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applied to this river; as it is rarely for a moment at rest, from the time it leaves its parent lake, until it joins the Ettrick at Bowhill. The scenery near this lordly mansion of the Buccleuchs, is picturesque in the highest degree. This princely abode, - for it well may be called so, -- stands on a kind of peninsula, formed by the meeting of the waters. The mountains overlooking the Yarrow rise to no great height; but their appearance is greatly enhanced by the tasteful plantations which adorn their sides, and clothe some of them to their utmost tops.

In the lower parts of the valley, the Yarrow may, at times, be seen bounding in gladness, (if aught inanimate can feel that sensation,) over its rocky bed, at times visible, at others hidden from our view; but it will ever be reminding us of its vicinity; like a spoiled child, it appears unwilling to be forgotten, even for a moment, but must continually be forcing itself upon our notice:— if not present to our sight, we can at least hear its brawling at no great distance.

On ascending the stream, we reach the humble cottage in which the interesting but ill-fated Mungo Park was born ; and, a short way farther on, we pass

“Where Newark's stately tower

Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower.” Newark is no longer the scene of feudal hospitality, as in the days of the last minstrel, but now a mouldering ruin, — a time-worn monument of years long departed, and of pride and pomp, which have had an end. The situation of this ruin is exceedingly beautiful; proudly standing on a precipitous bank overhanging the river; and, by its presence, - aside from every recollection of the past, — adding much to the beauty of the surrounding landscape. Here Sir Walter Scott lays the scene of the “ Lay of the Last Minstrel.” But those halls which once rang to the song of the wandering bard, are cold, silent, and deserted; the fire which burned so merrily in the hall has long been extinguished; and Time, the great destroyer of man and the most durable of his works, has here set his seal; and although this hoary pile may, for a course of time, brave the storms of winter and the heat of summer, it shall never more raise its head, as in the days of other years, when its courts resounded to the warrior's shout, or echoed back the song of the minstrel.

A few miles above the ruins of Newark Castle, the scene. ry on the banks of the river undergoes an entire change

and a tree is an object for which we look almost in vain. the character of the scenery bears a strong resemblance to that on the banks of the Ettrick, only the valley of the Yarrow is a little narrower, and the mountains of a darker hue. The Yarrow has its source in St. Mary's Loch, on whose placid bosom, at times, in the words of a truly great poet, the swan may be seen "to float double, swan and shadow ;” but the visits of this majestic bird, are, like those of angels, “ few and far between.”

St. Mary's is hemmed in, on all sides, by lofty mountains. well may the poet exclaim,

“ Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink

At once upon the level brink;
And just a trace of silver sand

Marks where the water meets the land.” Bourhope Law seems to have been born of the waters, and to have sprung from the deep recesses of the lake, rising, as it does, in the most abrupt, yet picturesque manner, from its margin: no appearance of cultivation, unless we except a few solitary patches, breaks in upon the solitude of the scene

“ There's nothing left to fancy's guess,

You see that all is loneliness.” When the surface of the water is unruffled by the breathings of the summer's eve, the surrounding mountains are beautifully shadowed forth, in a manner which art cannot imitate, and to which even the pencil of a Turner could not do justice. The ruins of St. Mary's Chapel no longer give an interest to the landscape; but the tower of Dryhope still remains, recalling us to the days of Mary Scott, the cele. brated Flower of Yarrow. The Lochs of the Lows and St. Mary's are almost one and the same sheet of water; being separated only by a very narrow strip of land; and the description which serves for the one, may well be applied to the other.

Should curiosity lead the traveller farther from the abodes of men into the solitary wilderness, among the dark mountains which frown over the western shores of this lake, he will be gratified by a view of the Gray Mare's Tail, roaring and foaming over a terrific precipice of three hundred feet in height; and, about a mile above this fall, we come upon the dark Loch Skene, lying in a scene of gloomy desolation and

grandeur, unequalled, we believe, by any thing of the same nature in the Highlands of Scotland.

A long course of years has elapsed since this country, whose scenery we have endeavoured to describe, was covered with a dense forest; and although few vestiges of it now remain, it is still known as the Forest of Ettrick. In olden times, when Scotland was an independent kingdom, with a sovereign and a court of her own, Ettrick Forest was the hunting domain of royalty; and here the court frequently assembled to enjoy the heart-stirring amusement of hunting the wild deer with horn and hound. In the words of the ballad we may say, that

“ Ettricke Foreste is the fairest foreste

That evir man saw wi' his e'e;
There's the dae, the rae, the hart, the hynde,

And of wild bestis grete plentie.” But those times are long passed; and although tradition may still point out such localities as the Hart's Loup, or the Cleuch of the Buck, there is not, at this time, a single deer to be seen on the forest mountains. Years have rolled on; and many changes have taken place, since Ettrick and Yarrow heard the bugle of royalty echo along the shores of St. Mary, or among the “dowie dens o’ Yarrow:” the hart no longer roams in uncontrolled freedom, a glorious creature full of life and beauty, on the heath-clad mountains of Ettrick, — he no longer bounds away, tossing his spreading antlers aloft, in mockery of his pursuers ; — but a scene of a more pleasing nature opens on our view. Royalty, and the freaks of royalty, are only remembered in those wilds as among the things which once had a being; and the race who now inhabit those sequestered glens, if not so warlike, are certainly more independent, and, we may add, far more happy than their forefathers. The shepherds who now dwell in those valleys, are generally men highly intelligent, of great simplicity of manners, and of great goodness of heart; having had but little intercourse with the more busy world, they live a virtuous, a contented, and a happy life, and are, at all times, hospitable and kind to strangers. In such a country, and among such a people, it was the fortune, - we may say the good fortune, of the Ettrick Shepherd to be born, and to live for the first forty years of his life.



* Jorasse was in his three-and-twentieth year, -
Graceful and active as a stag just roused,
Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech,
Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up
Among the hunters of the Higher Alps;
Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness,
Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies,
Said to arise, (by those who dwell below,)
From frequent dealings with the mountain-spirits.
But other days had taught him better things;
And now he numbered, - marching by my side, –
The savans, princes, who with him had crossed
The frozen tract, with him familiarly
Through the rough day and rougher night conversed
In many a chalêt + round the Peak of Terror, $
Round Tâcul, Tour, Wellhorn and Rosenlau,
And Her, whose throne is inaccessible, ||
Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin majesty,
Nor oft unveils. Anon, an avalanche
Rolled its long thunder; and a sudden crash,
Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear
Told that far-down a continent of Ice
Had burst in twain. But he had now begun;
And with what transport he recalled the hour
When to deserve, to win his blooming bride,
Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound
The iron crampons, and ascending, trod
The upper realms of frost; then, by a cord
Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bright,
And gathered from above, below, around,
The pointed crystals !

Once, nor long before, —
Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet,
And with an eloquence that Nature gives
To all her children, — once, — nor long before, —
Alone, at daybreak, on the Mettenberg,

* Pronounced, Yomas'sag.

The Schrekhorn,- Shraikhorn.

ş Rozenloro, 0w, as in now. | The Jungfrau,” YoongfToo | Crampong,

He slipped, — he fell; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,
Went to the under-world! Longwhile he lay
Upon his rugged bed, — then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep forever!
For, looking round, he saw, or thought he saw,
Innumerable branches of a cavern,
Winding beneath a solid crust of ice,
With here and there a rent that showed the stars !
What then, alas! was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers,
Strewn with the bones of miserable men,
Lost like himself ? Yet he must wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round;
When hark! the noise as of some mighty river
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon returned, and, fearless, froin despair,
Dashed down the dismal channel; and all day,--
If day could be where utter darkness was, —
Travelled incessantly, the craggy roof
Just over-head, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength
Lashing him on. At last the water slept
In a dead lake, – at the third step he took,
Unfathomable; and the roof, that long
Had threatened, suddenly descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
His journey ended; when a ray divine
Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her
Whose ears are never shut, — the Blessed Virgin, -
He plunged, he swam, — and in an instant rose, -
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through
A smiling valley, full of cottages,
Glittering, the river ran; and on the bank
The young were dancing, ('twas a festival-day,)
All in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke,
With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. — From that very hour he loved.

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