This page has been validated.
6
Not the poet in the moment
Fancy lightens on his e’e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture
That thy presence gies to me.
———
STRATHALLAN’S LAMENT.
Thickest night o’erhang my dwelling!
Howling tempests o’er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave!
Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.
In the cause of right engaged,
Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honour’s war we strongly waged,
But the heavens deny’d success.
Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The wide world is all before us—
But a world without friend.
