The sound of the sheep-bell, the chirp of the bird,
All borne from the opposite border—and hark!
How the echoes long mimic the dog’s rapid bark!
See that white gleaming streak—’tis the wake of the loon
As she oars her swift passage—her dive will be soon;
She’s vanish’d—but upward again to the sight,
Her dappled back lit by a pencil of light,
But the bark has arous’d her—she’s seeking to fly;
She stretches her neck, with shrill, tremulous cry,
She flounders in low heavy circles just o’er,