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HAWTHORNDEN.
79
HAWTHORNDEN.
Though Scotia hath a thousand scenes
To strike the traveller's eye,
Clear-bosomed lakes, and leaping streams,
And mountains bleak and high;
Yet when he seeks his native clime
And ingle-side again,
'T would be a pity, had he missed
To visit Hawthornden.
Down, down, precipitous and rude,
The rocks abruptly go,
While through their deep and narrow gorge
Foams on the Esk below;
Yet though it plunges strong and bold,
Its murmurs meet the ear,
Like fretful childhood's weak complaint,
Half smothered in its fear.
There's plenty, in my own dear land,
Of cave and wild cascade,
And all my early years were spent
In such romantic glade;
