Ben Lomond

(Written in view of Ben Lomond)

Mountain austere, and full of kinglihood!
Forgive me if, a child of later earth,
I come to bid thee hail. My days are brief.
And like the mould that crumbles on thy verge,
A minute's blast may shake me into dust;
But thou art of the things that never fail.
Before the mystic garden, and the fruit
Sung by that Shepherd- Ruler vision-blest,
Thou wert; and from thy speculative height
Beheld'st the forms of other living souls.
Oh, if thy dread original were not sunk
I' th' mystery of universal birth.
What joy to know thy tale of mammoths huge,
And formings rare of the material prime.
And terrible craters, cold a cycle since!
To know if then, as now, thy base was laved
With moss-dark waters of a placid lake;
If then, as now,
In the clear sunlight of thy verdant sides
Spare islets of uncertain shadow lay.