By the sad and silent sea,

On one far-twinkling beacon-light

I look out through the dull grey night,

And only God with me!

THE SONG OF THE HIGHLAND RIVER.

DEW-FED am I

With drops from the sky,

Where the white cloud rests on the old grey hill ;
Slowly I creep

Down the precipice steep,

Where the snow through the summer lies freezingly still;

Where the wreck of the storm

Lies shattered enorm,

I steal 'neath the stone with a tremulous rill ;

My low-trickling flow

You may hear, as I go

Down the sharp-furrowed brow of the old grey hill,

Or drink from my well,

Grass-grown where I dwell,

In the clear granite cell of the old grey hill.

In the hollow of the hill

With my waters I fill

The little black tarn where the thin mist floats;

P

The deep old moss

Slow-oozing I cross,

Where the lapwing cries with its long shrill notes Then fiercely I rush to the sharp granite edge,

And leap with a bound o'er the old grey ledge;
Like snow in the gale,

I drive down the vale,

Lashing the rock with my foamy flail;
Where the black crags frown,

I pour sheer down,

Into the caldron boiling and brown;

Whirling and eddying there I lie,

Where the old hawk wheels, and the blast howls by.

From the treeless brac

All green and grey,

To the wooded ravine I wind my way,

Dashing, and foaming, and leaping with glee,

The child of the mountain wild and free.

Under the crag where the stone crop grows,

Fringing with gold my shelvy bed,

The rock-rooted rowan tree blushfully shows,

I wind, till I find

A way to my mind,

While hazel, and oak, and the light ash tree,

Weave a green awning of leafage for me.
Fitfully, fitfully, on I go,

Leaping, or running, or winding slow,

Till I come to the linn where my waters rush,
Eagerly down with a broad-faced gush,

Foamingly, foamingly, white as the snow,

On to the soft green turf below;

Where I sleep with the lake as it sleeps in the glen,

'Neath the far-stretching base of the high-peaked Ben.

Slowly and smoothly my winding I make,

Round the dark-wooded islets that stud the clear

lake;

The green hills sleep

With their beauty in me,

Their shadows the light clouds

Fling as they flee,

While in my pure waters pictured I glass

The light-plumed birches that nod as I pass.

Slowly and silently on I wend,

With many a bay and many a bend, Luminous seen like a silvery line,

Shimmering bright in the fair sunshine,

Till I come to the pass, where the steep red scaur Gleams like a watch-fire seen from afar,

While

Then out I ride,

With a full-rolling pride,

my floods like the amber shine;

Where the salmon rejoice

To hear my voice,

And the angler trims his line.

Gentlier now, with a kindly slope,
The green hills lie to the bright blue cope,
And wider the patches of green are spread,
Which Time hath won from my shifting bed.
And many a broad and sunny spot,
Where my waters wend,

With a larger bend,

Shows the white-fronted brown-thatched cot,

Where the labouring man with sweatful care,