Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised.
Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvas swell;
And flow, thou silver, eddying current, on!
Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell,
That ere its graces half are seen, is gone.
By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn,
By palace, village, cot,—a sweet surprise
At every turn the vision breaks upon;
Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes
The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise.