And even to Staffa's echoing caves
The large, uneasy, western waves
Came beating quietly;
Starless and moonless was the night,
And on the waters lay,
Like silence palpable to sight,

Thick wreaths of vapour gray.

II.

Far in the west, 'mid rain and mist,
Upon the deep afloat,
Without an oar, without a sail,

Came down a little boat:
Amid the mazes of the isles
By hands unseen propell'd,

By frowning scaur, through whirlpool roar,

Its noiseless way it held; Like a shadow gliding, dark and slow, Unwitting how the winds might blow.

III.

And at the stern, with downcast eyes,
And hands upon his breast,

There sat the figure of a man,
Serene, like one possess'd

And still the figure, heeding nought, Sat silent, gather'd in his thought.

VI.

Behind the boat, the waters shone
With phosphorescent light—
Slow from the keel, like glancing steel,
The waves fell off, all night.
At length, far looming through the mist
That now from heaven upclear'd,
Iona, sepulchre of kings,

The holy isle, appear'd—

The Culdee's bower, the place of graves, The fair green 'island of the waves.'

VII.

The moon, new risen, look'd forth from heaven,

And purpled every height,

And waves upheaved their silvery sides, Rejoicing in the light—

And mountain tops, with radiance touch'd,

Look'd placidly below,

As onwards to Iona's isle

The boat went gliding slow;

sorb'd

All faculties combined,

So that his sight, to left nor right, Ne'er wander'd from his mind,

Nor his ear heard the murmur low Of waters cleaving at the prow.

IV.

Leaning upon the staff he bore.

VIII.

A long loose mantle wrapp'd his limbs,
A cowl conceal'd his head;

And meek yet lordly was his look,
And solemn was his tread.

afar

The dim horizon streaks;

By Skye, where lordly Cuillens rear
Their high fantastic peaks;
By Ronan and her sister isle;
By Coll and green Tiree;
And by the giant crags of Mull
That frown upon the sea;
By Ulva's isle and Fingal's cave,
Palace and wonder of the wave;-

V.

Still on-still on-till morning dawn
The boat pursued its way:
Still on-still on-till night, slow-drawn,
Through sleet and vapour gray,
It held its course amid the Isles,
Nor stopp'd by night or day;

A pale and shadowy band, Barefoot, bareheaded, holding each A taper in his hand,

Came in long line from Oran's shrine, And gather'd on the strand.

IX.

No word was said, no sign was made,-
Spectres all pale and wan,
With earthward looks-'mid silence
deep-

Their noiseless march began.
And slow they follow'd where he led;
And, moved as by a blast,
The doors of St Columba's kirk

Flew open as they pass'd, And show'd the lights on roof and wall Lit up for solemn festival.

And in a stream of light,

A halo round his aged head,
And robed in dazzling white—

While yet the summer smiles, Alone, within his spectral boat,

The circuit of the isles ;

And monks and abbots, thanes and kings,
From vault and charnel start,
Disburied, in the rite to bear
Their dim, allotted part,
And crave, upon their bended knees,
A blessing on the Hebrides.

THE 'DREAM,' BY BEAULY,
ROSS-SHIRE.

[The high banks of the Beauly, near Kilmo

rack, in Ross-shire, are covered with birchtrees, ascending to a great height, with occasionally rocks, fir-plantations, and mountain-paths to vary the scene; and the river foaming and breaking into numerous falls below. This magnificent tract, which extends about three miles, is termed 'the Dream,' a name that seems to harmonize with the wild beauty of the landscape. The true orthography, however, is the Druim, signifying, in the Gaelic language, a ridge.-The Highland Notebook, by R. CARRUTHERS.]

I.

IN Lomond's isles the rowans grow,
In sweet Glennant the lintocks tarry,
And grand is Cruachan by Loch Awe,
And bonny are the birks of Garry.
Beloved spots!-yet dearer far,

And cherish'd in my heart more truly, Are sweet Kilmorack's lingering falls, The lovely 'Dream' and banks of Beauly.

II.

The joyous river runs its course, Now dark and deep, now clear and shallow;

And high on either side the rocks
Rise, crown'd with mosses green and
yellow;

And birks, the damsels of the wood,'
So slim and delicately shaded,
Stand in the clefts, and look below,
With graceful forms and tresses
braided.

III.

And rowans flourish on the heights, With scarlet bunches thickly studded, And brambles, heavy-laden, trail

Their luscious berries purple-blooded; And on the bosom of the hills,

Wooing the bees, the modest heather Waves to the wind its hardy bells,

And blossoms in the wildest weather.