rocky, very steep, but
continuous; the rocks not single or overhanging, not scooped into caverns
or sounding with torrents: there are no trees, no houses, no traces of
cultivation, not one outstanding object. It is truly a solitude, the
road even making it appear still more so: the bottom of the valley is
mostly smooth and level, the brook not noisy: everything is simple and
undisturbed, and while we passed through it the whole place was shady,
cool, clear, and solemn. At the end of the long valley we ascended a
hill to a great height, and reached the top, when the sun, on the point
of setting, shed a soft yellow light upon every eminence. The prospect
was very extensive; over hollows and plains, no towns, and few houses
visible--a prospect, extensive as it was, in harmony with the secluded
dell, and fixing its own peculiar character of removedness from the
world, and the secure possession of the quiet of nature more deeply in
our minds. The following poem was written by William on hearing of a
tradition relating to it, which we did not know when we were there:--

In this still place remote from men
Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen,
In this still place where murmurs on
But one meek streamlet, only one.
He sung of battles and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death,
And should, methinks, when all was pass'd,
Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And everything unreconciled,
In some complaining, dim retreat
Where fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the bard sleep here indeed?
Or is it but a groundless creed?
What matters it? I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely spot
Was moved, and in this way express'd
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermit's cell
Would break the silence of this Dell;
It is not quiet, is not ease,
But something deeper far than these;
The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
And happy feelings of the dead:
And therefore was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race,
Lies buried in this lonely place.

Having descended into a broad cultivated vale, we saw nothing remarkable.
Observed a gentleman's house, {215} which stood pleasantly among trees.
It was dark some ti