Of superstition, and tyrannic sway Spirit of TELL! and art thou doom'd to see Possess'd the snow-pil'd ramparts of the land; Down like an avalanche (20) they roll'd, they crush'd The temple, palace, cottage, every work Winding adown the rock-hewn paths that wont Of solitudes, perhaps a little group Of aged men, and orphan boys, and maids No more, as dies the rustling of the breeze, His country to the SWITZER's heart, delights O SCOTLAND! can'st thou for a moment brook The mere imagination, that a fate Like this can e'er be thine, that o'er those hills, And dear-bought vales, whence WALLACE, DOUGLAS, BRUCE, Repell❜d proud EDWARD'S multitudinous hordes, Thy shore rush, rush into the dashing brine, And crest each wave with steel; and should the stamp Of slavery's footstep violate the strand, BUT truce with war, at best a dismal theme,-. Thrice happy he who, far in Scottish glen Retir'd, (yet ready at his country's call,) Has left the restless emmet-hill of man! He never longs to read the sadd'ning tale Of endless wars; and seldom does he hear The tale of woe; and ere it reaches him, Rumour, so loud when new, has died away Into a whisper, on the memory borne Of casual traveller :-As on the deep, Far from the sight of land, when all around O SCOTLAND! much I love thy tranquil dales; But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight, Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs; Or when the simple service ends, to hear The lifted latch, and mark the gray-hair'd man, The father and the priest, walk forth alone Into his garden-plat or little field, To commune with his God in secret prayer,— To bless the Lord, that in his downward years His children are about him: sweet meantime, |