verses 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, imbosomed 'mong the hills,
the eye with wonder and amazement fills;
the tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
the palace rising on his 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,
misfortunes 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.