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'Tis moro : from these I turn my sight;
What scene is this which meets the eye? A numerous crowd, array'd in white, *
Across the green in numbers ily. Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
'Tis hush'd—what sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the listening ear. To this is joined the sacred song,
The royal minstreľs hallow'd strain;
Will never wish to hear again.
Even as a band of raw beginners;
To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his Psalms had ne'er descended
In furious mood he would have tore 'em. The luckless Israelites, when taken,
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
On Babylonian river's border,
Inspired by stratagem or fear,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.
The deuce a soul will stay to read ; My pen is blunt, my ink is low
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires !
No more, like Cleofas, I fly;
The reader's tired, and so am I.
On a Saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.
LACHIN Y. GAIR.
Lachin y. Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Gaelic, 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 early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas :
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses !
let the minions of luxury rove;
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Round their white summits though elements war;
Ab! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; *
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade.
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
•Shades of the dead! bave I not heard
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?"
And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Winter presides in his cold icy car;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
This word is erro usly pronounced 'plad;" the proper pronunciation, according to the Scotch, is shown by the orthography.
Ill starr'd,* though brave, did no visions foreboding
that Fate had forsaken your cause ??
Victory crowu'd not your fall with applause:
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar;t
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr!
Years have rolld on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again;
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
To one who has roved on the mountains afar;
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr !
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys!
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
I break the fetters of my youth ;
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
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, datghter of James I. of Scotland; by her he left four sous : the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitora.
+ Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not certain ; but, as maay fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, 'pars ptg tota,
A tact of the Highlands so called; there is also a castle of Braemar. | The bagpipe,
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
And all assume a varied hue;
And even Woman's smiles are true.
And must we own thee but a name,
Aud from thy hall of clouds descend;
A Pylades* in every friend;
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
And friends have feeling for themselves ?
With shame I own I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er,
No more on fancied pinions soar.
And think that eye to Truth was dear-
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
Romance ! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I ny,
And sickly Sensibility;
For any pangs excepting thine;
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
It is hardly necessary to add that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments which, in all probability, never eristed beyond the imagination of the poet, the page of an historian, or modern povelista
Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
To mourn a swain for ever gone,
But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;
With fancied fames and frenzy glow;
A postate from your gentle train ?
From you a sympathetic strain.
Adieu ! fond race, a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
Where, unlamented, you must lie:
Convulsed by gales you cannot weather,
Alas! must perish altogether.
CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 'I cannot but remember such things were, and were most dear to me.'