Written with a pencil over the Chimney-piece, in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth

[end of the poem 'Birks of Aberfeldy' see object 3.6174]

Written in the Hermitage at Taymouth.

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dell and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd growse and timid sheep,
My savage journey curious I pursue
Till fam'd Breadalbine opens on my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods wild-scatter'd clothe their towering sides

Th' outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills:
The Tay meandering 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 ----
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Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone-wandring by the Hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods,
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods ----
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Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre,
And look thro' Nature with creative fire:
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half-reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds
Find balm to sooth her bitter-rankling wounds:

Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward stretch her
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. ----
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