Works

On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew.
Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers;
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.
...

Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor?
A'ris et lingua sum filia;
Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum. AUSONIUS.

Once more, Enchantress of the soul,
Once more we hail thy soft controul....

And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone,
(Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurl'd)
Still sit as on the fragment of a world;
Surviving all, majestic and alone?...

Blue was the loch, [1] the clouds were gone,
Ben-Lomond in his glory shone,
When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze
Bore me from thy silver sands,
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,...