PHAROS LOQUITUR.*

FAR in the bosom of the deep,
O'er these wild shelves my watch I
keep,

A ruddy gem of changeful light,
Bound on the dusky brow of night,
The seaman bids my lustre hail,
And scorns to strike his timorous sail.

whirlwinds toss

The storm-rocked cradle of the Cape of Noss;

On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine slides,

1 His own strong arm the bold adventurer guides,

*"On the 30th July, 1814. Mr. Hamilton,1 Mr. Erskine, and Mr. Duff,3 Commissioners, along with Mr. (now Sir) Walter Scott, and the writer, visited the Lighthouse; the Commissioners being then on one of their voyages of Inspection, noticed in the Introduction. They breakfasted in the Library, when Sir Walter, at the entreaty of the party, upon inscribing his name in the Album, added these interesting lines."-STEVENSON'S Account of

And he that lists such desperate feat

to try,

May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt surf and sky,

And feel the mid-air gales around him blow,

And see the billows rage five hundred feet below.

Here, by each stormy peak and desert shore,

The hardy isleman tugs the daring oar, Practised alike his venturous course to keep

Through the white breakers or the pathless deep,

By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain A wretched pittance from the niggard main.

And when the worn-out drudge old ocean leaves,

What comfort greets him, and what hut receives?

Lady! the worst your presence ere has

cheer'd

Wild round their rifted brows, with frequent cry

As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly, And from their sable base, with sullen sound,

In sheets of whitening foam the waves rebound.

Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain

From those whose land has known

oppression's chain ;

For here the industrious Dutchman comes once more

To moor his fishing craft by Bressay's shore ;

Greets every former mate and brother tar,

Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of war,

Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done,

And ends by blessing God and Wellington.

Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest,

1

Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest;

Proves each wild frolic that in wine has birth,

And wakes the land with brawls and boisterous mirth.

A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow

The captive Norseman sits in silent woe,

And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow.

Hard fate of war, which bade her

In vain-no Islesman now can use the tongue

Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage sprung.

Not thus of old the Norsemen hither came,

Won by the love of danger or of fame: On every storm-beat cape a shapeless tower

Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their power;

For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian land,

Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand;

A race severe-the isle and ocean lords, Loved for its own delight the strife of swords;

With scornful laugh the mortal pang defied,

And blest their gods that they in battle died.

Why should I talk of Mousa's castled coast?

Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost?

May not these bald disjointed lines suffice,

Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling dice

While down the cabinskylight lessening shine

The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families of the name in Fife and elsewhere, claim no kindred with the great clan of the

He question'd the folks who beheld it with eves,

But they differ'd confoundedly as to its size.

For instance, the modest and diffident

swore

That it seem'd like the keel of a ship, and no more

Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy more high,

Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean and sky-

But all of the hulk had a steady opinion That 't was sure a live subject of Nep

tune's dominion

And I think, my Lord Duke, your
Grace hardly would wish
To cumber your house, such a kettle of
fish.

Had your order related to night-caps or hose,

Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those.

Or would you be pleased but to fancy a whale?

And direct me to send it-by sea or by inail?

The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still

I could get you one fit for the lake at Bowhill.

Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to be thrifty,

Since one day last fortnight two hundred and fifty,

Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats

and no more,

Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were

drawn on the shore! You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight;

I own that I did not, but easily might, For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay

On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the bay,

And the islemen of Sanda were all at the spoil,

ferent.

to boil;

And shalt thou then sleep, did the Minstrel exclaim,

CLEUCH, DRUMLANRIG CASTLE,

Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 30, 1817. FROM ROSS, where the clouds on Ben

lomond are sleepingFrom Greenock, where Clyde to the Ocean is sweeping

From Largs, where the Scotch gave the Northmen a drilling

From Ardrossan, whose harbour cost many a shilling

by fame?

No, son of Fitzgerald! in accents of

woe

The song thou hast loved o'er thy coffi shall flow,

And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail

That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.

hard as a plank, sir

From a chop and green pease, and a chicken in Sanquhar, This eve, please the Fates, at Drumlanrig we anchor. W. S.

presentative of his illustrious house. He wit a nobleman of extraordinary talents, who mus have nude for himself a lasting reputation by the paintul natural infirmities alluded to it had not his political exertions been checked the fourth stanza.-See Life of Scott,