Or whether fitlier term’d the sway

       Of habit, form’d in early day?

       Howe’er derived, its force confest 125

       Rules with despotic sway the breast,

       And drags us on by viewless chain,

       While taste and reason plead in vain.

       Look east, and ask the Belgian why,

       Beneath Batavia’s sultry sky, 130

       He seeks not eager to inhale

       The freshness of the mountain gale,

       Content to rear his whiten’d wall

       Beside the dank and dull canal?

       He’ll say, from youth he loved to see 135

       The white sail gliding by the tree.

       Or see yon weatherbeaten hind,

       Whose sluggish herds before him wind,

       Whose tatter’d plaid and rugged cheek

       His northern clime and kindred speak; 140

       Through England’s laughing meads he goes,

       And England’s wealth around him flows;

       Ask, if it would content him well,

       At ease in those gay plains to dwell,

       Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 145

       And spires and forests intervene,

       And the neat cottage peeps between?

       No! not for these will he exchange

       His dark Lochaber’s boundless range;

       Not for fair Devon’s meads forsake 150

       Bennevis grey, and Carry’s lake.

       Thus while I ape the measure wild

       Of tales that charm’d me yet a child,

       Rude though they be, still with the chime

       Return the thoughts of early time; 155

       And feelings, roused in life’s first day,

       Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.

       Then rise those crags, that mountain tower

       Which charm’d my fancy’s wakening hour.

       Though no broad river swept along, 160

       To claim, perchance, heroic song;

       Though sigh’d no groves in summer gale,

       To prompt of love a softer tale;

       Though scarce a puny streamlet’s speed

       Claim’d homage from a shepherd’s reed; 165

       Yet was poetic impulse given,

       By the green hill and clear blue heaven.

       It was a barren scene, and wild,

       Where naked cliff’s were rudely piled;

       But ever and anon between 170

       Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;

       And well the lonely infant knew

       Recesses where the wall-flower grew,

       And honey-suckle loved to crawl

       Up the low crag and ruin’d wall. 175

       I deem’d such nooks the sweetest shade

       The sun in all its round survey’d;

       And still I thought that shatter’d tower

       The mightiest work of human power;

       And marvell’d as the aged hind 180

       With some strange tale bewitch’d my mind,

       Of forayers, who, with headlong force,

       Down from that strength had spurr’d their horse,

       Their southern rapine to renew,

       Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 185

       And, home returning, fill’d the hall

       With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.

       Methought that still with trump and clang,

       The gateway’s broken arches rang;

       Methought grim features, seam’d with scars, 190

       Glared through the window’s rusty bars,

       And ever, by the winter hearth,

       Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,

       Of lovers’ slights, of ladies’ charms,

       Of witches’ spells, of warriors’ arms; 195

       Of patriot battles, won of old

       By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;

       Of later fields of feud and fight,

       When, pouring from their Highland height,

       The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 200

       Had swept the scarlet ranks away.

       While stretch’d at length upon the floor,

       Again I fought each combat o’er,

       Pebbles and shells, in order laid,

       The mimic ranks of war display’d; 205

       And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,

       And still the scattered Southron fled before.

       Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,

       Anew, each kind familiar face,

       That brighten’d at our evening fire! 210

       From the thatch’d mansion’s grey-hair’d Sire,

       Wise without learning, plain and good,

       And sprung of Scotland’s gentler blood;

       Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen,

       Show’d what in youth its glance had been; 215

       Whose doom discording neighbours sought,

       Content with equity unbought;

       To him the venerable Priest,

       Our frequent and familiar guest,

       Whose life and manners well could paint 220

       Alike the student and the saint;

       Alas! whose speech too oft I broke

       With gambol rude and timeless joke:

       For I was wayward, bold, and wild,

       A self-will’d imp, a grandame’s child; 225

       But half a plague, and half a jest,

       Was still endured, beloved, caress’d.

       From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask

       The classic poet’s well-conn’d task?

       Nay, Erskine, nay-On the wild hill 230

       Let the wild heath-bell flourish still;

       Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,

       But freely let the woodbine twine,

       And leave untrimm’d the eglantine:

       Nay, my friend, nay-Since oft thy praise 235

       Hath given fresh vigour to my lays;

       Since oft thy judgment could refine

       My flatten’d thought, or cumbrous line;

       Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,

       And in the minstrel spare the friend. 240

       Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,

       Flow forth, flow unrestrain’d, my Tale!