Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below: Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from the cliffy brow, But, man, to whom alone is giv'n And creatures for his pleasure slain. In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy rivulet strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend. Or, if man's superior might Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; 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, imbosom'd 'mong the hills, The lawns wood-fring'd in nature's native taste ; Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell: Here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, her scan, And injur❜d worth forget and pardon man. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS, AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream re sounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewless echo's ear, astonished, rends. |