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SONNET IV. WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS.
Through islet-sprinkled lakes, embosom'd deepIn mountains crown'd with yet unmelted snow,
While o'er their heathery sides bright wild-flowers grow,—
Through rocky glens, in which, from steep to steep,
With rush and roar, the mountain torrents leap,—
O'er Inverara's heights,—through wild Glencroe—
(Delight and wonder kindling as we go)
From Arran's distant isle our course we keep.
But ask me not to paint what here we see,
With graphic pen, though all be passing dear
To memory;—for this outward world, to me,
Hath never been of tuneful thought the sphere;
My realm of song is human hope and fear,
Joy, grief, domestic peace and fireside glee.
1839.
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