“As he gaed owre yon high high hill And doun yon dowie den, There was a roar in Clyde water, Had fear’d a hundred men.” Or that other gentler pathetic touch, where the maiden says— “Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu’ dream I fear there will be sorrow, I dreamed I pu’d the heather green Wi’ my true love, on Yarrow. “O gentle wind, that bloweth south, From where my love repaireth, Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, And tell me how he fareth!” In verses such as these, which abound throughout the popular ballads and songs, we see the outer world, not as it appeared to the highly educated poet, seeking to express it in artistic phrase, but as it showed itself to the eyes and hearts of country-people, living quite familiarly among its sights and sounds. Much more might be said of the natural imagery of the ballads, and of the feeling toward the outer world indicated by it. Suffice it to note that the simplicity and pathos, both of sentiment and of expression, which the ballads contained, entering, with other influences, into the minds of the young generation which first welcomed them, called up another view of Nature than that which the literary poets had expressed, and affected most deeply both the feeling and the form of the new poetry of Nature which this century brought in. OSSIAN. One more poetic influence, born of last century, must be noticed before we close. I mean the Celtic or Ossianic feeling about Nature. I am not going now to discuss whether Macpherson composed the Gaelic poems which still pass for Ossian’s, or whether he only collected songs which had been floated down by tradition from a remote antiquity. Whichever view we take, it cannot be questioned that the appearance of this poetry gave to the English-speaking mind the thrill of a new and strange emotion about mountain scenery. Whether the poetry was old, or the product of last century, it describes, as none other does, the desolation of dusky moors, the solemn brooding of the mists on the mountains, the occasional looking through them of sun by day, of moon and stars by night, the gloom of dark cloudy Bens or cairns, with flashing cataracts, the ocean with its storms as it breaks on the West Highland shores or on the headlands of the Hebrides. Wordsworth, though an unbeliever in Ossian, felt that the fit dwelling for his spirit was “Where rocks are rudely heaped and rent As by a spirit turbulent, Where sights are rough and sounds are wild And everything unreconciled, In some complaining dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet.” And such are the scenes which the Ossianic poetry mainly dwells on. Here is a description of a battle—