is stock of knowledge when
he learned that, which way soever the letters of the charms might be
taken, beginning from the lower point and ascending from the left to
the right, they make the same word.

To every one who has read _Loch-na-Garr_, it must be evident that
Byron believed, or wished it to appear that he believed, like the
Highlanders, that the voices of the dead were heard in the storm, that
the souls of departed heroes rode on the wind, and that the dark
clouds encircled the forms of chieftain sires that added lustre to
their country's glory. But the poet shall speak for himself:--

"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war;
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd;
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid:
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-Garr.

'Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?'
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch-na-Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch-na-Garr.

'Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?'
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clans in the caves of Braemar;
The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-Garr.

Years have roll'd on, Loch-na-Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still a