Hark! ceaseless groans the leafless wood;
Hark! ceaseless roars thy stream below
Ben-Vaichard's peaks are dark with cloud
Ben-Weavis' crest is white with snow.
And yet, though red thy stream comes down
Though bleak th' encircling hills appear—
Though field be bare, and forest brown,
And winter rule the waning year—
Unmoved I see each charm decay,
Unmourn'd the sweets of autumn die;