Of a Northern Lover, in Winter

The dark winds are blowing around the rude hill, And the ice of the evening has crusted the rill; Thy waves, O Loch Lomond! can glitter no more, But in dim, stony fragments incumber thy shore.

And now for the moon, looking mild on the brook, Swift lights of the north thro’ the zenith are struck; Those flashes, pale streaming, will guide my lone way, And the steps of a lover in safety convey.

Then louder the wings of the winter may sound, And the frost’s cutting arrows dart keener around, So the white shrouding flakes of the snow are withheld,