Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
Additionally, when viewing full transcripts, extracted text may not be in the same order as the original document.
Untitled Article
Ever to scheme , for aught that ' s free , A tyrant ' s chain ; Your , glorious charter shall not be Conferr'd in vain .
I bear no gun to bring you down In blood upon the stubble brown : Not mine the Pythagorean ^ frown — Nor yet the will , With fool from country , fop from town , For sport to kill .
'Tis not that any heart forgets , Lost Bewick ! thy inspired vignettes , One of our purest early debts To Nature ' s friends—Rays of a sun that never sets Till being ends .
The poetry x > f sporting thence Comes back upon my inward sense , With all its old omnipotence ,. Even late as this , And northern hills and midland fens Have still their bliss .
We end almost as we began ; The stream runs as the fountain ran ; Name but the grouse or ptarmigan—The dark hills rise ; Or , lady of the lake , the ^ wan—There lone it' lies !
I felt it then , I feel it still , The incommunicable thrill , With which I once , from his clear rill A moorcock sprung , Beneath Loch Lomond ' s giant kill , When time was young .
And still I hear , as then I heard , The shrill cry of the plover-bird , When that mysterious whistle stirrM Ben Lomond ' s air , And those it reached altnoat averred Spirits were there .