LOCH LOMOND.
While down the lake's translucent tide
With gently curving course we glide,
Its silver ripples, faint and few,
Alternate blend with belts of blue,
As fleecy clouds, on pinions white,
Careering fleck the welkin bright.
But lo! Ben Lomond's awful crown
Through shrouding mists looks dimly down;
For though perchance his piercing eye
Doth read the secrets of the sky,
His haughty bosom scorns to show
Those secrets to the world below.
Close woven shades, with varying grace,
And crag and cavern mark his base,
And trees, whose naked roots protrude
From bed of rock and lichens rude;
And where, mid dizzier cliffs are seen
Entangled thickets sparsely green,
Methinks I trace, in outline drear,
Old Fingal with his shadowy spear,
