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.