The Trosachs

THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass,    But were an apt confessional for one    Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase    That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes    Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,    If from a golden perch of aspen spray    (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast    That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!