THE NAMELESS STREAM

Beautiful stream! By rock and dell

There's not an inch in all thy course

I have not track'd. I know thee well:

I know where blossoms the yellow gorse;

I know where waves the pale bluebell,

And where the orchis and violets dwell.

I know where the foxglove rears its head,

And where the heather tufts are spread;

I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,

And the white valerians load the gale.

I know the spot the bees love best,

And where the linnet has built her nest.

I know the bushes the grouse frequent,

And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent.

I know each tree to thy fountain head—

The lady birches, slim and fair;

The feathery larch, the rowans red,

The brambles trailing their tangled hair;

And each is link'd to my waking thought

By some remembrance fancy-fraught.

Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame,

Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run,

Ever since Time its course begun,

Without a record, without a name.

I ask'd the shepherd on the hill—

He knew thee but as a common rill;

I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter—

She knew thee but as a running water;

I ask'd the boatman on the shore

(He was never ask'd to tell before)—

Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.

Yet, stream, so dear to me alone,

I prize and cherish thee none the less

That thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown,

In the unfrequented wilderness.

Though none admire and lay to heart

How good and beautiful thou art,

Thy flow'rets bloom, thy waters run,

And the free birds chaunt thy benison.

Beauty is beauty, though unseen;

And those who love it all their days,

Find meet reward in their soul serene,

And the inner voice of prayer and praise.

Mackay

STAFFA.

Having surveyed the various objects in Iona, we sailed for a spot no less interesting. Thousands have described it. Few, however, have seen it by torch or candle light, and in this respect we differ from most tourists. All description, however, of this far-famed wonder must be vain and fruitless. The shades of night were fast descending, and had settled on the still waves and the little group of islets, called the Treshnish Isles, when our vessel approached the celebrated Temple of the Sea. We had light enough to discern its symmetry and proportions; but the colour of the rock—a dark grey—and the minuter graces of the columns, were undistinguishable in the evening gloom. The great face of the rock is the most wonderful production of nature we ever beheld. It reminded us of the west front of York or Lincoln cathedral—a resemblance, perhaps, fanciful in all but the feelings they both excite—especially when the English minster is seen by moonlight. The highest point of Staffa at this view is about one hundred feet; in its centre is the great cave, called Fingal's Cave, stretching up into the interior of the rock a distance of more than 200 feet. After admiring in mute astonishment the columnar proportions of the rock, regular as if chiselled by the hand of art, the passengers entered a small boat, and sailed under the arch. The boatmen had been brought from Iona, and they instantly set themselves to light some lanterns, and form torches of old ropes and tar, with which they completely illuminated the ocean hall, into which we were ushered.

The complete stillness of the scene, except the low plashing of the waves; the fitful gleams of light thrown first on the walls and ceiling, as the men moved to and fro along the side of the stupendous cave; the appearance of the varied roof, where different stalactites or petrifactions are visible; the vastness and perfect art or semblance of art of the whole, altogether formed a scene the most sublime, grand, and impressive ever witnessed.