XX. AT BALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN. (Supposed to be written by a Friend.) BROKEN in fortune, but in mind entire Intrudes on peace, I pray the Eternal Sire To cast a soul-subduing shade on me, A gray-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee; A shade, but with some sparks of heavenly fire Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note The old Tower's brow yellowed as with the beams Of sunset ever there, albeit streams Of stormy weather-stains that semblance wrought, I thank the silent Monitor, and say, "Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day!" XXI. TYNWALD HILL. ONCE on the top of Tynwald's formal mound * Rushen Abbey. While, compassing the little mound around, It cannot be that Britain's social frame, The glorious work of time and providence, Should fall; that she, whose virtue put to shame, That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone : sweep on, Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume." XXIII. IN THE FRITH OF CLYDE, AILSA CRAG. (During an Eclipse of the Sun, July 17.) SINCE risen from ocean, ocean to defy, Towering above the sea and little ships; Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth of books, XXIV. ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE. (In a Steamboat.) ARRAN! a single-crested Teneriffe, A St. Helena next, - in shape and hue Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue; Who but must covet a cloud-seat, or skiff Built for the air, or wingèd Hippogriff, That he might fly, where no one could pursue, No natural bond between the boldest schemes Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale lies, XXV. ON REVISITING DUNOLLY CASTLE. [See former series, Vol. III. p. 280.] THE captive Bird was gone; to cliff or moor Perchance had flown, delivered by the storm; Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the worm: Him found we not: but, climbing a tall tower, There saw, impaved with rude fidelity Of art mosaic, in a roofless floor, An Eagle with stretched wings, but beamless An Eagle that could neither wail nor soar. Effigy of the vanished, (shall I dare To call thee so?) or symbol of fierce deeds That animate my way where'er it leads! XXVI. THE DUNOLLY EAGLE. NOT to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew ; Look to thy plumage and thy life! — The roe, Eyeing the sea's blue depths. Poor Bird! even so XXVII. WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. OFT have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, Fragments of far-off melodies, With ear not coveting the whole, A part so charmed the pensive soul: |