| |
* * * * * ARCADIAN scenes are thine, fair Clyde! | |
| The rural pipe, clear tinkling rills, | |
| Where sweet thy gathering waters glide | |
| ’Mong flowery meads and emerald hills: | |
| |
| Where shepherdesses tend the flock | 5 |
| That wanders on the mountain’s side, | |
| Nor sigh for vanities that mock | |
| The slaves of fashion and of pride: | |
| |
| Where lives the rustic, blessed with health, | |
| Unconscious of a nobler sphere; | 10 |
| Happy, he neither longs for wealth, | |
| Nor ruthless poverty doth fear: | |
| |
| Where many a feudal castle lowers, | |
| With ivied walls storm-bleached and gray; | |
| I ’ve heard the owl scream from those towers | 15 |
| That once with revelry were gay. | |
| |
| And where are they, the barons proud, | |
| Who reared those noble turrets high? | |
| Their mantle now is but a shroud,— | |
| Hero and house in ruins lie. | 20 |
| |
| Round Tinto now he winds serene, | |
| Then sweeps far o’er the distant plain; | |
| But loath to leave so sweet a scene, | |
| He turns to kiss her feet again. | |
| |
| Now eddying smooth he speeds along, | 25 |
| Loud murmuring as his waters swell; | |
| Now whirling wild, now gurgling strong, | |
| He dives into the bosky dell. | |
| |
| Then o’er the rugged precipice, | |
| Like madman in his fury, pours, | 30 |
| And deep, deep in the dread abyss, | |
| He whirls, and boils, and foams, and roars. | |
| |
| Around Stonebyres what beauty lies! | |
| The Terni of our northern clime; | |
| With Tivoli thy Cora vies, | 35 |
| Less beautiful, but more sublime. * * * * * | |
| |
