Lochwinnoch: A Descriptive Poem
Wild scenes, my friend, now rush upon my sight,
Of woods hung branching from the impending height;
Of rude romantic cliffs, where high in air,
The fleet winged hawk protects her clam'rous care;
Of Calder winding through the deep sunk vale,
'Midst trees embosomed from the ruffling gale,
Impatient now through opening banks to roam,
Now rushing o'er the rock a stream of foam;
Now stealing deep, where stretched from side to side,
The bellying arch reclined arrests the tide,
While down the dizzy brink resistless fleet,
The river rolls in one wide glittering sheet.
Adjoining this, 'midst bordering reeds and fens,
The lengthened lake its glossy flood extends,
Slow stealing on with lazy silent pace,
The Peel lone rising from its wat'ry face.
Here stalks the heron gazing in the lake,
The snowy swan and party-coloured drake;
The bittern lone that shakes the solid ground,
While thro' still midnight groans the hollow sound;
The noisy goose, the teal in black'ning trains,
And long-bill'd snipe that knows approaching rains;
Wild fowl unnumbered here continual rove,
Explore the deep or sail the waves above.
When harvest loads the fields with shocks of grain,
And heaps of hay bestud the marshy plain,
Then have I seen the clouds tumultuous rise,
Huge from the south grim dark'ning all the skies.
Then howled the blust'ring wind, the lashing rain
In streaming torrents poured along the plain,
Down from the steep, swelled brown from shore to shore,
O'er rocks enormous with rethund'ring roar
Hoarse Calder dashed—the lake a sea appears,
And down at once the bord'ring harvest bears;
Wheat, hay, and oats float o'er the boiling tide,
And lost for ever down the current ride.
Plunged to the middle in the swelling waves,
See swains half-drowned, drag out the dripping sheaves;
While on the brink the farmer stands forlorn,
And takes his last sad look of the departing corn.
But hark! fierce Boreas blows keen from the hills,
The frost severe enchains the trickling rills;
Wide o'er the lake a glossy pavement spreads,
Snow robes the fields and heaps the mountain's heads
Scarce o'er yon southern hill the sun appears,
Feeble his rays, far from our sight he wears.
How chill the air! how vehement the storm
Bleak Winter growls and shakes his hoary form.
Seasons like these ne'er damp the glowing veins
Of rugged Scotia's hardy native swains;
Forth to the ice our little village pours,
In healthy sports to pass the shiv'ring hours.
On fleeting skates some skim its glitt'ring face,
In swift excursion or meand'ring chase;
While in black crowds the curlers throng around,
Men, stones, and besoms, thund'ring up the sound.
Nor is our pleasure less when Spring appears,
And Sol again the changing landscape cheers:
With pausing step to trace the murm'ring brook,
And o'er the stream display the purling hook;
While from each bush the feathered warblers rove,
And soothe the soul to sacred peace and love.
Or as at sober silent eve we walk
With the sweet fair, engaged in harmless talk,
The raptured heart enjoys a conscious glow,
Which care can't damp or gaudy wealth bestow.
Farewell, my friend; for me no more repine;
Peaceful I live, ah! were my bliss but thine,
Through these wild banks together could we stray,
Or range the wood to shun the sultry day,
Nor care nor pain could then my peace destroy,
And thy dear Muse would double ev'ry joy:
But since we're doomed far severed to remain,
Since murm'ring swells, but never soothes our pain;
Hence! ye vain wishes—Friendship, heavenly glow,
Best, choicest bliss bestowed on man below,
Shall reign united with triumphant pride,
Though kingdoms, seas, and half the world divide.