you our story some years ago, I was twenty-seven a few days ago, and I have never seen her since we were children, and young children too; but I never forget her, nor ever can. You will oblige me with presenting her with my best respects, and all good wishes. It may seem ridiculous but it is at any rate, I hope, not offensive to her nor hers in me to pretend to recollect any thing about her, at so early a period of both our lives, almost, if not quite, in our nurseries; but it was a pleasant dream, which she must pardon me for remembering. Is she pretty still? I have the most perfect idea of her person, as a child; but Time, I suppose, has played the devil with us both."]

I breasted the billows of Dee's* rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-covered couch of repose,

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view; And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanished, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,

And delight but in days I have witnessed before: Ah! splendor has raised, but embittered my lot; More dear were the scenes which my infancy

knew:

Though my hopes may have failed, yet they are not forgot;

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; †
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endeared the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.

The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.

+ Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlan 's, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once

more

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow:

But while these soar above me, unchanged as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me?·
ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, -

Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you?

TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR.

Он! yes,
I will

own we were dear to each other; The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are

true;

The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherished for you.

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;

The attachment of years in a moment expires: Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.

Full oft have we wandered through Ida together, And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow : In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather! But winter's rude tempests are gathering now.