as of the North Countrie;
A nation famed for song and beauty's charms;
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;
Patient of toil, serene amid alarms;
Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms.

The shepherd swain, of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;
The sickle, scythe, or plough he never sway'd:
An honest heart was almost all his stock;
His drink the living waters from the rock;
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;
And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,
Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went."

Did patriotism ever inspire genius with sentiment more Scottish than
_that_? Did imagination ever create scenery more Scottish, Manners,
Morals, Life?

"Lo! where the stripling rapt in wonder roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;
And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,
And echo swells the chorus to the skies!"

Beattie chants there like a man who had been at the Linn of Dee. He wore
a wig, it is true; but at times, when the fit was on him, he wrote like
the unshorn Apollo.

The genius of Grahame was national, and so too was the subject of his
first and best poem--"The Sabbath."

"How still the morning of the hallow'd day!"

is a line that could have been uttered only by a holy Scottish heart.
For we alone know what is indeed Sabbath silence--an earnest of
everlasting rest. To our hearts, the very birds of Scotland sing holily
on that day. A sacred smile is on the dewy flowers. The lilies look
whiter in their loveliness; the blush-rose reddens in the sun with a
diviner dye; and with a more celestial scent the hoary hawthorn sweetens
the wilderness. Sorely disturbed of yore, over the glens and hills of
Scotland, was the Day of Peace!

"O, the great goodness of the _Saints of Old_!"

the Covenanters. Listen to the Sabbath bard,--

"With them each day was holy; but that morn
On which the angel said, 'See where the Lord
Was laid,' joyous arose; to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn by devious ways,
O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought
The upland muirs, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks
A