THE TROSACHS

                There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
                But were an apt confessional for One
                Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
                That Life is but a tale of morning grass
                Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
                That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
                Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
                Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
                Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
                If from a golden perch of aspen spray
                (October's workmanship to rival May)
                The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
                That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
                Lulling the year, wih all its cares, to rest!

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