Langhorn arrived from Southern dale,

And chimed his notes on Yarrow vale,

They would not, could not, touch the heart; His was the modish lyre of art.

Sweet rung the harp to Logan's hand:

Then Leyden came from Border land,
With dauntless heart and ardour high,
And wild impatience in his eye.

Though false his tones at times might be,
Though wild notes marred the symphony
Between, the glowing measure stole
That spoke the bard's inspired soul.

Sad were those strains, when hymned afar,

On the green vales of Malabar:

O'er seas beneath the golden morn,

They travelled on the monsoon borne,
Thrilling the heart of Indian maid,
Beneath the wild banana's shade.-
Leyden! a shepherd wails thy fate,
And Scotland knows her loss too late.

The sacred relic met his view

Ah! well the pledge of Heaven he knew! He screwed the chords, he tried a strain; 'Twas wild-he tuned and tried again, Then poured the numbers bold and free, The ancient magic melody.

The land was charmed to list his lays; It knew the harp of ancient days. The Border chiefs, that long had been In sepulchres unhearsed and green, Passed from their mouldy vaults away, In armour red and stern array,

And by their moonlight halls were seen,

In visor helm, and habergeon.

Even fairies sought our land again,

So powerful was the magic strain.

Blest be his generous heart for aye!

He told me where the relic lay;

Pointed my way with ready will,

Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill;

Watched my first notes with curious eye,
And wondered at my minstrelsy:

He little weened a parent's tongue
Such strains had o'er my cradle sung.

O could the bard I loved so long, Reprove my fond aspiring song! Or could his tongue of candour say, That I should throw my harp away! Just when her notes began with skill, To sound beneath the southern hill, And twine around my bosom's core, How could we part for evermore! "Twas kindness all, I cannot blame, For bootless is the minstrel flame; But sure a bard might well have known Another's feelings by his own!

Z

Of change enamoured, woe the while!

He left our mountains, left the isle;

And far to other kingdoms bore

The Caledonian harp of yore;

But, to the hand that framed her true,

Only by force one strain she threw.
That harp he never more shall see,

Unless 'mong Scotland's hills with me.

Now, my loved Harp, a while farewell;

I leave thee on the old

gray thorn;

The evening dews will mar thy swell,

That waked to joy the cheerful morn.

Farewell, sweet soother of my woe!

Chill blows the blast around my head;

And louder yet that blast may blow,

When down this weary vale I've sped.

The wreath lies on Saint Mary's shore;

The mountain sounds are harsh and loud;

The lofty brows of stern Clokmore

Are visored with the moving cloud.

But Winter's deadly hues shall fade

On moorland bald and mountain shaw,

And soon the rainbow's lovely shade

Sleep on the breast of Bowerhope Law;

Then will the glowing suns of spring,
The genial shower and stealing dew,

Wake every forest bird to sing,

And

every mountain flower renew.

But not the rainbow's ample ring,

That spans the glen and mountain grey, Though fanned by western breeze's wing,

And sunned by summer's glowing ray,