VIII.
SADDELL
(KINTYRE).
Fresh gusts of wind ripple the ocean's face,
And the green slopes, after the night's soft rain,
Glitter beneath the blue.
Most glorious are the sea-descending glens,
Vivid with countless ferns, and with the blaze
Of sun-enamoured broom.
The dark, tip-tilted rocks of cruel mood,
Show a stern beauty through the creamy foam
That flecks their rugged flanks.
See, from this hill-top, how the blazing Sound
Is marked by moving shadows of the clouds
That skim aloft in air.
Through the clear radiance of the freshened morn,
The eye can see the far farm-windows gleam
Up on the Arran hills.
IX.
SPRINGTIME IN PERTHSHIRE.
Returning Springtime fills the woods with song—
The ring-dove, sick for love, is cooing sweet;
The lark, scorning the daisies, soars to greet
The sun, while the brown swarms of bees among
The flowery meadows skim in haste along.
Once more the young year glories in the feat
Of driving winter off with vernal heat
And tepid sap luxuriantly strong.
Winter has drawn aloof his snowy powers
To the high peaks that domineer the plain,
And, like a vanquished leader, grimly lowers,
From a safe distance, on the victor's reign.
E'er many months have passed, his arrowy showers
And gusty cohorts will descend again.