Andrew James Symington

Inversnaid

                IN little boat we lie
Close by the waterfall, at Inversnaid,
Which in a broad thin sheet comes dashing o’er
Brown cliffs, embosomed in green foliage,—
Bright rainbows gleaming in its mist-like spray;
While, from the crevices of neighboring rocks
Spring graceful harebells, nodding in the breeze,
And mirrored on the silent lake. Then gusts
Sweep sudden down the glens, a-wrinkling all
The surface of the loch; and veiling clouds
Rest on the mountain peaks. We hear,
Now, Ossian’s wildly murmuring wind-swept harp
Wail, echoed from far, lonely, dusky heights.