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Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot In Nysa's isle, the embellished Grot;

Whither, by care of Lybian Jove,

(High Servant of paternal Love)
Young Bacchus was conveyed- to lie
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye;
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,
Close-crowding round the Infant God;

All colours, and the liveliest streak

A foil to his celestial cheek!




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How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,

All over his dear Country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty."


LORD of the Vale! astounding Flood!
The dullest leaf, in this thick wood,
Quakes-conscious of thy power;

The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates, to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented Tower!

And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;

Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.

Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee-delight to rove

Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the Patriot-warrior's Shade,
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!

Along thy banks, at dead of night,
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,

Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A Champion worthy of the Stream,
Yon grey tower's living crest!

But clouds and envious darkness hide

A Form not doubtfully descried :

Their transient mission o'er,

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say to what blind region flee These Shapes of awful phantasy? To what untrodden shore?

Less than divine command they spurn;

But this we from the mountains learn,

And this the valleys show,

That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe,

The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian Plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom,

That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood sublime Leonidas,
Devoted to the tomb.

Nor deem that it can aught avail

For such to glide with oar or sail

Beneath the piny wood,

Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake,

His vengeful shafts-prepared to slake Their thirst in Tyrants' blood!



(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.)

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 gray Rocks; this household Lawn ;
These 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 ye do seem

Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such Forms as from their covert peep

When earthly cares are laid asleep!

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