s stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd!
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, 195
And the wild blast upheaved the vanish'd sword!
How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!
Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung! 200
Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!
Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!
Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!
Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,
And fills the impassion'd heart, and wins the harmonious ear! 205

XIII.

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail!
Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,
Are by smooth Annan[51] fill'd or pastoral Tay,[51]
Or Don's[51] romantic springs at distance hail!
The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread 210
Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom;
Or, o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led;
Or, o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom!
Then will I dress once more the faded bower,
Where Jonson[52] sat in Drummond's classic shade; 215
Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower,
And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid!
Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains,[53] attend!--
Where'er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor, 220
To him I lose, your kind protection lend,
And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

VARIATIONS.

Ver.
44. Whether thou bidst the well taught hind relate

51. The sturdy clans pour'd forth their bony swarms,

56. Or in the gloom of Uist's dark forest dwells:

58. With their own visions oft afflicted droop,

66. Their bidding mark, and at their beck repair:

100. At those sad hours the wily monster lies;

111. O'er its drowned bank, forbidding all return!

124. His babes shall linger at the cottage gate!

127. With dropping willows drest, his mournful sprite

130. Shall seem to press her cold and shuddering cheek,

133. Proceed, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,

135. Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew,

138. Unbounded is thy range; with varied stile

164. They drain the sainted spring; or, hunger-prest,

193. How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's s