SONNETS.

[WRITTEN IN LOCH cow:rms., SKYE.]

I.

I think this is the very stillest place On all God's earth,—and yet no rest is here : The vapours mirror'd in the black loch's face Drift on like frantic shapes and disappear ; A melancholy murmur in mine ear Tells inc of waters wild that flow and flow,— There is no rest at all, afar or near, Only a sense of things that moan and go.

And lo ! the still strange life these limbs contain I feel flow ou like those, restless and proud,— Before Thy breathing naught within my brain Pauses, but all drives on like mist and cloud. Only the bald peaks and the stones remain Frozen before thee, desolate and bowed.

Ir.

And whither, 0 ye vapours ! do ye wend ?

Stirred by that weary breathing, whither away ?

And whither, 0 ye dreams ! that night and day Drift o'er the troublous life, tremble and blend To broken lineaments of that far Friend, Whose strange breath's come and go ye feel so deep ?

O Soul ! that has no rest and seekest sleep, Whither ? and will thy wanderings ever end?

All things that be are full of a quick pain ;

Onward we fleet, swift as the running rill,—

The vapours drift, the mists within the brain Float on obscuringly and have no will.

Only the bald peaks and the stones remain ; These only,—and a God sublime and still. Art thou alone, far from the busy crowd, Dwelling in melancholy solitude, Darkening thy visage with a dreamy cloud, Hushing thy breath, if mortal foot intrude ?

Father, how shall I meet thee in this mood ?

How shall I ask thee why thou dwells't with stones, While far away the world, like Lazarus, groans, Sick for thy healing ? Father, since thou art good, Come to the valleys, gently, with no frown !

Come, like an Angel with a human face !

Pass thro' the gates into the hungry town, Comfort the weary, send the afflicted grace!

Shine brightlier on the graves where we set down Our dear ones,—cheer them in the narrow place ! B.