See Hoy’s Old Man, whose summit bare Pierces the dark-blue fields of air, Based in the sea, his fearful form Glooms like the spirit of the storm, An ocean Babel, rent and worn By time and tide—all wild and lorn— A giant that hath warred with heaven, Whose ruined scalp seems thunder-riven, Whose form the misty spray doth shroud, Whose head the dark and hovering cloud, Around his dread and lowering mass, In sailing swarms the sea-fowl pass, But when the night-cloud o’er the sea Hangs like a sable canopy, And when the flying storm doth scourge Around his base the rushing surge, Swift to his airy clefts they soar, And sleep amidst the tempest’s roar, Or with its howling round his peak Mingle their drear and dreamy shriek. The dying day has had its rest Upon the mountain’s lofty crest; Now, o’er the ocean it has fled, And to the past is gathered; From stunted shrubs of foliage bared The farewell melodies are heard; The twilight spreads a duskier veil Upon the deep and lonely dale, And, moaning to the evening star, The mountain stream is heard afar. The twilight fades and night again Claims from our time her portioned reign; Earth sets, and leaves us to admire Yon vaulted canopy of fire, Those burning glories of the sky, Those “sparks of immortality,” Which shed from high their living light, And blaze through the blue depths of night.... At such an hour, should music stray Soft from some isle, far, far away, It seems to charm to silent sleep The murmurs of the mighty deep; The torrent, as it speeds along, Stills its dark waters to the song, And the full bosom feels relief, Soothed by the mystic “joy of grief;” Upon the heart-chords stealing slow, It hallows every cherished woe, And wakes sensations in the mind, Wild, beautiful, and undefined, As tones that harp-strings give the wind. Oh! at such soul-inspiring strain The wondrous links of memory’s chain, Though scattered far, unite again, And Time and Distance strive in vain. Again Youth’s fairy visions pass In morning glow o’er Memory’s glass, At every magic melting fall They come like echoes to their call, And with the dreams of vanished years Steal forth again our smiles and tears. JOHN MALCOLM. SCENES FROM “THE BUCCANEER.” Night.