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The blackbird and the speckled thrush

Good-morrow gave from brake and bush:

In answer cooed the cushat dove Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.

[From The Lady of the Late.] A SCENE IN THE HIGHLANDS.

The western waves of ebbing day
Rolled o'er the glen their level way;
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire,
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravines below,
Where twined the path in shadow

Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splintered pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass,
Huge as the tower which builders

Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.
The rocky summit, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seemed fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,
Wild crests as pagod ever decked
Or mosque of Eastern architect.
Nor were these earth-born castles

Nor lacked they many a banner fair; For, from their shivered brows displayed,

Far o'er the unfathomable glade, Al l twinkling with the dewdrops sheen,

The brier-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,

Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.

Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child,

Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower;

Fox-glove and night-shade, side by


Emblems of punishment and pride, Grouped their dark hues with every stain

The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath,

Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung
His shattered trunk, and frequent

Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high,

His boughs athwart the narrowed sky.

Highest of all, where white peaks glanced.

Where glist'ning streamers waved

and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might


The scenery of a fairy dream.

[From The Lady of the Lake.]

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent

had slightly tinged her cheek with

brown, — The sportive toil, which, short and


Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow; What though no rule of courtly grace

To measured mood had trained her pace, —

A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;

Even the slight harebell raised its head,

Elastic from her airy tread;

What though upon her speech there hung

The accents of her mountain

tongue, — Those silver sounds so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear!

[from The Lady of the Lake.]

Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than

heaven: And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and


A tear so limpid and so meek,
It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!

[From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.]


If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

When the cold light's uncertain shower

Streams on the ruined central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately.

Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to

live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead

man's grave, Then go — but go alone the while — Then view St. David's ruined pile; And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair!

[From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.]

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;

In war he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the

And men below, and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

True love's the gift which God has given

To man alone beneath the heaven;
It is not fantasy's hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted

It liveth not in fierce desire.
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to

In body and in soul can bind.

[From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.]

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand!

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his

name, [claim; Boundless his wealth as wish can Despite those titles, power and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he


Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

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