For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you,—and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;
your Father's name will make
A snare for you.

And of

Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the quire
That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,
His spirit greet;

Or where, 'mid 'lonely heights and hows,'
He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
Or wiped his honourable brows

Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay

Let faith be given;

Nor deem that 'light which leads astray,
Is light from Heaven.'

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,

And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,
And think, and fear!

[Ir may be worth while to observe that as there are Scotch Poems on this subject in simple ballad strain, I thought it would be both presumptuous and superfluous to attempt treating it in the same way; and, accordingly, I chose a construction of stanza quite new in our language; in fact, the same as that of Bürgher's Leonora, except that the first and third lines do not, in my stanzas, rhyme. At the outset I threw out a classical image to prepare the reader for the style in which I meant to treat the story, and so to preclude all comparison.]

FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate

Upon the braes of Kirtle,

Was lovely as a Grecian maid

Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,

By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble Youth!

For it may be proclaimed with truth,

* The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, on the banks of which the events here related took place.

If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses ?
Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce
He launched a deadly javelin!

Fair Ellen saw it as it came,

And, starting up to meet the same,

Did with her body cover

The Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,

The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.

But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,

This wretched Knight did vainly seek

The death that he was wooing.

So, coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,

And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:

By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn Hic jacet!

VI.

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.).

[THIS delightful creature and her demeanour are particularly
described in my Sister's Journal. The sort of prophecy with
which the verses conclude has, through God's goodness, been
realised; and now, approaching the close of my 73rd year, I
have a most vivid remembrance of her and the beautiful
objects with which she was surrounded. She is alluded to in
the Poem of "The Three Cottage Girls" among my Continental
Memorials. In illustration of this class of poems I have
scarcely anything to say beyond what is anticipated in my
Sister's faithful and admirable Journal.]

SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And these grey rocks; that household lawn;

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay; a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy Abode-
In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such Forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But, O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day, so heavenly bright,
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart;
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall
pray
For thee when I am far away :
For never saw I mien, or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.

Here scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, Thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a Mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;