One day, thou may’st remember well, For short the time since it befel, When o’er thy forest–bowers of oak, The eddying storm in darkness broke; Loud sung the blast adown the dell, And Yarrow lent her treble swell; The mountain’s form grew more sublime, Wrapt in its wreaths of rolling rime; And Newark Cairn, in hoary shroud, Appear’d like giant o’er the cloud: The eve fell dark, and grimly scowl’d, Loud and more loud the tempest howl’d; Without was turmoil, waste, and din, The kelpie’s cry was in the linn, But all was love and peace within! And aye, between, the melting strain Pour’d from thy woodland harp amain, Which, mixing with the storm around, Gave a wild cadence to the sound. That mingled scene, in every part, Hath so impressed thy shepherd’s heart, With glowing feelings, kindling bright Some filial visions of delight, That almost border upon pain, And he would hear those strains again. They brought delusions not to last, Blending the future with the past; Dreams of fair stems, in foliage new, Of flowers that spring where others grew Of beauty ne’er to be outdone, And stars that rise when sets the sun; The patriarchal days of yore, The mountain music heard no more, With all the scene before his eyes, A family’s and a nation’s ties— Bonds which the Heavens alone can rend, With Chief, with Father, and with Friend. No wonder that such scene refin’d Should dwell on rude enthusiast’s mind! Strange his reverse!—He little wist— Poor inmate of the cloud and mist! That ever he, as friend, should claim The proudest Caledonian name. J. H. ELTRIVE LAKE, _April 1st, 1818_. THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. CHAPTER I. “It will be a bloody night in Gemsop this,” said Walter of Chapelhope, as he sat one evening by the side of his little parlour fire, and wrung the rim of his wet bonnet into the grate. His wife sat by his side, airing a pair of clean hosen for her husband, to replace his wet ones. She looked stedfastly in his face, but uttered not a word;—it was one of those looks that cannot be described, but it bespoke the height of curiosity, mingled with a kind of indefinite terror. She loved and respected her husband, and sometimes was wont to teaze or cajole him from his purpose; but one glance of his eye, or scowl of his eyebrow, was a sufficient admonition to her when she ventured to use such freedom.