F

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s

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r,

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Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,

Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er,-
Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,-
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,-

O smile among the shades, for this is fame!

Lines written in the Highlands after a Visit to
Burns's Country.

THERE is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,

Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;

There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have

been,

Where mantles grey have rustled by and swept the nettles green;

There is a joy in every spot made known by times of

old,

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New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be

told;

There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart, More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,

When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant

turf,

Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron

scurf,

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Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born
One who was great through mortal days, and died of

fame unshorn.

Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far

away;

Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,-the Sun may hear his lay;

Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows

clear,

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But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear;

Blood-red the Sun may set behind black mountain.

peaks;

Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy creeks;

Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air;
Ring-doves may fly convuls'd across to some high-cedar'd

lair;

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But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground, As Palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath

found.

At such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain;

Forgotten is the worldly heart-alone, it beats in vain.Aye, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful

day

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To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first began decay,

He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forth

To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent North! Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of

care,

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Beyond the sweet and bitter world,-beyond it unaware! Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stay Would bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way:

O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember'd face,

Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow-constant to every

place;

Filling the air, as on we move, with portraiture

intense;

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More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's

sense,

When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old, Locks shining black, hair scanty grey, and passions

manifold.

No, no, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's length Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its strength :

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One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall,
But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial :—
He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he
may sit down

Upon rough marble diadem-that hill's eternal crown.
Yet be his anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a

prayer

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That man may never lose his mind on mountains black

and bare;

That he may stray league after league some great birthplace to find

And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.

THE GADFLY.

I.

ALL gentle folks who owe a grudge

To any living thing

Open your ears and stay your t[r]udge
Whilst I in dudgeon sing.

2.

The Gadfly he hath stung me sore—

O may he ne'er sting you! But we have many a horrid bore He may sting black and blue.

3.

Has any here an old grey Mare
With three legs all her store,
O put it to her Buttocks bare
And straight she'll run on four.

4.

Has any here a Lawyer suit

Of 1743,

Take Lawyer's nose and put it to't And you the end will see.

5.

Is there a Man in Parliament
Dum[b-]founder'd in his speech,
O let his neighbour make a rent
And put one in his breech,

6.

O Lowther how much better thou

Hadst figur'd t'other day

When to the folks thou mad'st a bow

And hadst no more to say

7.

If lucky Gadfly had but ta'en

His seat

And put thee to a little pain

To save thee from a worse.

8.

Better than Southey it had been,

Better than Mr. D

Better than Wordsworth too, I ween,

Better than Mr. V

9.

Forgive me pray good people all

For deviating so

In spirit sure I had a call-
And now I on will go.

IO.

Has any here a daughter fair
Too fond of reading novels,
Too apt to fall in love with care
And charming Mister Lovels,

II.

O put a Gadfly to that thing
She keeps so white and pert-
I mean the finger for the ring,
And it will breed a wort.

12.

Has any here a pious spouse

Who seven times a day

Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse And have her holy way

13.

O let a Gadfly's little sting
Persuade her sacred tongue

That noises are a common thing,
But that her bell has rung.