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Thick rose the giant vents, that mar

Heaven's lustrous blue domain, And whirling wheel and hissing car

Disturb thy silent reign.

And thou—but what thou yet may'st see

The pious Muse withholds; The curious art be far from me,

To unroll Time's fateful folds.

When Earth, that wheels on viewless wing,

Is twenty centuries older, Some bard, where Scotland was, shall sing

The story of the Boulder.

SOLITUDE.

ALONE, alone, and all alone !

What could more lonely be ? ’Neath the mist-wove pall of a dull grey night, On a treeless shore and bare ;

Nor wind's low sigh,

Nor sea-birds' cry, Stirring the stagnant air ; And only one dim beacon-light

Far-twinkling o'er the sea.

And the wave that raved but yesternight,

So blustering and so wild, Is smooth and faint, and crestless quite, And breaks on the sand as faint and slight

As the whispers of a child. Alone, alone, and all alone,

By the sad and silent sea, On one far-twinkling beacon-light I look out through the dull grey night,

And only God with me!

THE SONG OF THE HIGHLAND RIVER.

DEW-FED am I

With drops from the sky,
Where the white cloud rests on the old grey hill ;

Slowly I creep

Down the precipice steep, Where the snow through the summer lies freezingly still;

Where the wreck of the storm

Lies shattered enorm,

I steal 'neath the stone with a tremulous rill ;

My low-triçkling flow
You may hear, as I

go
Down the sharp-furrowed brow of the old grey hill,

Or drink from my well,

Grass-grown where I dwell, In the clear granite cell of the old grey

hill.

In the hollow of the hill

With

my

waters I fill

The little black tarn where the thin mist floats ;

P

The deep old moss

Slow-oozing I cross, Where the lapwing cries with its long shrill notes Then fiercely I rush to the sharp granite edge, And leap with a bound o'er the old grey ledge ;

Like snow in the gale,

I drive down the vale,
Lashing the rock with my foamy flail ;

Where the black crags frown,

I pour sheer down, Into the caldron boiling and brown; Whirling and eddying there I lie, Where the old hawk wheels, and the blast howls by.

From the treeless brae

green and

All

grey,
To the wooded ravine I wind my way,
Dashing, and foaming, and leaping with glee,
The child of the mountain wild and free.

Under the crag where the stone crop grows,
Fringing with gold my shelvy bed,

Where over my head
Its fruitage of red,

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