Томас Кэмпбелл (Thomas Campbell)

Mull

THE TEMPEST blackens on the dusky moor,
And billows lash the long-resounding shore;
In pensive mood I roam the desert ground,
And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found.
O, whither fled the pleasurable hours
That chased each care, and fired the muse’s powers,
The classic haunts of youth forever gay
Where mirth and friendship cheered the close of day,
The well-known valleys where I wont to roam,
The native sports, the nameless joys of home?
Far different scenes allure my wondering eye:
The white wave foaming to the distant sky;
The cloudy heaven, unblest by summer’s smile;
The sounding storm that sweeps the rugged isle,
The chill, bleak summit of eternal snow,
The wide, wild glen, the pathless plains below,
The dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled,
The cuckoo sighing to the pensive wild!
Far different these from all that charmed before,—
The grassy banks of Clutha’s winding shore;
The sloping vales, with waving forests lined;
Her smooth blue lakes, unruffled by the wind.
Hail, happy Clutha! glad shall I survey
Thy gilded turrets from the distant way!
Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller’s toil,
And joy shall hail me to my native soil.

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