Loch-na-gar.
[One of the early productions of Lord Byron. It has been set to music by Mrs. Gibson.]
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
If still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho' ekments war,
Tho' cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-gar.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered;
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid:
On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory pondered,
As daily I strayed through the pine-covered glade.
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar-star;
For fancy was cheered by traditional story,
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-gar.
Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices,
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car;
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers,
They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-gar.