To this extract I will add a few more stanzas

towards the end of the first book:

"Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave,

He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view
The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave
High-tow'ring, sail along th' horizon blue :
Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new,
Fancy a thousand wond'rous forms descries,

More wildly great than ever pencil drew.

Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,
And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way.

List'ning, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar
Of the wide-welt'ring waves.
In black array

When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day,
Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,

Along the trembling wilderness to stray,

What time the lightning's fierce career began,

And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.

Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all

In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,

Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,

From the rude gambol far remote reclin❜d,

Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.

Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly,

To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd,

Ah what is mirth but turbulence unholy,

When with the charms compar'd of heavenly melancholy !

Is there a heart that music cannot melt?

Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!

Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt

Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.

The sophist's rope of cobwebs he shall twine;

Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn,
And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine;

Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd;
Song was his favourite and first pursuit.
The wild harp rang to his advent'rous hand,
And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute.
His infant muse, though artless, was not mute:
Of elegance, as yet he took no care;

For this of time and culture is the fruit;

And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare;

As in some future verse I purpose to declare,"

It will be seen from the last stanza that Beat

tie intended to continue his poem, and he did in fact write a second canto sometime afterwards, Edwin hav

but it is very inferior to the first.

ing attained manhood, takes walks "of wider

circuit" than before.

"One evening, as he fram'd the careless rhyme,

It was his chance to wander far abroad,"

And o'er a lonely eminence to climb,

Which heretofore his foot had never trod;

A vale appear'd below, a deep retired abode.

Thither he hied, enamour'd of the scene,
For rocks on rocks pil'd, as by magic spell,
Here scorch'd with lightening, there with ivy green,
Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell.
Southward a mountain rose with easy swell,
Whose long long groves eternal murmur made;
And toward the western sun a streamlet fell,

Where, thro' the cliffs, the eye, remote, survey'd,

Blue hills, and glitt'ring waves, and skies in gold array'd.

Along this narrow valley you might see

The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground,
And, here and there, a solitary tree,

Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd.

Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high;
And from the summit of that craggy mound
The perching eagle oft was heard to cry,

Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky.

One cultivated spot there was, that spread

Its flow'ry bosom to the noon-day beam,
Where many a rose-bud rears its blushing head,
And herbs for food with future plenty teem.
Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream,
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul:

He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam,
Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll;
When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole."

It is the voice of an aged hermit, who

after having known the illusions of the world, has buried himself in this retreat, for the purpose of

indulging in meditation, and singing the praises of his Creator. This venerable old man instructs the young troubadour, and reveals to him the secret of his own genius. It is evident that this was a most happy idea, but the execution has not answered the first design of the author. The

hermit speaks too long, and makes very trite observations with regard to the grandeur and misery of human life. Some passages are, however, to be found in this second book which recal the charm created by the first. strophes of it are consecrated to the

a friend, whom the poet had lost.

The last

memory of

It

appears

that Beattie was often destined to feel the weight of sorrows. The death of his only son affected him deeply and withdrew him entirely from the service of the Muses. He still lived on the rocks of Morven, but these rocks no longer inspired his song. Like Ossian, after the death of Oscar, he suspended his harp on the branches of an oak. It is said that his son evinced great poetical talents; perhaps he was the young minstrel, whom a father had feelingly described, and whose steps he too soon ceased to trace upon the summit of the mountain.