Shepherd, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, Whate’er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arch’d, and o’erwrought with many a sacred verse, This iron cup chain’d for the general use, And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Were giv’n by FATIMA. Borne hence a bride, ’Twas here she turn’d from her beloved sire, To see his face no more.[1] Oh, if thou canst, (’Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers; And may some pious hand with water fill The two small cells scoop’d in the marble there, That birds may come and drink upon his grave, Making it holy![2] ———— [1] See an anecdote related by Pausanias. iii. 20. [2] A Turkish superstition. See Clarke’s Travels, I. 546. CAPTIVITY. Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake When the hern screams along the distant lake, Her little heart oft flutters to be free, Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key. In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears, Nor mov’d by gold—nor to be mov’d by tears; And terraced walls their black reflection throw On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below. A CHARACTER. As thro’ the hedge-row shade the violet steals, And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals; Her softer charms, but by their influence known, Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own. WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1, 1812. Blue was the loch,[1] the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze Bore me from thy silver sands, Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, Where, grey with age, the dial stands; That dial so well-known to me! —Tho’ many a shadow it had shed, Beloved Sister, since with thee The legend on the stone was read. The fairy-isles fled far away; That with its woods and uplands green, Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen, And songs are heard at close of day; That too, the deer’s wild covert, fled, And that, the Asylum of the Dead: While, as the boat went merrily, Much of ROB ROY[2] the boat-man told; His arm that fell below his knee, His cattle-ford and mountain-hold. Tarbat,[3] thy shore I climb’d at last, And, thy shady region pass’d, Upon another shore I stood, And look’d upon another flood;[4] Great Ocean’s self! (’Tis He, who fills That vast and awful depth of hills;) Where many an elf was playing round, Who treads unshod his classic ground; And speaks, his native rocks among, As FINGAL spoke, and OSSIAN sung. Night fell; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o’er the glimmering waves we flew. The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. And now the grampus, half descried, Black and huge above the tide; The cliffs and promontories there, Front to front, and broad and bare, Each beyond each, with giant-feet Advancing as in haste to meet; The shatter’d fortress, whence the Dane Blew his shrill blast, nor rush’d in vain, Tyrant of the drear domain; All into midnight-shadow sweep— When day springs upward from the deep![5]