First in the list that night to play,

Was Farquhar, from the hills of Spey :
A gay and comely youth was he,
And seemed of noble pedigree.

Well known to him Loch-Avin's shore,
And all the dens of dark Glen-More;

Where oft, amid his roving clan,

His shaft had pierced the ptarmigan;
And oft the dun-deer's velvet side

That winged shaft had ruthless dyed,
Had struck the heath-cock whirring high,

And brought the eagle from the sky;
And he had dragged the scaly brood
From every Highland lake and flood.

Amid those scenes the youth was bred, Where Nature's eye is stern and dread; 'Mid forests dark, and caverns wild,

And mountains above mountains piled,
Whose hoary summits, tempest-riven,

Uprear eternal snows to heaven.

In Cumbria's dells he too had staid,
Raving like one in trance that's laid,
Of things which Nature gave not birth;
Of heavenly damsels born of earth;
Of pestilence and charnel den;

Of ships, and seas, and souls of men.
A moonstruck youth, by all confest,
The dreamer of the watery West.
His locks were fair as sunny sky;
His cheek was ruddy, bright his eye;
His speech was like the music's voice
Mixed with the cataract's swaying noise;
His harp strings sounded wild and deep,
With lulling swell and lordly sweep.

Aloof from battle's fierce alarms,

Prone his young mind to music's charms.
The cliffs and woods of dark Glen-More
He taught to chant in mystic lore;
For well he weened, by tarn and hill,
Kind viewless spirits wandered still;

And fondly trowed the groups to spy, Listening his cliff-born melody.

On Leven's bard with scorn he looked, His homely song he scarcely brooked; But proudly mounting on the form, Thus sung The Spirit of the Storm.

Glen-Avín.

THE NINTH BARD'S SONG.

Beyond the grizly cliffs, which guard The infant rills of Highland Dee, Where hunter's horn was never heard, Nor bugle of the forest bee;

'Mid wastes that dern and dreary lie, One mountain rears his mighty form, Disturbs the moon in passing bye,

And smiles above the thunder storm.

There Avin spreads her ample deep,

To mirror cliffs that brush the wain; Whose frigid eyes eternal weep,

In summer suns and Autumn rain.

There matin hymn was never sung;
Nor vesper, save the plover's wail;
But mountain eagles breed their young,
And aërial spirits ride the gale.

An hoary sage once lingered there,
Intent to prove some mystic scene;

Though cavern deep, and forest sere,

Had whooped November's boisterous reign.

That noontide fell so stern and still,

The breath of nature seemed away;

The distant sigh of mountain rill

Alone disturbed that solemn day,

Oft had that seer, at break of morn,

Beheld the fahm glide o'er the fell; And 'neath the new moon's silver horn, The fairies dancing in the dell.

Had seen the spirits of the Glen,
In every form that Ossian knew;
And wailings heard for living men,

Were never more the light to view.

But, ah! that dull foreboding day,

He saw what mortal could not bear;

A sight that scared the erne away,

And drove the wild deer from his lair.

Firm in his magic ring he stood,

When, lo! aloft on gray Cairn-Gorm, A form appeared that chilled his blood,— The giant Spirit of the Storm,