THE DELL OF MIST. 311 



Thou hast no sire, or brother, 



That watches with a face 

 Of half such fondness o'er thy life 

 Of blended solitude and strife, 

 As yon high majestic form 



That feeds thee on its grassy breast, 

 Or guards thee from the bursting storm 



By the rude shelter of its crest ; 

 Or when thy startled senses feel 



The presence of the unseen foe, 

 And dreams of anguish wildly steal 



O'er trembling stag, and quivering doe 

 Conceals thee in her forests gloom, 

 And saves from an untimely doom. 



Now roaming free : for on the wind 



No sound of danger flies ; 

 The fawn may frolic with the hind, 



Nor fear a fell surprise ; 

 Or where some knoll its verdant head 



To clustering sunbeams shows, 

 In graceful groups the herd may spread, 



And circling round, repose. 

 Thus the deer their vigils keep 

 Basking on Bendouran's steep ! 



A POETICAL TRANSLATION OF A PART OF 



"CUMHA CHORIE CHEATHARCH;" OR, THE LAMENT FOR THE 

 DELL OF MIST. 



By a Highland Gentleman. 



A TRODDEN waste each mountain side, 

 Whence flowed the fountain's crystal tide : 

 No more the grassy meads are seen, 

 The lovely spots of living green : 

 No primrose blows the silken foil ; 

 No herb no floweret decks the soil 

 Where lay and rose the lovely hind ; 

 Where oft she skipped and snuffed the wind. 

 That hill seems now, its glory fled, 

 Bare as the stance of busy trade ; 

 Nor is the antlered monarch found 

 No more he leaps with lively bound 

 No more the hunter climbs the bill 

 To urge the forest chase with skill ; 



