Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen, On airy upland, and by forest rills, And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills His sky-born warblings-does aught meet your ken More fit to animate the Poet's pen, Aught that more surely by its aspect fills Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours V. COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM. [WE were detained by incessant rain and storm at the small inn near Roslin Chapel, and I passed a great part of the day pacing to and fro in this beautiful structure, which, though not used for public service, is not allowed to go to ruin. Here, this Sonnet was composed. If it has at all done justice to the feeling which the place and the storm raging without inspired, I was as a prisoner. A painter delineating the interior of the chapel and its minute features under such circumstances would have, no doubt, found his time agreeably shortened. But the movements of the mind must be more free while dealing with words than with lines and colours; such at least was then and has been on many other occasions my belief, and, as it is allotted to few to follow both arts with success, I am grateful to my own calling for this and a thousand other recommendations which are denied to that of the painter.] THE wind is now thy organist ;—a clank The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN! to a blank Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown? Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown, Copy their beauty more and more, and preach, Though mute, of all things blending into one. VI. THE TROSACHS. [As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first seen the Trosachs in her and Coleridge's company. The sentiment that runs through this Sonnet was natural to the season in which I again saw this beautiful spot; but this and some other sonnets that follow were coloured by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he was going.] THERE's not a nook within this solemn Pass, Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass (October's workmanship to rival May) VII. THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute; Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy; Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should range Among the conquests of civility, Survives imagination-to the change Superior? Help to virtue does she give? If not, O Mortals, better cease to live! VIII. COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE. ["THAT make the Patriot spirit." It was mortifying to have frequent occasions to observe the bitter hatred of the lower orders of the Highlanders to their superiors; love of country seemed to have passed into its opposite. Emigration was the only relief looked to with hope.] "THIS Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls, The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide IX. EAGLES. COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY OF OBAN. "THE last I saw was on the wing," off the promontory of Fairhead, county of Antrim. I mention this because, though my tour in Ireland with Mr. Marshall and his son was made many years ago, this allusion to the eagle is the only image supplied by it to the poetry I have since written. We travelled through that country in October, and to the shortness of the days and the speed with which we travelled (in a carriage and four) may be ascribed this want of notices, in my verse, of a country so interesting. The deficiency I am somewhat ashamed of, and it is the more remarkable as contrasted with my Scotch and Continental tours, of which are to be found in these volumes so many memorials.] DISHONOURED Rock and Ruin! that, by law Such was this Prisoner once; and, when his plumes |