Changeless as Heaven, thoughtful as the stars, Whose light thou mak'st thy lover, ever true; Sweet are thy glades and glens; no discord mars Their quiet now--as when the Bruce o'erthrew The men of Lorn, and gained his crown anew-- Save when sweeps by the spirit of the storm; Fearful and wonderful is then thy hue, And terrible thy wailings, as thy form, While Cruachan's wild shriek is heard to far Cairngorm.
Home of the hunter! birth-place of the Gael! Why do my musings still return to thee? Why does the hymn of holy Innis-hail, Like rhyme of childhood, haunt my memory? My boy-years have departed, since to me Thy wildness, solitude, and grandeur brought Sources of inspiration, ne'er to be Forgotten or forborne--my mind has sought Relief from homely scenes, recurring to remote.
'TIS evening,--one of those rich eves in June, That look as bright, and feel as warm as noon; The setting sun its parting ray has thrown Italia's smiling groves and bowers upon: Amid the balm of meadow, vale, and hill, Where all is beautiful, and all is still; A bard would deem, 'neath such a tranquil sky, He heard the stream of time while rushing by: 'Tis the soft hour, to love that doth belong, To village pastime, and to village song: But why do happy peasants meet no more? The village song, the village dance is o'er: Why is the tabor silent on the plain? Why does the mountain-pipe refuse its strain? Where is the lover fond, the trusting maid? They shun each other, and desert the shade. Is _this_ Italia's sky, so calm, so fair? Where are its joyous sons, its laughing daughters where? · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Hark! 'tis a wild, a solitary cry, Unheard till now beneath Italia's sky; And well Italia's sons may shrink to hear A cry, that fills all who have heard with fear,-- It is the Alpine wolf's terrific bay, Roaming abroad ferocious for its prey: Soon as the sun of earth its farewell takes, The Alpine wolf his solitude forsakes, And, like a demon, rushing to the plain, Scatters the flock, and panic-strikes the swain.
One summer eve, a monster of the kind, Hungry for prey, had left his troop behind; Ranging alone, he spread dismay where'er His bay was heard, as if a host were there: Beneath his tusk of steel, his breath of flame, Italia's bowers a wilderness became: Grain for a while and sheep he stole away, But, quitting these, he sought a nobler prey,-- The tender babe, even in its mother's view, He bore to crags, where no one dared pursue: Until the province, late the happiest one That brightens 'neath Italia's gorgeous sun, Became, throughout, all desolate and lone, For there the fell destroyer forth had gone. · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
