LACHIN Y GAIR.

Lachiny Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain; be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows: near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the carly part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following Stanzas.

AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!

In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;' On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,

As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For Fancy was cheer'd by traditional story

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. "Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car;

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr: "Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding

Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, 3

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause; Still were you happy, in death's early slumber

You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar,4 The Pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you; Years must elapse ere I tread you again; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,

Yet, still, are you dearer than Albion's plain: England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar; Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep-frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!

1 This word is erroneously pronounced plad; the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.

2 I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stewarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stewart, daughter of James the First of Scotland; by her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

3 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, "pars pro toto."

TO ROMANCE.
PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys!
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. And yet, 't is hard to quit the dreams

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Where every nymph a goddess seems,

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; While Fancy holds her boundless reign, And all assume a varied hue, When virgins seem no longer vain,

And even woman's smiles are true. And must we own thee but a name,

And from thy hall of clouds descend; Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pylades in every friend? But leave, at once, thy realms of air,

To mingling bands of fairy elves: Confess that woman's false as fair,

And friends have feelings for-themselves. With shame, I own I've felt thy sway,

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er; No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar: Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,

And think that eye to Truth was dear, To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear. Romance! disgusted with deceit,

Far from thy motley court I fly, Where Affectation holds her seat,

And sickly Sensibility; Whose silly tears can never flow

For any pangs excepting thine; Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine: Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female quire,

To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire,

But bends not now before thy throne. Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears,

On all occasions, swiftly flow; Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,

With fancied flames and phrenzy glow; Say, will you mourn my absent name,

Apostate from your gentle train? An infant Bard, at least, may claim

From you a sympathetic strain.

of Braemar.

5 The Bagpipe.

probability, never existed, beyond the imagination of t poot, the page of a historian, or modern novelist.

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.
At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,

And sable Horror guards the massy door.
Here Desolation holds her dreary court;
What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane.
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans,
Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones,
Loathing' the offering of so dark a death.
The legal Ruler 2 now resumes the helm,

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state: Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, Howling resign their violated nest; Again the master on his tenure dwells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. Vassals within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return; Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,

And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,

The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake: What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake,

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.
Ah! happy days! too happy to endure!
Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure-

Their joys were many, as their cares were few.
From these descending, sons to sires succeed,

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towersThy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep

1 This is a historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers; both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem. 2 Charles II.

Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers-
These, these he views, and views them but to weep
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret,

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow.
Yet, he prefers thee to the gilded domes,

Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great;
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate.
Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine,

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,
And bless thy future as thy former day.

TO E. N. L. ESQ.

Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.
HOR. E.
DEAR L, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye:
Thus, if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,

And interrupt the golden dream;
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,

And still indulge my wonted theme; Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor, through the groves of IDA, chase

Our raptured visions as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.
Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring;
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn,

To sooth its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still, despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,

Si may I rove untutor'd, wild, And even in age at heart a child. Though now on airy visions borne,

To you my soul is still the same, Of has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame. But, bence ye hours of sable hue,

You frowns are gone, my sorrow's o'er; By every bass my childhood knew,

I think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, Weed no more the wintry blast,

Wen lal'd by zephyr to repose.
Fafen has my infant Muse

Armed to love her languid lyre;
But now, without a theme to choose,
The strams in stolen sighs expire;
My younéta nymphs, alas! are flown;
Es a wife, and C― a mother,
And Carina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another;
And Corn's eye, which roll'd on me,

Can now no more my love recall;
hr, dear L, 't was time to flee,
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the sun, with genial rays,
beams alike to all displays,
Aw every acy's eye's a sun,

Theast should be confined to one.
Tso's mendan don't become her
Wise sun displays a general summer.
That is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name :
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The ad which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now paraches all their sparks in night;
Thas has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers,
Wa. the force of love expires,

Erezesh'd with the dying embers. But now, de ar L—, 't is midnight's noon, Ant enuts obscure the watery moon, Waxe beauties I shall not rehearse, Deser hd in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Wara every bard has trod before? Tet, ere yom sliver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Bassince retraced her path of light,

And chand away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend,

see her ruling orbit wend

Ahere the dear-loved peaceful seat
Weece contain'd our youth's retreat;
And then, with those our childhood knew,
T5. range with the festive crew;
We many a tale of former day
Sang the laughing hours away;
Ant all the flow of soul shall pour
The sacred intelectual shower,

Nor cease, tai Luna's waning horn

Scarce gimmers through the mist of Morn.

ΤΟ

OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving;
They know my sins, but do not know

"I was thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure,

And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure,

Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy,

And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet, let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,

"T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,

But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures,
These varied loves, these matron's fears,
These thoughtless strains to passion's measures,

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee.
But now I seek for other joys;

To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet, even in these a thought will steal,

In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,
To know that thou art lost for ever.

STANZAS.

I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark-blue wave. The cumbrous pomp of Saxon 1 pride

Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound!

I hate the touch of servile hands

I hate the slaves that cringe around:

1 Sassenah, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying either Lowland or English.