transition is made, from a well-merited compliment to Mrs Grant, the celebrated writer of the Letters from the Mountains, to the many persons of learning and genius whom Scotland has in modern times produced; an attempt is made to characterize their peculiar endowments; and the Epistle concludes with some personal feelings and hopes, and fears and aspirations, of the author, in a supposed colloquy between himself and the enlightened friend with whom he holds his poetical correspondence.
The principal merit of this poem is the very great skill with which the character of epistolary composition is preserved. Though abounding in description, the writer always bears in mind, that the person to whom he is writing is as familiar with the objects described as he himself is; and, therefore, he rather recalls the remembrance of them by short and vivid touches than by any protracted and laborious delineation. It is an admirable specimen of a poetical journal.
The following passage has, we think, very extraordinary merit—it is simple, clear, and descriptive.
"The waves were crimson'd by the setting sun,
Retiring Staffa met the ruddy rays,
And veil'd her columns in a rosy haze;
Dark isles, around the skirts of ocean spread,
Seem'd clouds that hover'd o'er its tossing bed.
By craggy shores and cliffs of dusky hue,
Scatter' d in open sea, our galley flew;
Fearful! had storms these rocky mountains, beat,
But now the laden waves scarce lick'd their feet,
And each brown shadow on the waters cast,
Frown'd smilingly upon us as we passed.
From rock to rock the galley smoothly slid,
Now in wide sea, among the cliffs now hid;
Now round the skyey zone the red waves leapt,
Now in each narrow channel dark they slept
At last lona burst into the scene,
Reclin'd amid the ev'ning waves, serene,
Thelast beams faintingon her russet green.
Her crescent village, o'er the harbour hung,
Spread its pale smoke the breezeless air along,
While from her highest mound the ruin'd fane
With proud composure ey'd the desert main.
We gain'd the bay, ana trembling touch'd the land
On which, of old, religion's mighty hand
Stretch'd from the skies, and half in clouds conceal'd,
Stamp'd the broad signet of the law reveal'd.
Through cells once vocal to the monk and nun,
O'er royal tombs in grass and weeds o'errun.
Through pillar'd aisles whose sculptur'd cornice bore
The fragment tales of legendary lore,
Our lingering feet in musing silence stray'd,
Till cross and holy image swam in shade.
No sound the solemn stillness broke, except
The passing gale, or charnel vaults that wept;
Or, from the ocean's dim-discover'd foam,
The dash of oars that bore the fisher home."
The Poet describes equally well the beautiful scenery of Balachuilish—the savage solitude of Glencoe—the quiet serenity of Glenroy—and the dream-like and breathless slumber of Loch Laggan. We quote the description of the last scene, for the sake of the elegant tribute to the genius of a most excellent person.
"How deep thy still retreat, O Laggan lake!
Who yet will hide me in thy birchen brake?
Where thy old moss-grown trees are rotting down
Across the path, as man were never known;
Where thy clear waters sleep upon the shore,
As if they ne'er had felt the ruffling oar;
Where on thy woody promontory's height,
The evening vapours wreathe their folds of light,
While from their driving fleece the torrents, flashing,
Down the rude rocks in long cascade are dashing!
O you would think on that lone hill that none
Had e'er reclin'd, save the broad setting sun!
Yet here the musing steps of genius roam
From neighbouring Paradise of love and home:
That gifted Spirit whose descriptions, warm,
Paint Highland manners, every mountain-charm,
By the green tomhans of this fairy wood,
Nurses her glowing thought in solitude!"
The second Epistle is addressed to the Poet's Wife, and contains remembrances of, and reflections on, all the most interesting feelings and incidents of his boyish and youthful days, interspersed with grateful acknowledgments of his present happiness, and many affecting expressions of contentment with his peaceful lot. That man is to be pitied, who can read this Epistle without sincere admiration of the writer's accomplishments, and affection for his amiable and simple character. What can be more touching than the following remembrance of his boyish happiness?
"Free as the gales, and early as the dawn:
Forth did we fly along the level lawn,
