Written With A Pencil, Over The Chimney-Piece, In The Parlour Of The Inn At Kenmore, Taymouth.

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious I pursue, 'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.— The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side; The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste; The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste; The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream; The village, glittering in the noontide beam— *            *            *            *            * Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell: The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— *            *            *            *            * Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter—rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. *            *            *            *            *