THE TOPOGRAPHY. 



Dim in the distance, like the tales they tell, 

 St. Andrew's sacred turrets pierce the sky — 

 Grey spectres standing sadly by the sea. 

 As if they monrn'd some ravage it had wrought. 

 A different sea swept o'er them — it is gone ! 

 But these bleak fragments live to tell its fury. 



Where winds the quiet, greenly-mantled dell 



Into the bosom of the uplands, rich 



With russet grain, or dappled o'er with flocks — 



There stretched, in days gone by, a dreary moor — 



Dreary and voiceless ; save when one wild night 



It rang with ringing steel and cries of terror, 



And blood, by murder shed, its heath-bloom deepened, 



Leaving a stain no floods can wash away ! 



There Sharp — weak zealot of a despot-creed — 



Died ; and so dying half redeemed his life. 



Thus ruthless violence defeats its end, 



And makes a martyr where it sought a victim ! 



Far up the crag, where waves the feathery fern. 

 And the gay foxglove hangs its purple bloom ; 

 Where glides the weasel on its noiseless way. 

 And clings the bat till evening shadows fall ; 

 The damp and dripping cavern wont to hide 

 Devoted men, who worshipp'd God by stealth, 

 When temples made with hands refused their praise. 



These are the records, these the deeds of men ; 

 But other deeds and dates find record here. 

 Far diff"erent wrecks lie buried 'neath your feet, 

 Proclaiming other changes, other times. 

 No billow breaks upon this sealess beach — 

 Nought save a tiny brook runs wimpling here ; 

 Yet forms of hfe — once sporting 'mid the waves, 



