Here, oft the boatman rests his oar

Here, oft the boatman rests his oar, While o’er the rock the fowler hung, Like the bold youth of Kilda’s shore, Descends to seek the solan’s young. That bird, which on gigantic wing, Like Cormorant, delights to soar, Then downward makes her deadly spring, Unfathom’d waters to explore. Wo to the silvery shoals that lie ’Neath the bright lustre of her eye, When, like a shark, she cleaves the wave, To make—but not to find a grave.

Where fissures in the rock are riven, Birds cluster thick as stars of heaven. The tarrock shines, like snowy speck; The pewit gleams with dusky neck;— The puffin with her crimson bill, Deem’d sacred by the lone Kurile, Beholds the fishers shooting by, And mimics man with mournful cry. Till, hark! explodes the thund’ring gun, And feathery myriads veil the sun; Unnumber’d as the flakes of snow, When drifting gales o’er Soutra blow.