THE DUKE'S RETREAT.

FAREWELL the city's dust and din,

The laboured pomp, the splendid rattle,

The war without, the fret within,

The ceaseless tug of selfish battle!

I'll toss no more on seas of strife:

But, drifting to a lonely shore,

I'll slip into a peaceful life

Beneath the shade of dark Ben More.

Green is Ben Tealladh's steepy side,

And soft the plash of waters sounding, Where fair Loch Baa outspreads her pride, With fringe of leafy trees surrounding : There would I lie in careless ease,

Stretched on the green and grassy shore, And nurse mild musings to the breeze That pipes around the dark Ben More.

What though the dress of state be far-
Vain show to shallow thought appealing-
The crown, the coronet, and star-

The bait that lures the vulgar feeling!
Here, of all cumbrous trappings bare,
I wisely use my native store

Of happy thoughts and fancies fair
Beneath the shade of dark Ben More.

The brae, the billow, and the breeze,
Feed Meditation's quiet rapture;
Or from the scriptured rock at ease
I spell Creation's natal chapter.
The white mist folds its gentle wings

Around the green hill's summit hoar,

And all the power of growing things

Breathes fragrance down from huge Ben More.

And when I wish to rouse the brain

From Contemplation's dreamy pillow,

I strive with artful fly to gain

The speckled swimmer from the billow.

And in my rocking boat I sit,

With busy wand and lazy oar,

While shadows o'er the dark waves flit

From the broad brow of huge Ben More.

Or, where the stag climbs there climb I,
And where the noon-day cloud floats lightly,
Number the green isles as they lie

On the broad ocean glancing brightly;
And note Iona's sacred strand,

Where Erin's venturous saint of yore,

With prayerful heart and sleepless hand,
Tamed the wild Heathens of Ben More.

And when the black squall from the hills
Bristles the soft lake to a Fury,

And down the steep the gathered rills,
Swelled to a torrent, madly hurry;

Then round the cheerly blazing fire
Flies the quick jest and merry roar,

The louder for the tempest's ire

That frowns on us from dark Ben More.

And thus I woo my Autumn ease,

From intrigue far, and wordy squabble Of men, who vainly fret to please

The whim of the unreasoned rabble. From courts and kings and camps aloof, Upon a mountain-girdled shore,

I lurk beneath a lowly roof

At the green base of dark Ben More.

SONNETS.

I.

BEN TEALLADH.

As sits a queen among her maids, so thou,

Ben Tealladh, mid thy cirque of subject hills, Crowned not with mortal gold, but on thy brow With deathless verdure fresh from sky-born rills. Thou fairest vestal of the Western isles,

Hath no bard yet linked thee to famous lays; And was it left for me to wander miles

And mar thy beauty with imperfect praise? Come from your dim abodes, all men who pine In grimy chambers and dark inky dens,

And look, and love this Queen of verdurous Bens!

Trust me, the primal father of our line

Saw no such Ben, from Eden's flowery girth,

To feed his eyes with wonder at his birth.