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Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,

Each mountain's rugged lineaments are

traced

Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic

The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm,

As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.

How deep the hush! the torrent's channel, dry,

Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. But, hark, a plaintive sound floating along!

'Tis from yon heath-roof'd shielin'; now it dies

Away, now rises full; it is the song Which He,-who listens to the halleluiahs

Of choiring Seraphim,- delights to hear;

It is the music of the heart, the voice

Of venerable age,-of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicker-door. Behold the
man!

THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD.

How calm that little lake! no breath of wind

Sighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it

seems,

Held in the concave of the inverted sky,In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing

Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails

Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood!

Fearless of harm, they row their easy way; The water-lily, 'neath the plumy prows, Dips, re-appearing in their dimpled track. Yet, even amid that scene of peace, the noise

Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes. Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs,

Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in ;

Quick he descries the prey; and faster swims,

And eager barks; the harmless flock, dismay'd,

The grandsire and the saint; his silvery Hasten to gain the thickest grove of reeds, locks

Beam in the parting ray: before him lies,

Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book,

His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight!

While, heedless, at his side, the lisping boy

Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.

All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait

To lure the foe, and lead him from their young;

But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore.

Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden

storm

Arrests their flight; they, fluttering, bleeding fall,

And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.

Hogg's poems under the title of the Mountain Bard; and also a treatise on sheep. By these publications he obtained the (to him) large sum of £300, and he rushed into farming on a scale ten times beyond his means, having leased two farms in Dumfriesshire, at rents far beyond their value. The consequence was, that in less than three years he was again penniless, and in debt.

In these circumstances he tried to obtain a captaincy in the militia, and a situation in the excise, but failed in both, and again fell back upon his pen. He published a collection of songs, containing a large proportion of his own early pieces, under the title of the Forest Minstrel, and dedicated it to the Countess of Dalkeith. The handsome gift of one hundred guineas from his patroness was the only profit that it brought him. His next venture was a weekly newspaper, The Spy, which lived about twelve months, leaving him in a state of financial exhaustion.

When his fortune was about its lowest, in consequence of the failure of his various schemes, he, in 1813, astonished the world by his Queen's Wake, a production for which no one would have given him credit, but which places his right to the title of poet beyond dispute. It is in every way a remarkable poem, or rather a garland of varied poetic gems gracefully strung together, and was at once recognised as such. Although the plan of it is taken from Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, yet the application and the execution are so original, that this in no way detracts from the merits of Hogg's genius, and the fact almost never intrudes itself on

the reader's notice. The story of Kilmeny is invariably selected as the masterpiece of the work; but, while fully alive to its charm as a production of the imagination, and its musical sweetness of language, and allowing for a certain dimness of outline as appropriate to the morbid sentiment of which it is the embodiment, we cannot overlook the confusion and want of perspective that pervade it, nor can we grant that indistinctness of outline enhances the beauty of even SO purely ideal a clime of the imagination as that in which the scene of Kilmeny is laid. It also contains some descriptive incongruities, and the affectation of the ancient spelling is an absurdity that almost gives it a serio-comic air. "Fate of Macgregor," similarly founded on superstitious sentiment, though inferior in imaginative breadth, has not, in our estimation, the blemishes which mar Kilmeny." It is in every way equal to Campbell's "Lochiel's Warning," which appeared about ten years earlier.

The

Hogg's next venture was The Poetic Mirror, intended as a collection of the poems of living bards. Scott refused to contribute, and this caused a temporary estrangement between the poets. He then issued Dramatic Tales, and The Brownie of Bodsbeck, &c. In 1820, he received a life-lease of the farm of Altrive from the Duke of Buccleuch, at a nominal rent, and on settling here he married. But his passion for farm ventures could not be overcome while he had the means of gratifying it, and with his wife's and his own means he took a lease of, and stocked the farm of Mount

Yet dear the symbols to his eye,
Memorials of a time gone by.

The bard on Ettrick's mountains green
In nature's bosom nursed had been,

And oft had mark'd, in forest lone,
Her beauties on her mountain throne;

Benger. The usual results followed. In 1821, he completed his Jacobite Relics, and, in 1822, received two hundred pounds for a select volume of his best poems. Besides these publications, he contributed to Blackwood's Magazine. His last poem was "Queen Hynde," | Had seen her deck the wild wood-tree, which appeared in 1826. He died in | And star with snowy gems the lea; 1835, and was buried in the churchyard In loveliest colours paint the plain, of Ettrick. Twenty years after his And sow the moor with purple grain. death, his widow received a govern- By golden mead and mountain sheer, Had view'd the Ettrick waving clear, ment pension of £100 a-year; and in Where shadowy flocks of purest snow 1860, a monument was erected to his Seem'd grazing in a world below. memory overlooking St Mary's Loch.

Hogg has been compared with Ramsay; but except in the possession of a ludicrous Goldsmithian egotism which amused without offending, they are contrasts rather than counterparts, Ramsay being a shrewd and economic, almost unimpassioned man of business, while Hogg was the very reverse. Perhaps the best portrait of him is his own Bard of Ettrick in the Queen's Wake.

THE BARD OF ETTRICK.

The next was named-the very sound
Excited merriment around :
But when the bard himself appear'd,
The ladies smiled, the courtiers sneer'd;
For such a simple air and mien
Before a court had never been.
A clown he was, bred in the wild,
And late from native moors exiled,
In hopes his mellow mountain strain
High favour from the great would gain.
Poor wight! he never ween'd how hard
For poverty to earn regard!
Dejection o'er his visage ran,
His coat was bare, his colour wan,
His forest doublet darn'd and torn,
His shepherd plaid all rent and worn ;

Instead of ocean's billowy pride,
Where monsters play and navies ride,
Oft had he view'd, as morning rose,
The bosom of the lonely Lowes,

Plough'd far by many a downy keel,
Of wild-duck and of vagrant teal.
Oft thrill'd his heart at close of even,
To see the dappled vales of heaven,

With many a mountain, moor, and tree,
Asleep upon the Saint Mary.
The pilot swan majestic wind,
With all his cygnet fleet behind.

So softly sail, and swiftly row,
With sable oar, and silken prow.
Instead of war's unhallow'd form,
His eye had seen the thunderstorm
Descend within the mountain's brim,
And shroud him in its chambers grim;
Then from its bowels burst amain
The sheeted flame and sounding rain,
And by the bolts in thunder borne,
The heaven's own breast and mountain
torn.

The wild-roe from the forest driven;
The oaks of ages peel'd and riven;
Impending oceans whirl and boil,
Convulsed by nature's grand turmoil.

Instead of arms or golden crest,
His harp with mimic flowers was drest ;

Around, in graceful streamers, fell
The brier rose and the heather bell;
And there, his learning deep to prove,
Nature donum graved above.
When o'er her mellow notes he ran,
And his wild mountain chant began ;
Then first was noted in his eye
A gleam of native energy.

THE FATE OF MACGREGOR.

Macgregor, Macgregor, remember
our foemen;

The moon rises broad from the brow of
Ben-Lomond ;

The clans are impatient, and chide thy
delay;

Arise! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away."

Stern scowled the Macgregor; then, silent and sullen,

And do what it freezes my vitals to

say.

Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind;

Thou knowest in the strife I was never be-
hind,

Nor ever receded a foot from the van,
Or blenched at the ire or the prowess of

man.

But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and by all,

An oath which I cannot, and dare not recall,

Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from
the pile,

To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-
Gyle.

"Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone,

I called to remembrance some deeds I had done,

When entered a lady, with visage so wan, He turned his red eye to the braes of And looks such as never were fastened

Strathfillan;

"Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be

dismissed;

on man.

I knew her, O brother! I knew her full well!

The Campbells this night for Macgregor Of that once fair dame such a tale I could

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As would thrill thy bold heart: but how long she remained,

So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained,

I knew not-but ages seemed short to the while.

Though proffer'd the Highlands, nay, all the green isle,

With length of existence no man can enjoy,

"The Campbell may come, as his The same to endure, the dread proffer promises bind him,

And haughty M'Nab, with his giants be- The thrice-threaten'd pangs of last night hind him:

I'd fly!

to forego,

below.

This night I am bound to relinquish the Macgregor would dive to the mansions

fray,

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This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue;

Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart'sblood will glue :

Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing,

When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring."

Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night,

Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light:

It faded-it darkened-he shuddered-he sighed,

"No! not for the universe!" low he replied.

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone;

To watch the dread rendezvous Malcolm has gone.

They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene !

And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene!

O'er mountains inverted, the blue waters curled,

And rocked them on skies of a far nether world.

All silent they went, for the time was approaching:

The moon the blue zenith already was

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When the lions of Dochart stood firm by A skiff sailing light, where a lady did

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