JUDITH MACRONE,
THE PROPHETESS.
But I am haunted by a fearful shape-
Some hated thing which sharp fear forms of shadows;
Something which takes no known form, yet alarms
Me worse than my worst foeman armed in proof;
Something which haunts my slumbers—finds me out
In my deep dreams—in fiercest strife, when blood
Runs rife as rivulet water—in quiet peace,
When rustic songs abound—in silent prayer,
For prayer, too, have I tried—still is it there;
Now—now—the dismal shadow stalks before me,
More visible than ever!
The whole course of Annanwater, in Dumfriesshire, is beautiful; from where it arises among the upland pastures, in the vicinity of the sources of the Clyde and the Tweed, and winding its way by old churchyard, decayed castle, Roman encampment, and battle-field, through fine natural groves and well-cultivated grounds, finally unites its waters with the sea of Solway, after conferring its name on the pretty little borough of Annan. The interior of the district, it is true, presents a singular mixture of desolate nature and rich cultivation; but the immediate banks of the river itself are of a varied and romantic character. At every turn we take we come to nooks of secluded and fairy beauty—groves of fine ancient trees, coeval with the ruined towers they embosom—clumps of the most beautiful holly, skirted with rones or irregular rows of hazel, wild cherry, and wild plum—remains of military or feudal greatness, dismantled keeps or peels, and repeated vestiges of broad Roman roads and ample camps, with many of those massive and squat structures, vaulted and secured with double iron doors, for the protection of cattle, in former times, from reavers and forayers. The river itself has attractions of its own: its inconsiderable waters are pure, and the pebbles may be numbered in the deepest pools, save when the stream is augmented by rains; and for the
