Thither he hied, enamour'd of the scene,

For rocks on rocks pil'd, as by magic spell,
Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green,
Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell.
Southward a mountain rose with easy swell,
Whose long long groves eternal murmur made;
And tow'rd the western sun a streamlet fell,
Where, through the cliffs, the eye, remote, survey'd,
Blue hills, and glitt'ring waves, and skies in gold array'd

Along this narrow valley you might see

The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground,
And, here and there, a solitary tree,

Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd.
Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high;
And from the summit of that craggy mound
The perching eagle oft was heard to cry,
Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky.

One cultivated spot there was, that spread
Its flow'ry bosom to the noon-day beam,
Where many a rose-bud rears its blushing head,
And herbs for food with future plenty teem.
Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream,
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul:
He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam,
Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll;
When slowly on his ear these moving accents: stole.”

It is the voice of an aged hermit, who, after having known the illusions of the world, has buried himself in this retreat, for the purpose of indulging in meditation, and singing the praises of his Creator. This venerable old man instructs the young troubadour, and reveals to him the secret of his own genius. It is evident that this was a most happy idea, but the execution has not answered the first design of the author. The hermit speaks too long, and makes very trite observations with regard to the grandeur and misery of human life. Some pas

sages are, however, to be found in this second book which recal the charm created by the first. The last strophes of it are consecrated to the memory of a friend, whom the poet had lost. It appears that Beattie was often destined to feel the weight of sorrows. The death of his only son affected him deeply and withdrew him entirely from the service of the Muses. He still lived on the rocks of Morven, but these rocks no longer inspired his song. Like Ossian, after the death of Oscar, he suspended his harp on the branches of an oak. It is said that his son evinced great poetical talents; perhaps he was the young minstrel, whom a father had feelingly described, and whose steps he too soon ceased to trace upon the summit of the mountain.

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

AMERICA.